Plodding on

Seven months since I last posted here, so Blogger kindly informs me, as it keeps track of my absence from its clutches. I've lost track of how many about-turns we've done as to whether we keep the allotment or give it up.  For the moment we've decided to stop being so...introspective about it and just get on and grow what we can in the limited time we have available.  Here's a quick tour of the plot in its post-winter state.

First, the brassica cage.  Actually the cage may be our best growing item!  It's stood up to some ferocious gales this winter.  We haven't had any real snow, however, and that's the weak point of any netting-covered structure.  I saw recently in the Harrod catalogue (that's Harrod Horticultural, not Harrods of London) that they've improved on the 'build-a-ball' construction of our cage and now sell a locking system that keeps the poles lodged more securely in the joining units.  Given how much it cost in the first place we're not about to abandon ours for a newer model, but I do have my eye on it for the future. 

Inside the cage from left to right we have kale, which has been a great success and kept us supplied with greens throughout the winter, although some of us more happily than others.  Let's just say that my husband doesn't share the love I have for kale.  Next is a row of what I was convinced was sprouting broccoli but which grew painfully slowly, failed to sprout, and is now flowering.  Then there's a row of something I will reveal in my next post, followed at the right by the leafy stuff which I thought was spring greens.  Really, I must label what I plant rather than thinking I'll remember.
 

Beyond the cage is the leek bed, variety Musselburgh.  They look like all of us at the end of the Scottish winter - a bit tattered, blinking in the stronger light of spring and realising we need to smarten up a bit because people can now see what we look like.
 

Then come two and a bit rows of overwintering onions, variety Senshyu.  They seem to be suffering from that other Scottish affliction, lack of sunlight and warmth.  Can you tell that it's still very cold here, and I'm grumpy about it?  Did you know that in this month's 'Living France' magazine you could buy a 'charming stone property with pigeonnier and pool, private but not isolated, near all amenities' in the Lot for 248,000 Euros?  To the right of the onions is this year's nameless garlic, probably feeling even more grumpy than I am.
 

Back to reality, and some rather late planted onion and shallot sets.  
They've since started to put out green shoots, so fingers crossed that they'll pull away.
 

A little bit of help from a labourer never goes amiss.  Our daughter was home recently from university for a few days and kindly set about weeding the strawberry bed.  This is probably the last year for this bed.  I'm undecided as to whether to take runners from the plants this year or start afresh with another variety.  The fruit hasn't been great, and I'd also like to extend the season with fewer plants of several varieties.  Of course I can't remember the variety I have at the moment, but I'm  sure I will when I start to look at catalogues. 
 

This was our surprise harvest last weekend.  Surprising because I have got into a mind-set of thinking that we are just doing maintenance rather than anything productive.  But we are actually eating what we're growing.  
 

From top of the 'display plank': what was meant to be spring greens turned out to be cauliflower.  Well, it would have been if I'd left it to grow.  There was a miniscule cauliflower head nestled deep inside, about the size of my thumb nail.  The leave were quite tasty steamed however, and made me realise how much waste there is in supermarket cauliflower presentation.

The rhubarb has suddenly forged ahead, and it's delicious.  The leeks are getting to the end of their run, so I'm going to dig up the rest next weekend and freeze them.  And finally the rainbow chard has made it through the winter and is fresh and exuberant, and very tasty steamed and sprinkled with chilli flakes. 

Throughout the winter I haven't felt that I needed to blog about our forays to the plot, but now that I've returned it's interesting how the act of writing seems to solidify and give substance to the scattered bits of activity that have been going on.  Now we just need a bit of warmth so that I can get that other allotment essential out of the shed - the deckchair.  Otherwise I'm going to be seriously tempted by the 'charming stone property', if a bit uncertain about the pigeonnier.  

Persuasion

Here's something that might give me some enthusiasm for the plot this year.  Rhubarb compote, at 2 quid a pack!  One of our favourite puddings is stewed rhubarb over Mackie's butterscotch ice cream.  Try it - divine!  With rhubarb for the taking at the allotment we've come to take it for granted.  The prospect of having to buy it is rather horrifying.
 

If you like rhubarb

then you might like this recipe. I made it last week and it was a qualified success in my family of rhubarb refuseniks. It's from Lindsey Bareham's column in The Times newspaper.

Ricotta and rhubarb pie (serves 4-6)

400g rhubarb
200g ready rolled puff pastry
flour for dusting
1 egg
100g ricotta
1 juicing orange
3 tbsp caster sugar
fromage frais, creme fraiche or yoghurt to serve.

Heat the oven to 200C/gas mark 6. Put a baking sheet on a middle shelf. Dust a work surface with flour and roll the pastry until it measures approx 30 x 20 cm. Halve vertically with one piece slightly larger than the other. Lift the smaller sheet of pastry onto a second baking sheet lined with baking parchment. Whisk the egg. Paint a 2cm border around the pastry. Thickly spread the ricotta within the border. Cut the rhubarb into 4cm lengths. Pile the rhubarb over the ricotta. Zest the orange over the top and add juice from half the orange. [Sprinkle sugar over the rhubarb if desired] Swing the reserved pastry over the top, gently lining up the edges. Run round the edge with a fork to seal. Pain the pastry with egg. Make a central hole and etch a pattern radiating out of the hole. Dredge thickly with caster sugar. Bake for 25 minutes until th epastry is flaky, golden and sugar-crusted.

Observations:

It needed - really needed - sugar on the rhubarb. We discovered this only on eating the pie.

We (my daughter and I) forgot to paint the pastry with egg before putting it in the oven. We were listening to the Pirates of the Caribbean soundtrack and reminiscing about when she played the theme tune at the joint Scottish/Italian Suzuki week with students from the Suzuki School of Bologna. And lots more chat besides, so it was understandable that we forgot a little thing like following the recipe. It looked okay, though. The etching was very artistic. I didn't take a photo. I thought asking my family to eat rhubarb pie was one thing, but taking a photo of it was pushing them too far.


The 'harvest' of two weeks ago. The purple sprouting broccoli is over now, alas, but the rhubarb keeps on going.

From my deckchair - May

A neglected blog doesn't mean a neglected allotment. At the moment I'm TBTB (Too Busy To Blog). Work is nearly all-consuming, and the bits of life it doesn't consume take up the little that's left of the day. Today, however, on a hard-working day at the allotment, I managed to relax in a deckchair for a few minutes and enjoy looking around. Above, our neighbour's well-tended plot and a line of wallflowers beside the standpipe.

Below, gigantic flowering rhubarb.


Our potatoes are through, with all but this tallest one burnt by frost. How did it escape? Perhaps far enough on to have tougher leaves.


Looking north, which is where our weather has been coming from recently. Bright, cold days and occasional frosty nights.


I've missed what's been going on in gardens and allotments of fellow bloggers. A 3 day weekend would be good, as would another 12 hours in the day.

Doing nothing

On Sunday afternoon I took the house compost pail along to the plot, and intended to do some work while I was there. But I saw nothing that wouldn't wait another week, the sun was warm, and I was tired. I'd left husband sawing up large IKEA shelves (Ivar, for those on first name terms with the IKEA range) to make smaller IKEA shelves, daughter practising her clarsach, and son away at university in Glasgow. For a brief spell there was no obligation on me to do anything at all.

I looked out across our plot and our neighbour's, listened to the wind in the trees, and soaked up the sunlight that is beginning to slip away now. Sunrise today was 6.47 a.m., sunset will be 7.28 p.m. Almost at the equinox. It felt good just to sit, at this turning point of the year, and look.

From my deckchair I took these shots of what was around me.

Seeding dill:


Elephantine rhubarb:


The door plank splintered in the last break-in attempt on our shed:


A bee on a marigold:


And for once I felt no Calvinist guilt about doing nothing.

All mine

...because no-one else in the family will touch it. I can't understand this. As a child the spring rhubarb was a very welcome fresh taste after a winter of tinned fruit and increasingly wizened apples. No imported raspberries from Guatemala in the north east of Scotland back in the 60s and 70s. But my children won't eat it, and my husband shudders at the sight, reminded of boarding school puddings. How can they resist? Look at those gorgeous pink stems. Compare them with the green tree trunks on sale in Tesco just now for £2.00 for not a very big amount.

However, I do have a weak point when it comes to stewing rhubarb. I put it on the gas on a very low heat, and I go away and read some blogs. Then, as was the case 10 minutes ago, it begins to dawn on me that there's a pleasant, if rather burnt smell coming from the kitchen. Almost in the same moment I remember that I have rhubarb cooking on the stove. Result - a boiled-over pan, a lake of pink juice in the well of the gas burner, and a sticky mess to wipe up. But it was worth it for the blog-reading episode I managed to fit in before starting some ironing.