My neighbours are avoiding me

My neighbours are avoiding me… with a hurried wave they dash inside their houses and shut their doors with a firm bang. So why the sudden social pariah status? We don’t have all-night  noisy parties  (chance would be a fine thing), we don’t leave overflowing dustbins on other people’s doorsteps or throw snails into adjoining gardens (well only sometimes). The horrible truth dawns on me …. I’m the woman  who, with fixed smile on her face,  proffers armfuls of courgettes or beans and does NOT take no for an answer. Admittedly our neighbours are all far too polite to refuse outright but I have noticed a definite waning of enthusiasm for my muddy offerings,  a certain reluctance to accept yet a few more sodden salad leaves.  Our daughters, however, are not hampered by social niceties. At the offer of freshly dug vegetables they demur with a “no thanks that last lot of lettuce had five slugs and one snail – we’ll stick with the washed packet variety’. As King Lear said  How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child! Admittedly Shakespeare wasn’t talking about organic veg but I really do feel the sting of ingratitude  - how can they prefer shop bought stuff over my hard won crops? And there lies the reason for my generosity I  cannot bear to waste even one pea pod, one misshapen carrot or the tiniest of potatoes. Because each of these represents hours of care and attention: growing them from seed, making sure they have the right conditions to thrive, thinning them, feeding them,  protecting them from pests  - no way will I let any of these pampered crops end up in the bin – I know their backstory! In Britain we apparently waste an estimated 6.7 million tonnes of food a year and just recently I have been thinking that because we are so far removed from the production of our foodstuff we rarely suffer from that pang of a lost opportunity when we sling stuff away. The cellophane-wrapped pack of mange tout or baby carrots may have its country of origin on it, but that is the only clue as to their provenance, and because there is not a vestige of mud anywhere we can forget that these vegetables have been nurtured and laboured over by farmers somewhere – from their pristine appearance we could assume they came from a factory. If it’s past its sell by date we can chuck it away in a heartbeat. So my neighbours can run but they can’t hide … I just leave parcels on their doorstep. They just better eat every scrap!

The allotment is now at full throttle and things are ripe for the plucking. I love the word ‘glut’ … so closely linked with gluttony, it conjures images of ripeness and plenty, of gorging, of jam-making, bottling and pickling. Our kitchen is festooned with overflowing bowls of tomatoes, courgettes, beans and beetroot. We eye them with pride and luxuriate in the richness of it all but amidst the smugness there is a small kernel of … well may be dread is too extreme but maybe trepidation. Now you’d think the hard work is done – we’ve vanquished the armies of pests and pestilences, dealt with any inclement weather conditions and all we now have to do is harvest the fruit of our labours and enjoy them. This much is true, harvesting is loads of fun – pulling carrots  is a lucky dip affair, as Forrest Gump would say ‘it’s like life you never know what you’re gonna  get’ You curl your hand around a reassuringly abundant clump of foliage, tug and hope for the best  … sometimes you are rewarded with a ‘Bugs Bunny’ style perfect specimen, other times you end up with a comedy carrot –ha ha – it’s got arms and legs ... and occasionally an X-rated one – you know the ones they look as though they have a … well you get the drift! The real treat however, is the unearthing of potatoes. For so long we’ve watched them from the first tentative shoots, to the blossoming of their tiny fragrant flowers and the eventual dying back of the foliage. We’ve known that things were stirring and developing in a mysterious subterranean way but the excitement each year of turning over the first plant never diminishes. And there they all are – the buried treasure. The Pink Fir Apples we’ve grown this year emerge pink and glowing like newborn babies and rattle in the bucket with reassuring thumps. So with this much fun and reward why the smidgen of trepidation? Well maybe because everything does seem to come at once and because there is so much else to do: the weeds are dancing in merriment rejoicing in the sun and rain, tomatoes need to be tied and tended and of course there is more seeding and planting to do. Plus you really do need to harvest with regularity – leave the courgette plants for more than a day or so and you are confronted with giant specimens and if left too long the beans become unwieldy and woody. Oh and the back breaking work of harvesting an abundant crop of blackcurrants can end up with a session on the osteopaths couch! Our arms have become longer as we trudge home with our produce, but instead of sitting and surveying it all with a glass of wine in our hands … we roll up our sleeves and scrub mud off the root veg, destalk currants and berries and of course creep up on our unsuspecting neighbours with our surplus requirements.