20 June 2009
LETTER TO A DEAD MATE
I’m sitting amongst ripening red and black currants on the plot. You’d love it down here. Town Hall clock struck nine and it’s still warm, bright and cheery. I get confused. Is this the longest day or tomorrow? Either way, right here right now I miss you. I remember when, around this time of year, you’d come a-visiting. We’d mooch about in the open air, chatting, laughing and just being.
Crikey! I wish I smoked tobacco. It’s the perfect evening for a toke. You’d tell me that a little of what you fancy never hurts and I’d be joining you for a magic moment or several.
Just planted put some celeriac grown in plugs and watered courgettes and beans. The runners needed training round their hazel poles. I used a few bits of string, tied softly, to guide them on their spiral way. Weeded around the garlic too.
Shallots are looking good for lifting tomorrow, just as planned. It always amazes me how one chestnut-sized bulb can develop into a clutch, like some strange bird’s eggs in a row of regimented nests. I can see one such with nine portions in it.
Harvesting the shallots is a defining moment in this vegetable gardener‘s year. When they come in I know that the seasonal wheel has turned once more.
There’s still plenty of daylight left. The thrush has just started singing as he always does in the hour before sundown. But tonight I won’t linger until dark because we’re having stir-fried mange tout and garlic. I’m also looking forward to mashed Yellow Cylindra beetroot spread thickly on toast with a little balsamic vinegar, salt and pepper. Reckon you’d be up for a bit of that, too.
Copyright, Joe Hashman