Week 7: April showers
The first rain of April is gently falling, and here we are in the last week of
the month. What will the English garden be growing in a few decades? Lemons?
Avocados? Passion fruit? While I wouldn’t mind a California-like climate
ripening my tomatoes and chillies, it just doen’t seem right. The hose has
been getting a heck of a workout recently, and so have I.
For several weekends on the trot, I’ve been the model allotmenteer, sowing,
digging, weeding and planning. But occasionally,
I’ve got to have a weekend away. When my husband and I took on the plot, we
promised ourselves we wouldn’t let it induce a feeling of guilt if we had to
neglect it from time to time. Our lives were already busy before; it’s a
miracle we’ve been able to accomplish what we have, and hold down the day
job, and take as many holidays as possible. The first rule of allotmenthood
is: you get out what you put in. We’re getting gradually more obsessive, but
we can’t let it rule our lives. So, Friday night, with the promise of yet
another sunny weekend, we drove to the south coast.
What a brilliant weekend it was too! But as I baked in my bikini on the beach
munching a cheese and piccalilly sandwich, the conversation inevitably
turned to the plot. What’s in this piccalilly? Carrots, onions, courgette,
cauliflower... I’ll definitely try making some this year, all from homegrown
produce. How many cauliflower plants do we realistically have room for? I
wonder if the carrots have come up yet? Do we need a second compost bin? We
must get some runner beans in...
Driving home on Sunday night, we got stuck in a traffic jam going into the
Dartford tunnel. The sun was just setting, throwing neon streaks behind the
cityscape. Dan exclaimed anxiously, “Hurry up! We’ve got a garden to water!”
We made it to the plot as the church clock opposite struck nine, with just
enough light to quench the poor parched plants. Some kids had obviously
climbed the fence and stolen our CDs on strings — the perfect flashing
bird-repellers — that had been lining the lettuce patch. That’s Tottenham
for you.
TIP OF THE WEEK Can’t keep up with the rhubarb? Keep making compote by
cooking down the rhubarb with sugar or honey, perhaps with a bit of ginger
or orange zest. It’s delectable spooned over porridge; also wonderful
stirred into yoghurt for a healthy breakfast “fool”. Rhubarb compote also
freezes well.
Seasonal recipe: Rhubarb and Ginger Upside-down Cake
This is also good for breakfast, if a little naughty. Serve with yoghurt or
creme fraiche.
Wash rhubarb thoroughly and measure out 500g, then slice into 1 cm chunks.
Toss in a bowl with 75g caster sugar and 2 tbsp chopped glace ginger.
Scatter over the bottom of a 20-23cm springform cake tin. Cream together
180g soft butter with 180g caster sugar. Work in three beaten eggs bit by
bit, then fold in 150g wholemeal self-raising flour, 1 tbsp ground ginger
and 3-4 tbsp Madeira or dessert wine. Pour over the rhubarb. Bake at 190C
for about 35-40 minutes, until firm. Cool briefly, then remove from the tin.
Serve warm or cold. Serves 8
www.celiabrooksbrown.com
Week 6: Mucking about
It’s been a thrill a minute down at the plot this week. Firstly, the asparagus
is emerging at a rate of knots. It’s torture, though, as the
luscious-looking green spears must be left on the plant this year. We
planted one-year-old crowns last year and according to my various manuals,
they mustn’t be harvested until year three in order to build a strong plant.
Perhaps I could just pluck one spear to taste? Anyone with asparagus
experience, please advise!
On my way to the plot the other day, I detected an increasingly pungent odour
as I approached. When I turned the corner, I was astonished to see a flatbed
truck heaped full of steaming compost parked right opposite my allotment. I
couldn’t believe my luck. A bloke was shoveling the muck into bags while his
boss looked on, rolling a fag. I inquired: the guys had just driven this
lovely organic compost down from Ireland and they were parked up while it
got divvied up for a job in Hampstead. I bargained six bags for a tenner and
they delivered them there and then, still warm. This is perfect timing; some
extra nutrition and texture for my new beds, ready for the imminent
onslaught of planting.
So, at the weekend, Dan and I rolled up our sleeves in the scorching sunshine,
grabbed our forks and worked in the compost along with some bonemeal and
organic fertiliser. The “roots” patch shouldn’t require any, so we sieved
the soil in one row and planted some carrot seed, alongside three rows of
early potatoes. In the freshly fertilised “others” bed, I planted spring
onions, spinach and rainbow chard (last year’s star crop— endless, versatile
and super-healthy). The vicar from the church opposite dropped by for a chat
and informed us that we can help ourselves to his ever-expanding pile of
grass cuttings and leaves. This is a real score — it’s the perfect substance
for mulching and will give good texture to our home-made compost.
Last week Dan fashioned a cold-frame out of an old discarded wardrobe and
covered it with glass panels recovered from a skip. Our tiny greenhouse is
almost at capacity, so we need this for our newly sown sweetcorn and
cucumber seeds. The current lack of a hosepipe ban is a blessing at the
moment, but I suspect it won’t last. Two of the many changes that being an
allotmenteer has brought into my life are, I really, truly appreciate the
rain, and I look at piles of junk as potential goldmines.
TIP OF THE WEEK Broccoli florets can often harbour cleverly camouflaged
aphids. Soak the florets in water with a large dash of vinegar and they’ll
wriggle out. Best to rinse under cold running water as well.
Seasonal Recipe: Roasted Broccoli with Garlic
Preheat the oven to 220C. Cut broccoli into florets and thoroughly wash and
dry. Place in a roasting dish with 3-4 sliced garlic cloves. Drizzle over
just enough olive oil to coat the broccoli, then toss with your hands to
distribute evenly over each piece. Roast for 20-30 minutes, or until the
florets are crisp and golden, even slightly charred. NB: Large, oiled
florets are also great on the barbecue.
Week 5: Rocket launch
That’s all folks! The rocket has bolted and revealed delicate white blossoms
with chocolate-coloured streaks. Time for the final harvest. The flowers
themselves are a revelation. I once heard someone compare the taste of the
blossoms to bacon; I wouldn't go that far, but they definitely have a
distinct umami flavour about them. For the uninitiated, umami is recognised
as the fifth component of the sense of taste alongside sweet, salty, sour
and bitter. Umami is usually described as “savoury” and is represented by
flavours like cured ham, blue cheese, aged soy sauce and fortified wine. And
definitely rocket blossoms.
The tomato plants are coming on apace, and we transplanted them to small pots
in the greenhouse. We’ve got plenty of baby plants on the go, but as I look
around me, I realise that, bar a few more doses of rhubarb, there’s not much
left to eat at the moment! There’s a smattering of kale and broccoli still
coming, but soon it will be time to start clearing out the freezer, which is
full to the gills with last year’s blanched veg... courgettes, chard,
spinach, herbs... bring on summer!
Tip of the week: If you’ve planted too many lettuce seeds as I have,
leave what you don’t transplant to grow a bit more and eat as baby salad.
Crushed Potato and Rocket Salad
Cut 1kg floury potatoes into large chunks and boil in salted water until
tender. Drain and place in a large bowl. Crush the potatoes lightly with a
fork, leaving it chunky rather than mashed. Sprinkle 2 tbsp red wine vinegar
over the hot potatoes. Leave to cool without stirring. When completely cool,
gently toss potatoes with 50g rocket leaves, 2 tbsp olive oil, salt and
freshly ground black pepper until thoroughly mixed. Sprinkle with rocket
blossoms if you’ve got ‘em! Serve right away. Serves 4
www.celiabrooksbrown.com
Week 4: Dirty weekend
Fred looks after three plots adjacent to ours. He’s retired, so he’s got a
little extra time on his hands. He goes back home to Jamaica for the winter,
but now he’s back and hard at work. Last year we observed with interest how
he planted sweetcorn interspersed with pumpkins and courgettes, with bean
plants climbing up the sweetcorn, an age-old plan known as the “three
sisters”. It’s ingenious: the pumpkins are huge plants which sprawl all over
the gaff and are mighty thirsty; the sweetcorn provides shade for the
pumpkins while taking up only vertical space on which the beans can climb.
Inspired, we need to make space for the three girls by May. This means
digging, digging, digging. The sun was out on Saturday so out came the
forks. We really should have done this earlier; the soil is good old North
London clay and has set like cement.
In the “others” beds, which we’ve already prepared, I planted two rows of
“Marvel of Four Seasons” lettuce seedlings which were extremely good value
last year. They’re covered with a cloche fashioned from a sheet of
corrugated plastic bent into a tunnel and secured with sticks and wire.
And now for the harvest. Rhubarb! The tiny plant from last year is now well
and truly established and I pulled the first ever clutch of stalks. Jane
Grigson declares in her Fruit Book that “only young pink rhubarb is worth
eating... freeze them for later use... much more satisfactory than making
people suffer as the stalks grow thicker.” Well, these are quite green and
thick, but the plant needed a chance to mature. Rather dubious, I stewed
them up with sugar and the juice and zest of an orange and the house filled
with a seductive smell. The pink blush won over the green colour, it wasn’t
stringy, and the taste was sensational. It was so exciting, I went back for
another batch to make the dessert below.
Tip of the week: Simply pull rhubarb stalks away from the base and they
should snap right off. Remember, rhubarb leaves are poisonous, but they make
terrific compost.
Roasted Rhubarb with Ginger-Spiked Meringue
Preheat oven to 220C/425F/Gas 7. Cut 1kg rhubarb into chunks, place in a
buttered dish and toss with 4-6tbsp light brown sugar. Roast in the oven for
20-30 minutes, until rhubarb is soft. Lower oven temperature to 180 C. In a
very clean bowl, whisk 3 egg whites until stiff. Whisk in 180g caster sugar,
a spoonful at a time. Finally, whisk in 1tbsp finely grated fresh ginger.
Spread meringue over the cooked rhubarb. Bake for 20 minutes, until barely
crisp and golden on top. Serves 4-6
Week 3: Time to get sowing
Hallelujia, the tables have turned! The days lengthen and so does my list of
chores on the plot. The freshly planted seed trays will have to reside in
the kitchen window sill at home until spring has truly arrived, however
tempting the recent warmth. The “greenhouse”, a £35 plastic Argos job from
last year, has not survived the 12-month battering by the elements and is
full of holes, but still stands. We’ll soon repair it with some polythene
sheets.
Some San Marzano tomatoes went in trays last week; they’re seeds I bought in
California but I hope will survive in this cooler climate. I’ve also put in
some Chinese Ancestor aubergines which I’m very excited about — aubergines
will be a first this year, and the seed packet promises all sorts of weird
shapes and colours from white to heliotrope. Sweetcorn and more leeks are
planted and they’re all watered and set to germinate in a sunny spot covered
loosely with cling film. Some lettuces I sowed in trays last week are
already peeking their bright green shoots through the soil — thrilling
beginnings!
Last year’s root patch has been diligently dug over and enriched with compost.
This year it is designated for “others” — anything but roots and brassicas -
so all members of the onion and bean family, tomatoes, salad leaves, chard
etc. Making two straight rows with string and sticks, onion sets went in the
new “others” patch before the rain suspended play. We didn’t plant nearly
enough onions and garlic last year and aim for more volume and variety this
year. I know they’re cheap to buy, but the flavour and romance of your own
sweet alliums is simply unbeatable, and after all, they’re the foundation of
practically every savoury recipe I can think of.
I’ve hacked off a good few handfuls of peppery rocket for tonight’s supper.
This is undoubtedly a big advantage of an urban plot—we never get too hard a
frost, and despite the snow, the rocket just keeps on coming. With the
recent warm spells, it’s just about to bolt, so this may be nearing the
end...until the next sowing of course!
TIP OF THE WEEK: When washing greens such as rocket, swirl in a clean
sinkful of cold water, then leave for 5 minutes for the soil and grit to
fall to the bottom. Lift out the leaves and rinse again.
Tortellini with Creamy Rocket Sauce
Wash and trim rocket and measure approximately 300g, then chop coarsely. Heat
4 tbsp olive oil in a wide pan and fry 1 chopped red chilli and 2 cloves
crushed garlic for 1 minute. Add rocket, season with a little salt and
pepper, and stir. Cover the pan while the rocket wilts, about 2 minutes.
Take the pan off the heat and immediately stir in 6 heaped tbsp Greek
yoghurt and the juice of half a lemon. Cover and leave to stand for 1
minute, then stir into freshly cooked tortellini. Serves 4
Week 2: Parsley roots and the last survivors
The seemingly ruthless task of pulling up the remaining plants continues. My
3ft by 3ft curly parsley patch is still thriving, but it’s time for things
to move on. I’ve rediscovered the joys of good old English curly after years
of having been “converted” by the likes of the River Cafe gals to Italian
flat leaf. I now think my own curly has a sweeter, milder flavour and
delicate texture which I prefer, and the frilliness lends itself very well
to deep-frying - it makes an awesome crisp garnish.
As I forked out the parsley patch, I was amazed at how thick and long the
parsley roots are. Creamy white and sweet smelling, I suspected they have
the same properties as coriander roots in having a concentrated flavour of
the herb. Sure enough, I scrubbed them down, plucked off extraneous strings
and munched - they were tasty, much like parsnip. It’s common practice on
the Continent to eat parsley root; a slightly different variety is grown as
a vegetable.
I’ve harvested the rest of the broccoli, but a few more tiny heads will keep
coming for another week, so I’ll leave it a little longer. Same goes for the
kale - I just don’t want to pull it up just yet. The brassica patch will
become the root patch next year, so it doesn’t need any compost dug through
it, whereas the other patches do. Kale and broccoli can stay if they’re
still producing, and the rocket can stay, too. But the final few leeks must
come out, and the patch need to be dug over.
Time for an impromptu leek-y dinner.
TIP OF THE WEEK Remember the green parts of the leek, up to where the
layers separate, are delicious for cooking, as long as they’re washed and
not too tough. Compost the floppy leaves, or wash and use in soup stock.
Seasonal recipe: Leek, Parsley and Pasta au Gratin
Cook 200g wholemeal pasta shells in boiling salted water until tender. Trim,
slice and wash about 600g leeks. Steam until just tender, about 8 minutes
(you can do this over the pasta pan as it cooks). Place the cooked pasta in
a buttered gratin dish. Cover with leeks and season lightly with salt and
pepper, and sprinkle with lots of fresh chopped parsley and a little thyme.
Take whatever cheese you have to hand - I’m using some incredible
Sauternes-soaked French blue cheese from La
Fromagerie, some grated Grana Padano and Cheddar, all adding up to about
170g . Place 160ml milk in a saucepan and bring to the boil. Stir in the
cheese until melted. (If the sauce seems thin, mix 2 tsp cornflour in a cup
with 2 Tbsp cold water, stir in and boil until thick.) Pour sauce over the
leeks. Top with a generous layer of breadcrumbs and bake in a 200 C oven
until bubbly and golden, about 30 minutes. Serves 3-4
Week 1: Breaking new ground
Fourteen months ago, I never would have dreamed that now I’d be considering
rescuing banana skins from the pavement to put in my compost, shouting
obscenities at slugs, reading seed catalogues on the loo, and daydreaming
about horse poo. But since my husband Dan and I were granted our allotment
in Tottenham, North London, in November 2005 after a three-year wait, our
lives have been blessed with lovely muck, dirty fingernails and an endless
cornucopia of gorgeous homegrown veg. Even now, at the tail end of winter,
we’re still feasting on leeks, curly kale, rocket and broccoli.
The relatively large plot (10 x 25 metres) is three minutes’ walk from home.
It sits opposite a church and a mosque, and the police station is within
spitting distance. Contemplative weeding sessions are occasionally
interrupted by a convoy of police vans screaming off to the latest incident,
but mostly it’s a fertile oasis of tranquillity. Locals from the
multi-ethnic community frequently poke their noses through the fence
railings for a chat. Several cats drop by for a stroking from time to time,
and our fellow allotmenteers are a friendly bunch—a retired Jamaican who’s a
mine of knowledge, a young Swedish herb and fruit specialist, and four
others. We all exchange seeds, baby plants, surplus produce and advice. Each
plot-holder has a shed, and ours has become our second home, comfortably
decked out with chairs, a radio and lanterns—the perfect spot for a Thermos
of tea when it rains.
As a professional cook and food writer, I knew one day I’d probably make a
decent gardener, and there’s nothing like committing to an allotment to
start out on the long road to green-fingerhood. But a year and a bit on, I’m
still quite the novice. Short winter days mean we only get the forks out at
weekends, and now it’s time to start pulling up and cooking what remains of
last year’s planting, and work some goodness into the soil, ready for our
first crop rotation. Seeds are at the ready and potatoes are chitting away.
I’ll update you weekly from our urban plot, and from the kitchen.
TIP OF THE WEEK Store your leeks at home in a jug of water like a
bouquet—they’ll keep longer.
Seasonal recipe: Lavish Leeks in Saffron and Orange Sauce
Serve with steamed white fish or salmon.
Slice about a pound (450g) of leeks quite thinly. Saute gently in a generous
knob of melted butter (60g/2oz) until soft and just beginning to colour.
Sprinkle in a tablespoon of plain flour and cook for a couple of minutes,
stirring. Gradually add 200ml/7fl.oz. freshly squeezed orange juice with a
pinch of saffron filaments. Season well with salt and pepper. Stir while the
sauce thickens. Best served right away.
www.celiabrooksbrown.com
Hi Susan,
I’m a beginner myself, but from what I understand, the three sisters system is
a doddle. You’ll need to allocate a square patch, so the sweetcorn can
self-pollinate in the wind; the size of the patch depends on how much space
you have. Plant the sweetcorn (sow in peat pots now for end-of-May planting)
35cm/14 inches apart evenly over the square. Plant pea/bean plants near the
base of the sweetcorn, initially with some sticks for support until the corn
is strong enough to support the peas. Courgette and pumpkin plants can then
be put in the ground at least 1.5 to 2 metres apart from each other. I’ll
give a more comprehensive description once I’ve done it myself. Meanwhile,
get those seeds germinating in a warm place.
Happy Spring,
Celia
If you have any tips you'd like to share or questions about seasonal food and
allotments send them to Celia using the comment form below.
