Promiscuous Pumpkins?

It is cold, drear and can barely be bothered to get light. It is a struggle to get to the allotment and the packets of broad beans and sweet peas that should have been in weeks ago glare accusingly from the shelf. Yet I am finding the handsome row of squash and pumpkins on the mantelpiece is acting as an enduring reminder of the year’s successes.

When veg keeps into winter it is a pleasure akin to mainlining The Good Life. An intravenous shot of joy and smugness that warms the cockles like no other. The baby gets creamy squash puree that has been nowhere near a packet. We get squash and green pea risotto. Yum.

I have been saving the seeds of the handsome gunmetal blue ‘Crown Prince’ squash and, assuming they don’t get lost, forgotten or otherwise destroyed, I plan to plant them in the spring. But they were grown fairly near the butternut ‘Cobnut’ and a pumpkin (I think it was ‘Mars F1) so it will be interesting to find out how promiscuous they are. Some plants, like foxgloves and hellebores, hybridise like mad and others don’t, so a little research and growing on is needed to find out whether I will get a true blue Crown Prince or a hybrid Squmpkin. Or even better, a Posh.

Listening to: Lily Allen - It's not me its you

And feeding the Christmas cake...

Comments

Metamorphosis

Writing a book is often likened to having a baby. And with some justification. There is the giddy conception and whirlwind of excitement, then the warm glow of a contract signed. It then the process starts to lag and become heavier; sweetmeats are deployed to maintain performance – pregnancy, like literature, is an endurance sport. My new book, Published by Green Books, 22nd September 2016 Finally, fat and fecund with promise the manuscript is delivered to the publisher, for supervision and medical intervention if necessary. And, finally, the screaming and anguish suddenly stops. The Author's desk (the buns have already been eaten) And here is where the process differs. After months of to-ing and fro-ing, deliberations about nuanced argument and tone of voice, followed by concerns about stacking words in a column and balanced captions, it is confiscated. They just take it away. To put it another way, it is like watching caterpillars. They eat and eat and eat and ...

Adventures in Floristry

Ingredients for a bouquet Back in the summer I went on a floristry course to Green and Gorgeous in Oxfordshire. Historically, I have not been at all keen on formal floristry. It seemed rigid and stuffy, coming up with arrangements that had names like ‘Orchid and Sphagnum on a Tortured Twig’. But at G&G they laid my demons to rest with an intensive day learning how to make fashionable naturalistic bouquets. Since then I have had little need to use these dark arts, but as the autumn colours intensified the floristry bug intensified too. Venturing out with the secateurs I acquired Pyracantha berries, bronze and gold forsythia leaves, soft grey goldenrod seedheads (cunningly stabilised with a blast of extreme-hold hairspray to stop the seeds dropping off), and some Sedum flowers. I bought some Physalis and cellophane from Lulu Flowers round the corner – where they also gave me a quick refresher in wrapping them for travel. So, with much garden wire and raffia, I assemb...

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) ...

Electric Green

Search This Blog