The Essential Apocalypse Skillset

Let me tell you a story.

Several years ago, I was painting the bathroom of a house in Bristol. The window was open and it was a pleasant sort of day and people were wandering past. Around about four o’clock I heard a couple of sets of feet come down the hill and then stop.

“Look, cherries!” said one voice (female, mid to late teens).

“No, I don’t think they are. They can’t be.” Said the other, doubtfully (ditto).

“Well, they look like cherries. Let’s try them!”

“No, they are probably berries. Completely different. Some of them are not red, they are blackish. They are probably poisonous.”

“Oh. Yes, I suppose so.” (disappointed)

The feet moved on. I looked out of the bathroom window at the large and heavily laden cherry tree leaning over the wall of the garden opposite and wondered what the world was coming to.

Red Sky in the Morning, Shepherds Warning ((c) N Slade)

I am actually still wondering. When my grandfather was a child, he and his brothers (and a dog) ran pretty much wild over north London from Wood Green to Hampstead in one direction and to the Lea Valley in the other. They scrambled and scrumped, fell in ponds, hit things with sticks and helped themselves to whatever was not nailed down or closely guarded by [insert early 20^th Century Cockerney cliché of choice]

When I was a child, we picked nuts, mushrooms and blackberries from the fields and hedges; radishes and blackcurrants from the garden; bilberries from the hills and threw ourselves into every moving body of water or up every available mountain without let or hindrance. Once we even found wild honey in a fallen tree.

I read the blog of m’esteemed colleague Mark Diacono recently...well about last July... and very interesting it was too. It was all about sustainability, crop growth and if I busk over much of the content the essential survival of the human race*. In more recent news the story was that half the world’s food is thrown away. Seriously? How can this possibly have happened? (And, to quote Mrs Bennett in Pride and Predudice, what will become of us all?).

I was left thinking ‘when the revolution comes...’

When the revolution comes...what?

Well, the people who can’t spot a cherry tree at twenty paces (or more) and the people who won’t eat a turnip because it is a bit cracked, or a spotty apple, are going to be truly buggered.

When the revolution comes, the skills that go with finding your own food (or indeed useful parts of your anatomy with both hands), growing your own food, remembering that water is not necessarily clean, endless and drinkable are going to be quite useful, actually. Initiative and practicality – and frankly having a bit of old-fashioned common sense – are going to reap dividends. I am not being smug about an unorthodox upbringing which, retrospectively, seems to have involved spending a lot of time getting wet. I’m not for a moment suggesting that urban kids all need to know how to forage for pignuts or select the correct edible lichen. But I have no bones about encouraging an ability to spot luxury tree fruit without a polythene wrapper.

Apparently a society is only three meals away from anarchy, so in about two and a half meals time when we all sit up and realise that we have carelessly thrown away the next three, then what?

For those of a paranoid bent who revel in an imagined or real dystopian future, I prescribe gardening, foraging and cooking skills. Forget stacking tins of beans and petrol in a bunker. How long do you actually want to live and what will you do when your hoard runs out? Fundamental needs include food, water and shelter. So better add basic carpentry and rope-making to the list of common sense basics.**

In the meantime it is time for an idiocy review.*** When this much food gets wasted and thrown away – perhaps not even harvested – all other conversations about food security are rendered virtually meaningless. Throwing away veg because they are misshapen is lunacy: as my foodie friend Deborah Robertson says – it is food not a fashion contest. Or to put it another way, a knobbly potato looks just great souped, mashed, chipped or Dauphanoised. They are all the same under their clothes.

Vegetables are alive things grown outside. They are going to be uneven, cracked, blemished or even (whisper it) a little bit eaten by animals. Get a sharp knife, a good cookery book, light a fire if you need to and get on with it.

Art on Fire. (c) N Slade 

 

 PS, some time back I said my next blog post would be about the devastation slugs wreaked upon my squash crop. I’m bored of that now but let it just be said that it was not a terribly good year.

 

*I am not going to reiterate the science, apart from to say that it is a pretty complicated chemical, climatic, geographic and cross-species equation but anyone who thinks that the outputs of using chemical fertiliser on land are energy-neutral in terms of input should perhaps do a spot more research.

** they tell me you can use nettles to make rope, if you were wondering.

***While we are on basics and the apocalypse is still pending, and while we are waiting for the next e-coli etc outbreak, I would like to take this opportunity to mention that one can substantially reduce ones chances of pathogenic bacteria in food if you cook it hot, eat it fresh and don’t spray with faecal waste or raw meat juices before serving. Just saying.

Interview with Naomi Slade - Punk Garden Designer*

'Never Mind The Hollyhocks' Award Winning punk-themed conceptual garden by Naomi Slade

Why a punk garden?
Why not?! I had never seen one and it seemed like a good idea.

And was it a good idea?
Yes. Very. It turned out looking exactly like the picture in my head. And, (as I believe I have mentioned) I won a Gold Medal and Best Garden In Show.

And people kept going past quoting Sex Pistols lyrics, which amused me enormously.

So much for a decent upbringing!

You describe yourself as a career conceptualist. Will you help me with my career?
No.

I find I have iterated concepts, often quite abstract ones, throughout my own career. In a ‘can’t really help myself’ sort of way. I see no sign of this stopping, although it is fairly under control.

Are you mad?
Quite possibly, but modestly entertaining , I hope.

So why The National Gardening Show?
I designed the garden as a conceptual garden for RHS Hampton Court, but I didn’t submit it for 2012 because I knew I was going to be unavoidably busy in July. So when invited to be one of Jo Thompson’s Bright Green Shoots, showcasing new talent and being generally shiny, I decided to take the opportunity.

Could it not have waited until 2013?
Not really.

The cops took the threat of anarchy seriously and parked
opposite for the whole weekend...

Firstly there is the context – the 35 years since the Queen’s silver jubilee in 1977, the same year that punk exploded in the UK and the Sex Pistols had their version of ‘God Save the Queen’ banned; plus the social and political parallels, striking, unemployment, general unrest, union-flag waving bonanza and so on.

Secondly it is about managing the inside of my head. It would have looked (to me, at least) a bit like I had had a good, zeitgeist-hitting, idea and failed to catch the wave. I also would have got bored and lost interest, yet it would have lurked in the back of my mind for decades going ‘remember me? I’m a great concept and you just didn’t get it together....’

Thirdly it was about capacity testing. I have done lots of shows before and won three RHS Chelsea Silver-Gilt medals for Science and Educational stands, but I had not single-handedly done a show garden. And now I know I can.

Have you learned anything?
Yes. That No More Nails and carpet adhesive are a useful part of a garden designer’s toolkit and that parents and inlaws are invaluable.

Naomi also learned that garden design is incredibly glamorous when it is raining...

Was it expensive?
Depends how you calculate it and where your reference points are. In terms of staging a similar exhibit at RHS Chelsea, or creating the garden as a permanent installation, no.**

In terms of favours called, fuel burned, sleep lost, hours spent and the 2000 miles or so I drove to get everything there and back again, then it was reasonably expensive.

Who was your contractor
My what? I was me and my husband wot done it.

My sister and I created the punk sculpture which clashed
fabulously with penstemon 'Just Jayne' and 'Plum Jerkum'
 

Where did you get your plants?
Many were supplied by Hillier and Suttons very kindly sent me some too. I must also thank the NGS garden openers Nick Priestland for mega-gunnera and Richard Sandford for organic punk veg and chillies.

Lots and lots of people also helped...so thanks to Carol, Pete, Michelle, Sukey, Chris, Chris, Marilyn, Roger, Morwenna, Jenny and show neighbours,  the lovely Common FarmFlowers, for coffee and chat before during and after.

What are you going to do with your ‘Punk Gardeners Rock Forever’ poster?
I am going to put it on the wall in the dining room.

The judges were very complementary; do you want to be a garden designer?
Should the opportunity arise, it would be rather nice to design some gardens.***

What did you get out of it?
An enormous sense of achievement and the confidence and knowledge that if I want to, need to or have to do it again I can. And that particular bright idea laid to rest.

I mean did you win anything?
Oh. I got a couple of lovely certificates – one for winning Gold and one for Best in Show. And a cut glass rose bowl for Best in Show. But untold riches, gold bullion, foreign holidays, or my own bodyweight in spring bulbs, sadly not.

So will you do it again?
This interview is out of time.

 

*Designer of a punk garden (on this occasion) rather than necessarily a designer who is punk, although I admit I dabble from time to time and it has a lot to do with state of mind.  NB please ignore the whole dual personality thing. A girl’s psychopathology is her own business.

**Mostly because I borrowed or already owned most of the stuff I used. Paint is pricy, though.

***If you actually want me to design something you know where I am.

Couch Grass vs Cucurbits - the showdown

Squashes ready for battle

I am annoyed. Annoyed and frustrated. Annoyed frustrated and thoroughly vexed. “By what, Best Beloved?” I hear you ask, concern in your voice, your gentle brow lightly furrowed (and having evidently recently re-read the Just-So stories).

I am sick and tired of the continual battle against couch grass on my veg plot. I pull it up. It comes back. I double dig. It comes back. I cover it up. The sheet blows away in the wind. Like I said. Vexing.

So I have a plan. An ambitious plan. “And what is thy scheme of redoubtable cunning regarding the aforementioned productive location, Best Beloved?” I hear you ask (being possessed of ‘satiable curiosity and having spent a bit too long in the company of a Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake with a scalesome, flailsome tail, I can only presume).

Aha. It is this.

For each squash or courgette I have dumped two thirds of a heaped wheelbarrow of well-rotted horse manure, unceremoniously on top of the offending weed.  In the centre I have created a well and planted the well-grown cucurbit into the ground, with a thick manure mulch spreading at least 30cm in all directions.  So far I have planted about 20 of them, on a grid system, roughly a metre apart. (‘Crown Prince’, ‘Festival’,’Polo’ and ‘Hundredweight’ from Suttons; Courgette* ‘All Green Bush’ from Kings Seeds; Courgette ‘Sunstripe’ and squash ‘Golden Hubbard’ from T&M; ‘Hawk’, ‘Honey Bear’ and ‘Uchiki Kuri’ from DT Brown; and ‘Marina Di Chioggia’ from Franchi...since you asked).

There are three possible outcomes. 1. The squashes scream ‘Argh! No! My roots! The nitrogen, the ammonia, the pain!’ and keel over. 2. The squashes get eaten by slugs (which will then inform my next post). 3. There is a big and satisfying fight and, ideally, a dense mat of squash foliage outcompetes the weed of doom.

In the Just So stories, the eponymous elephant’s child gets roundly spanked by his tall uncle Giraffe with his hard, hard hoof; by his hairy uncle Baboon, with his hairy, hairy paw; by his broad aunt the Hippopotamus with her broad, broad hoof and by the verbally tortuous Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake, with his scalesome, flailsome tail – while handing out helpful advice on the subject of the crocodile that is biting his nose** and effecting a rescue (on the banks of the great, grey, green greasy Limpopo River). Which, incidentally, is how the elephant got his trunk.

The question is, will the fabulously well nourished squashes give the couch grass the good hiding it deserves,  or will the couchgrass romp back and smother the young squashes in an orgy of vegetative propagation and nasty, nasty, spiky shoots? Or will they combine into some sort of horrific pestilent chimera of epic proportions*** to try and spank me in a kind of revenge match? Only time will tell.

 

*My track record for growing courgettes is woeful, but winter squashes generally work rather well.

** Which is the answer to the question ‘What do crocodiles have for lunch?’

***Who you gonna call? Well, Rick Moranis presumably. In a horrific epic chimera of Ghost Busters and Little Shop of Horrors.

A Curious Beauty

Time locked potato, after the sea witch

Here we are. It is early April. The sun is shining spring is sprung and they are forecasting snow for mid week, (surely some mishtake? Ed).

I have gardened myself to a standstill. Sown spinach, calendula, leeks, more leeks, tomatoes, aubergines (they never do for me but I always try), cauliflowers, mangetout, sweet peas and cosmos. I have potted up my rooted rose cuttings (well, some of them) and my penstemon cuttings. I have been to the garden centre and bought lots of compost, and herbs and some borage seed.

Most things are sprouting like mad. I drove down the motorway to Bath the other day in the sunshine. By the time I drove back a couple of hours later the hedges were conspicuously greener. Looking around my own garden I’m always amazed that some plants hang on all through winter, struggling a little but basically ok. The moment the weather warms up they can’t hack it and turn their toes up, little roots not keeping up with the challenge of photosynthesis and transpiration. Or maybe it is just vine weevil.

Which brings me to a sad story.

Last year I tried to grow new potatoes for Christmas – but they got planted too late and then the slugs moved in, so that was a non starter. Then I noticed some shoots coming up in the polytunnel. Genius. Christmas volunteer potatoes (Red Duke of York, if anyone is interested). So one day when it got cold I dug them up, small but perfectly formed. Then I forgot about them. Then I bought them into the kitchen. And left them in the light so they were inedible anyway.

My poor spuds then entered the ‘I really should do something about that’ zone. Sitting on the sideboard. Red (well slightly green). Starting to sprout. I have just noticed one is trying to flower which is the saddest expression of optimism I have seen in a long time. It reminds me of the mermaids that get got by the sea-witch in The Little Mermaid and turn into wizened polyps, yet it is curiously pretty.

Also in the kitchen is a lovely big box of seed potatoes that just arrived from Suttons - including Charlotte, Rocket, more Red Duke of York, Purple Majesty and some others. I fear they are looking at the sad potato-mummies with something akin to derision. Or perhaps it is just terror. Either way, I get a completely different vibe from the David Austin roses that are sitting next to them.

So I am going to put this failed and abandoned experiment out of its misery. Send it off to the great compost heap in the sky. Hope springs eternal, but sometimes even hope is not quite enough. Perhaps it is art.

Tree of Controversy

I also took some pictures of moss and lichen

It looks like I have entered into a diabolical pact over trees and tree planting.

I am designing a new section of the garden and a battle has been raging over a large native willow, which represents an important visual anchor point in the design. Now, I don’t want this particular willow. It is nothing special, there are millions like it and I have a policy of swapping trees I don’t want, eg self-set ash and sycamore, with nice, posh trees that I do*. But I had planned to leave it there for the time being until I had decided on a replacement. This is a source of contention as someone else wants it gone with all speed.

Part of this plan involves using a JCB to improve drainage and create a terraced valley with access to the stream. When it comes to diggers I am very conservative. They can be something of a blunt instrument and, in my experience, ‘people’ get them in and then the entire project starts to suffer from mission creep. And we don’t do diesel-fuelled, red-mist mission creep in my garden. We do careful, considered, organic groundworks with a clear end in mind.

I am holding my ground, but when pressed as to why it could not be removed when the main groundworks take place I admitted that some of my indecision hung on the fact that specimen trees are not exactly cheap. At which point I was told that if the willow went, a replacement would be paid for – up to a point.

Ok. Not a bad deal. Deals with Beelzebub rarely are on the face of it. But now I have to make a decision. Fast. And be there to keep a goddamn eye on proceedings.** This is a big space in direct view of the house. I was thinking Morus nigra – perhaps too slow growing; Cornus kousa 'Variegata' – maybe not big enough; Liquidambar...white stemmed birch...Crataegus....a delicate ornamental cherry....  What is needed is a specimen tree, 10-15 metres at maturity that will thrive in moist, medium-heavy, somewhat acid soil. Answers on a postcard please!

And what else does the New Year hold? Well, it looks like I will be giving gardening talks more often which is an exciting departure. There are some gardening projects too. What I need most right now (apart from loads of plants and a massive pay rise) is some really heavy-duty gardening gloves – gauntlets, preferably – to deal with the brambles.

Tis a funny thing. The very best ideas arrive with no prompting. All is quiet, then they hit like rain splattering on a window pane, to be caught and chronologued before they run to waste. Silver threads of text whirling into being from blackness and void. You know when the words arrive. All is well. Indeed, the very best work arrives on the page fully formed. In a nirvana of space and intellectual time, the passion and intensity coalesces into something more solid.

Sometimes you travel so fast that you forget that you will probably get further if you stop. Suspect this will be worth remembering in 2012.  

*Fear not gentle environmentalist, there are plenty of native trees and we are planting more for the wildlife. All is well.

**This is not so much ‘not in my back yard’ but ‘Yes, in my back yard but just the way I want it – don’t get excitable with no diggers behind my back, ok?!’

Have Yourself A Veggie Little Christmas

Its beginning to look a lot like Christmas

 This is the second broadly non-gardening post in a row, but I am going to resume that line of attack when I have actually done some. (Although I did set out to prune my apple and pear trees on Christmas Day, armed with long-handled loppers and secateurs. I went out and looked at them. Thought ‘Um’. Snipped off a few twigs, mourned my immediate lack of pruning saw* and step ladder and went back inside. )

But with Boxing Day comes renewed vigour. Starting the day with black coffee and stollen in bed followed by cranberry and orange smoothie will do that every time.

I have long held that it is not that vegetarian food is lacking in flavour, nutrition and excitement; rather, people generally make it very badly and then exit, disappointed. I favour the Hugh-and-Jamie technique of boshing ingredients together to create food that excites and inspires. And as self-appointed queen of the adapted recipe I was very happy to get the River Cottage Veg book. It has some really good ideas and the evangelistic fervour for things vegetable is rather endearing. (But what took you so long guys?)

Mix and match fillings

But that was after lunch. In an eternal mission to keep tastebuds on their toes lunch was, in fact, Unexpected Tarts with all the expected Christmas trimmings. You do it like this:

Blind bake some seasoned pastry in jam tart tins. Caramelise some onions and lightly cook some little cubes of squash and small broccoli florets. Season a little cream with black pepper and bouillion powder and coat the broccoli and squash (keeping them separate).

I'm no food photographer, but they did taste nice

In each pastry case put a base of caramelised onions. Then create a little pile of squash or broccoli (or leek or mushroom or celeriac etc). Then add one of: slivers of chilli/chopped walnuts/cranberry sauce. Then top some with brie, some with cheddar and some with stilton and bake for 10 mins-ish. (Broccoli, cranberry sauce and brie was very good as was squash, chilli and cheddar...and broccoli, walnut and stilton...you get the idea).

This produces 4096 different variables (I think) so a) you can cater for all tastes and b) it stays interesting and unexpected. Hence the name. The problem is that because each one tastes different it is hard to stop.

Boxing Day: veggie sushi party at my sister’s. I have always been deeply suspicious of sushi – for obvious reasons – but people tell me it is good. So as not to be too Green Eggs and Ham** about things*** I had an open mind (although I am not wild about rice, dubious about nori, would rather leave tofu and have conservative views of soy sauce).

Turns out I like making OCD vegetables – lightly wilted spinach, neat strips of seasoned carrot, slivers of avocado, spring onion and shitake mushrooms. But I really don’t like teriyaki sauce. I like shitake mushrooms, ginger, sesame seeds; really liked wasabi – and all the veg. And I tried, I really did. But it was sticky and salty and slimy in places, and I can’t be doing with the textures. I am sorry Sam-I-Am, I’d rather leave Green Eggs and Ham.

*We never rush Christmas and as it happened a spanking new Felco pruning saw turned up under the tree on Boxing Day

 ** “I do not want it in a boat, I do not want it with a goat, I do not want it in a box I do not want it with a fox, I do not like green eggs and ham, I DO NOT LIKE THEM Sam I Am”. With thanks to Dr Seuss

*** ...But ham is not on the menu and I don’t like actual eggs much either...

Garden Media Guild Awards - The Musical

Ok, if you want serious gardening commentary look away now. This is how I think the Garden Media Guild Awards would look if it were iterated as a musical or rock opera. All events and personalities depicted are almost entirely fictional* (apart from 3 Men Went to Mow, clearly). Here is the outline and draft soundtrack** - I am now going away to work on the choreography.

'The Pub', Act 4...

Garden Media Guild Awards – The Musical

Act One

The good and the great of the gardening media world awake. They dress uncommonly carefully, remove stray mud and have a coffee. There is a sense of anticipation, excitement even as they leave the house.

On arrival they are greeted by a bowler-hatted gentleman and attend to the first business of the day – the GMG AGM. Votes are cast, more coffee is drunk, opinions shared. Onwards and upwards, say all.

Act Two

In a swirl of glittering society, a glass of pink champagne is pressed into the hands of our heroes. A slow dance of top-ranking gardening people ebb and flow in a vivid, breathless throng. Old friends are met. Work, gossip and the gardening issues of the day are discussed as they move in to dine.

Act Three

Gorgeous dancing waiters served enthralled diners with opera cake.

And the show began. With an explosion of irreverence, the entertainment arrives to perform eye-opening routines in song and dance. One by one the winners dance to the stage, to kisses and applause while the runners up receive certificates in the crowd. In a final crescendo of song and dance, a full-crowd performance centres on the journalists crowned. Those who didn’t win swallow their disappointment and think ‘So what! i’m as good as the next man’ and continue to party with gusto.

Act Four

But the show is not yet over. While some opt for a quiet chat chat over afternoon tea to bring things down a bit, the party animals go on to the pub. Increasingly tired and a little emotional the gardening great and good engage in a demon networking dance routine and generally let it out. Until it is finally time to go home.

Many hours later they awake. The buzz fades, the blues pass, it is another beautiful morning and life goes on as normal. The vision fades.

... And they all lived happily*** ever after.

The End

*I make no fun of anyone and no criticism is implied - I just got bored on the train home and started inventing song and dance routines!

**Apologies in advance for the quality of some of the sound - youtube is beyond my control.

*** Muddily, literary, photogenically...whatever happy is for you.