The first (and last) early potatoes

My partner revealed my mother-in-law had already dug up her first batch of new potatoes last week. I was incensed because all her potatoes this year are from tubers I'd chitted and then donated to her. There's nothing that makes you feel greener quicker than someone else having more success with your own stuff. I've been on the other end of this when a neighbour gave me several butternut squash plants last year. While hers withered and died mine remained in rude health the entire summer. It felt great. But being on the other side is not so good.

So I went down the allotment and set to work on claiming my share of the first early glory.

In April I planted two first earlies - Bonnie Dundee and Homeguard. I forget why I chose Bonnie Dundee. It might have been to do with it's beautiful, rose marble pattern visible when sliced in half (above right). Homeguard, I chose because it's a vintage potato, established in 1942. I planted six tubers each, and I dug the trench deep, mounding up the earth in advance.

All of which means the potato bed is now the bog of eternal stench after a summer of eternal rain. The soil parped and belched making low, wet sounding raspberries as I dug - the sludgy consistency of an over dunked digestive at the bottom of tea cup. But I found what I was looking for... just. A muddy handful of Homeguard and three solitary Bonnie Dundees (above left). (The latter a laughable yield of one single potato per tuber planted).

Ah, well. Allotment suppers will be a pot luck affair this year. My partner found one single ripe tomato (variety: Gardeners Delight, likes: full sun - ha!). Smaller than a ten pence piece we halved and shared - thinking it better than an entire punnet having never seen the inside a fridge. Apart from that it was back to the broad beans and reliable radishes for sustenance (below). But, I can't recommend Homeguard highly enough, a super buttery first early and a fetching shade of palest cream. It's a dead cert for next year.

 

Colour on the allotment

Yesterday I complained about the amount of rain and slugs torturing the allotment. It's been a grey summer, I moaned: Autumn Bliss raspberries are surrounded by a moat of brackish water; multicoloured tomatoes including Purple Calabash and Golden Sunshine look seasick in eau de nil. But there are spots of colour which I thought I'd present here as an antidote and also because I've revamped the look of this blog too. So, a hummus of broad beans (above left) is taken from a recipe by Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall (with the addition of a handful of lonely peas - the entirety of this year's harvest) and served with slices of Bright Lights radishes (above left and below right). A salad of nasturtiums contained varieties including Empress of India and Gleaming Gold. I will definitely be growing more varieties of these next year, their names including Tip Top Gold, Apricot Trifle, Milkmaid and Ice Creamsicle are enough to raise a smile - my favourite is Jewel Cherry Rose (at the bottom of this blog in a fabulous Barbie pink).

And then there were the Allgold raspberries (above) and the tiniest amount of loganberries that promised much but mostly withered on the vine into tiny, dark droplets. But it's only looking at the photos of this miserable year so far, from lupins (below) to the nasturtiums, that I realise how much colour there has actually been. And there's still more to come from purple Vitellote and Pink Fir Apple potatoes to the dahlias given to me by a prize winning grower... for free! Incidentally the new colourful banner for this blog is a bunch of giant knitted veg - I didn't knit them myself but snapped them last year in Paris. But if the potatoes get blight and the slugs get the dahlias I will be getting my knitting needles out and giving it a go.

Summer - the season of the slug

This summer's been a piece of work, hasn't it? Today I decided to man up and stick on a waterproof rather then stay stuck in doors and headed to the allotment to survey my patch of heaven. Three canvas bags at the ready to harvest something... anything.

I sowed a lot of optimism earlier this year primarily in the shape of squashes (Crown Prince, Portimarron, Uchiki Kuri). All destined for autumn horticultural show glory now all gone, spirited away overnight. Honestly it's rain streaking down my face, not tears.

2012 has been a never ending arm wrestle between man and slug - backwards and forwards, swaying this way then that - slug pellets and a little sunshine, beer traps and bands of copper just nudging things in our favour, then a deluge washing the advantage away.

From May the rain has been relentless. As unforgiving on the fruit and vegetables as it is on my mid 30s hairline. Darlisette strawberries rotting in situ, Allgold raspberries (below) becoming just a little too sodden to hold their shapes when picked, broad beans keeling over, heritage potato foliage buckling under the pressure and turning brown and the peas just not really feeling motivated enough to put on a show.   

The Dill's Atlantic Giant pumpkin (below) has, however, finally decided to get on with it. Stunned into inaction at first by a lack of sun it's been like a shopper waiting out a downpour in a store. Only now it's decided to yank up its hood up and make a dash for it as things show no signs of getting better. It'll never reach show standard but I won't tell it that.

Other successes? There were a handful of gooseberries the colour of a good red wine, multi-coloured radishes in rude health, some nasturtiums looking jolly and determined to enjoy things like Brits in a Wimbledon queue and Golden Nugget sweetcorn (below) on the verge of glory but it could just as easily choke at a critical moment.

So what to do? The gooseberries are destined for a small bottle of flavoured vodka (thanks to @cotsmallholder on Twitter for the recipe inspiration), assorted nasturtium flowers and leaves will work their magic in a salad along with some thinnings of purple basil seedlings and slices of Bright Lights radishes. Broad bean survivors will become a deep green hummus and the golden raspberries are just scoffed as nature intended. Little spots of colour brightening up the grey cloud of summer.