The Allotment Chef: Home-grown Recipes and Seasonal Stories

We eventually get home full of enthusiasm. Having initially had reservations about the plot, I am now ready to write to Tony Tesco immediately and tell him that I will no longer be visiting his store. It takes MJ to remind me that our plot is one big, very overgrown patch that may be some time off supporting the family.

Instead, we spend time strolling through our ‘fantasy allotment’ full of all the things I want to cook. Seasonal asparagus, winter kale, hot and spicy radishes (how they used to taste from my grandpa’s garden), strawberries warm from the sun, and fresh green beans. I can picture our plot in the months to come being the envy of all Ealing as we happily harvest our bounty of vegetables. MJ is equally upbeat, and explains to Ellie and Richie the fun that can be had from just being outdoors and at one with nature.

It’s funny how such moments of family harmony can be so quickly shattered by a simple comment, this time from Ellie: ‘But it’s full of weeds and stinging nettles, Mum. When will they clear it up so we can start?’

‘We will clear it up, of course,’ is my happy response to this witty enquiry. But she is not happy and complains that chopping down stinging nettles is not how she intends to spend her weekends. MJ quickly rescues the situation by saying that Daddy will make a start on it while they are at school. I presume that this, also, must be a joke.

Keith had told us that our plot is ‘ten poles’ in size; at the time, I had presumed that MJ knew what this meant, so I had kept my ignorance to myself. Now we are home and discussing the allotment I ask her what a ‘pole’ is exactly. Unfortunately she had presumed I knew what Keith meant and so had decided to keep her ignorance to herself. We look it up in the dictionary. There, under ‘the end of an axis’ and ‘a native of Poland’, is the explanation we are looking for: a pole is a measurement of five and a half yards (about five metres). For some unknown reason this is how allotment folk choose to measure their given space. Ten poles is, therefore, actually damned big – about twenty-five square metres – so MJ suggests we split it down the middle with our friends Dilly and Doug. They have previously expressed a similar gardening urge and we will still have more than enough space to grow what we need as well as having some neighbourly encouragement if we start to flag. Our kids are also far more likely to see the allotment as a good place to go if they might run into Dilly and Doug’s children up there.

As far as encouragement goes I realise we will also need help and advice in the coming months on what to plant, where, and when. MJ suggests that she rings her mum and I ring my dad, both of whom are keen gardeners. I also promise to ring Chris Williams, an old friend who is a gardener by profession. My relationship with Chris is primarily based around drunken afternoons at Lord’s watching England lose cricket matches so, when I speak to him, he is a bit surprised by my horticultural awakening, but he promises to come over to Blondin to give his considered opinion on the best plan of attack.

Just as we are saying goodbye he casually mentions that I should write up my vegetable-growing experience in the form of a cookery book. When I put the phone down I am struck by the simple brilliance of this suggestion. I have always been the sort of bloke who likes to immerse himself fully in a project. I can envisage sunny days spent toiling on the land and evenings spent writing up recipes cunningly concocted from an array of fruit and vegetables. The more I consider this idea the bigger the project gets. My proposal of avoiding supermarkets, for instance, becomes less about avoidance and more about a total ban: WE WILL LIVE BY THE SEASON AND WE WILL NEVER GO TO THE SUPERMARKET AGAIN.

Later in the day I explain to MJ that it has occurred to me that I could write a book (no need to mention it wasn’t my idea) on our experiences, including a selection of recipes, and that there should be a total ban on supermarkets. She immediately rounds on me saying that the whole allotment idea was a family decision and not one that I can hijack and turn into one of my doomed projects.

She is referring, of course, to my previous mission in life, which was to sell our house and move to Zanzibar (a small island in the Indian Ocean). I had researched the whole thing over a couple of weeks on the Internet and realised that, with the proceeds of the house in London, we could afford a crash course in Swahili, standard class flights and still have enough left over to buy a restaurant with some guest rooms once we were there. MJ could educate the children at home, as well as give English lessons to the island’s adults. My big mistake on that occasion was to say nothing to MJ during the planning stage and then get caught at home with an estate agent valuing the house. I had even costed up the shipping of our furniture before I had said a word about my idea to her.

This time, though, I promise things will be different. MJ may feel right now that she wants an allotment ‘just like everyone else’ but, when we get started, she will soon come round.

Despite our differing opinions on the allotment project we are both itching to get started. MJ gives Dilly and Doug a call and the plan to divide the plot in two is agreed.

A few days after accepting the plot we are sent the keys that open the main gates. I presume the gates are needed to keep the local youths from ducking in, when no one is looking, to steal shovels and trowels; it could, of course, be to keep the allotment folk in lest they start sowing broad beans and Swiss chard in the local park.

The very next morning, at 7am, I am at the allotment to meet Chris Williams. As a gardener, Chris knows lots about plants and, to prove this, he, like Keith, has a beard. As he pulls up in his truck, I walk over and swing open the gates for my first visit as an official paid-up allotmenteer. As we walk down the path towards my patch, Chris points out various plants, to which he knows not only the English names, but also the Latin. We pass plots full of cabbages and sprouts and kale and I can see that Chris is already impressed with the efforts of my fellow amateur gardeners.

Eventually we reach my plot and, almost immediately, Chris’s jaw drops. I ask him if he has spotted an obvious problem and he replies that, in 30 years of gardening, he has never taken on such an overgrown patch of land with a view to doing anything more than turning it into a slightly less overgrown patch of land.

Positive thinking is crucial on such an occasion so I explain that, when we came to look at the site, I saw a man clearing an old vegetable bed with a large bionic lawnmower-like machine. This strikes me as a fairly fast way of digging the ground once we have cleared the brambles and assorted weeds so surely we could use one of these things to ‘plough’ our plot.

Chris has bad news on this front. The rotivator – the name of the machine – is not a good idea where cooch grass is concerned; it chops it up and spreads it out, which means that it effectively re-sows it. It turns out that Chris has driven all the way over just to tell me to buy a spade and dig it by hand.

On the subject of self-sufficiency, Chris is scarcely more help, pointing out that it is doubtful if we will be able to survive; I have freely admitted to him that the first and last thing I have ever grown was cannabis when I was a teenager – and that died before it ever saw a Rizla!

It is almost 8am and it’s cold, so cold that I am beginning to understand why so many gardeners have beards. As Chris and I walk back to the gate, he stresses again that, in his view, the best way to remove all our cooch grass is by hand, and then, as he climbs into his truck, he winds down the window to deliver one final bit of encouragement, ‘If you keep removing every bit of cooch grass that springs up, you will find that, within three years, you will have got rid of the lot.’ With this cheery advice in mind, I walk back up Boston Road in the freezing cold.

Back home I sit down for breakfast with MJ and explain that Chris is a little pessimistic about our chances of survival. She immediately takes the line that, if we just grow as much as we can, that, in itself, will be an achievement. I explain that this would be fine for most people, but that this is now a ‘project’ and the rules of it are clear – we have an allotment and we have to survive independently, with no backup from food shops.

Sensing my despair, MJ suggests that we drive up to Homebase to see what sheds they have on display. Up to this point I haven’t even considered that we will need a shed, but, on reflection, it is obvious. I also wonder if we should look into buying a caravan so that we can spend entire weekends on the plot, but MJ convinces me that we should just stick with a shed for now.

A couple of days later Chris calls to see how we are getting on and I sheepishly admit that we haven’t been down to the allotment since I met him there. I do let on, though, that I am up for his book idea and that I have put a proposal in the post to a couple of publishers.

Before he rings off, Chris tells me that his wife, Stella, googled the word Blondin, as she believed it was actually a person’s name. It turns out she is right and he suggests we take a look. Mr Blondin was a famous tightrope walker who notoriously crossed the Niagara Falls on a tightrope in 1859. He didn’t stop there, though; he crossed it again and again, each time using a different theatrical variation: he carried a man across on his back; he pushed a wheelbarrow across; he did it blindfold; and he even did it on stilts.

Blondin performed at Crystal Palace in 1862 where Charles Dickens declared, ‘half of London is here eager for some dreadful accident’. Nice. Blondin did not grant Mr Dickens his ghoulish wish; instead he pushed his five-year-old daughter across a 55-metre high rope in a wheelbarrow. It took an intervention by the Home Secretary to stop him repeating this particular version.

All of this is very interesting but seems to have little to do with cabbages. Stella, however, had discovered that he eventually moved to England and ended his days on Northfield Avenue, which is the main road just off which are … you guessed it, Blondin Allotments. With a list of achievements like his, the very least I would expect is a large bronze statue. Instead there are 112 amateur vegetable gardeners working on an allotment named in his honour. And now, I am one of them.

Although we are yet to really make an impact on our small section of the Earth’s crust, I am busy reading up on food issues big and small. My new-found passion is fuelled by well-wishers. I receive text messages from my dad, who reads Nature magazine, telling me of a crisis in North Sea fish stocks; I receive emails from friends with pictures of phallic-shaped vegetables (this possibly says more about my friends than it does about my green agenda); and a friend, Greg, drops off a book that he suggests I read. The book, called Not on the Label and written by Felicity Lawrence, explores the truth about supermarket food. It’s the sort of book I would have run a mile from just a short while ago but now I am hooked – it makes fascinating, yet scary, reading. I have never fully realised the impact these large superstores have on all areas of our lives, and, by the time I have read the introduction, I am already a committed eco-warrior!

Feeling particularly militant I drive off to Tesco for the last time. Inside the shop I already feel like a stranger prowling the shelves, despairing at the labels of origin on the beans and tomatoes, and all that packaging, all those air miles. As I drive away from the shop I note those things I shall miss most:

Tesco cheese and pickle pork pies

Tesco Finest vanilla ice cream

Tesco Finest dry-cured bacon

Tesco Finest cider

Tesco pancetta and Parmesan sausages

Tesco Finest cookies

But, despite the loss of these, I make a point of sitting down with the family to discuss the idea of buying all our cleaning stuff, tinned food, dry goods and sundries from local stores, so that we need not physically enter a supermarket for one year as of now.

The trouble with MJ is that she lacks the true heart of a subversive. She will not suffer for the cause and tells me in no uncertain terms that she won’t rule out supermarkets; her reason is that they are convenient – so much for her militancy. She does look pretty fired up when she tells me this, so I compromise by agreeing that dry goods, tins and general ‘stuff’ can still come from the supermarket, but we should start to buy all our meat, fish, bread and vegetables (until our production line begins) from local shops.

As MJ and I continue our conversion to the church of culinary Puritanism, we can’t help noticing that our children are somewhat underwhelmed by the whole thing. Up to this point we have not really canvassed their opinion on the whole allotment ‘Should we/Shouldn’t we’ question, because we have been so sure it will be good for them. They do think it will be great meeting their friends at the allotment, but they are already voicing concerns about having to eat all the vegetables that Dad is so convinced he will grow.

Over the years, I have spent a lot of time encouraging, coercing, even bribing and ultimately forcing my children to eat well. Vegetables are often the source of our discussions. On one occasion I explained that they had to eat their vegetables, if only from a health point of view. I went to great length to explain the ‘five portions a day’ rule and pointed out, when they argued, that this wasn’t my idea, that it was actually a government initiative. Still they argued, and, in utter desperation, I told them that, if they didn’t like what I was telling them, they should write to the Prime Minister Tony Blair – or the Queen for that matter – and take up the issue with them.

The next morning I came down to breakfast to find the following letter written by Richie to the Queen:

To call his bluff I made him address an envelope and send it. Then we got back to normal, resuming mealtime conflicts and bribery. Two months passed and then, through the letterbox, fell an envelope addressed to Richie and emblazoned with the royal stamp. We could hardly believe what we saw when Richie opened the envelope. The Queen herself had written back. I’d show you the real letter here …

…. but unfortunately her majesty only gives vegetable consumption advice on a strictly one to one basis and won’t let me print the letter, so you’ll just have to take my word on it (lest she chop off my head.)

The truth is that the letter was actually written on behalf of the Queen by the Senior Correspondence Officer who said that the Queen thanked Richie for writing and that she thought it was thoughtful of him to tell her that I want him to eat more fruit and veg. She then suggested Richie look up information on the web about what children should be eating. Funny, I had never pictured the Queen surfing the ‘net’.

She then mentioned that she was going to forward Richie’s letter to Patricia Hewitt MP, the Secretary of State for Health. Well, sure enough, soon after we received the following letter (which the Department for Health is very happy about my showing you here):

By then vegetable consumption was a hot topic in our house – any green thing served was eaten ‘because the Queen says so’. And I hope to keep it as a hot topic.

While bribery and torture can work in getting children to eat vegetables, however, I still hope that the best way to ‘sell’ vegetables to the young is to pick them fresh and cook them with care. A strawberry fresh from the plant and still warm from the sun will always taste better than a bought one, and the same will apply to a cabbage and even the dreaded sprout. My job is to convince my children of this.

Forget AA Gill or Michael Winner. Ellie and Richie are my toughest food critics. Yet, with the allotment now secure, I believe it is only a matter of time before garden-fresh vegetables are getting the Michelin treatment and being eaten with glee!

MJ and I have big plans for the allotment: we discuss dishes we love and note the vegetables we require as we discuss a growing plan. By this time next year we will be ‘grow your own’ bores who turn up at friends’ houses for dinner with a pointed cabbage and half a kilo of broad beans instead of a bottle of wine.

Nothing can stop us now.

Chapter 3 | The Ealing Project

Despite our early enthusiasm, Christmas has come and gone without a single trip to the allotment. We have thought about going but the festive season just kept getting in the way.

Strangely, however, both MJ and I have demonstrated our commitment to the future in the form of Christmas gifts. My main present from the kids is a portable gas stove. MJ tells me that it is for making tea, but I have bigger ideas. We will carry out ‘from earth to pot’ experiments with all the vegetables we grow by eating them as soon as they are picked.

My gifts on the other hand are seriously ‘correct’. I have done most of my shopping on the Centre for Alternative Technology website. MJ is the main beneficiary of this environmentally aware shopping spree and I shall always remember her joyful expression as she unwrapped: her new water siphon especially designed to remove ‘grey’ water from the bath to use on the garden; a reusable J cloth; a notepad made from elephant shit; and a (reusable) string bag for shopping – in local stores obviously. She just looked so happy.

When it comes to the allotment itself, the truth is that, since we got the keys, we have not found, nor made, the time to visit. MJ is retraining as a teacher and I am at the pre-production stage of a TV series called Ever Wondered about Food…, which will be filmed during February. We are both simply too busy, and are perhaps slightly daunted by the task ahead. To compound the situation, the temperature has plummeted to minus two degrees and the thought of digging in this weather is too much to bear.

The trouble is that we are constantly reminded of the allotment. Each time we drive down Boston Road past the gates that lead to Blondin, one of the kids will call out, ‘that’s where the allotment is’ (or ’lotment, as Richie calls it). MJ and I just grimace and mutter empty promises that contain the words ‘next weekend’. It is now two months since we inherited our plot and it’s hard to ignore Keith’s echoing words about eviction after three months of neglect.

That cold November morning we had been filled with so much hope for the future – a future full of vegetables – and I had worked hard over Christmas convincing MJ that my allotment project, including a supermarket ban and a book of our achievements, was a good idea. She had only come around when I had received a positive response from HarperCollins about publishing a book – she couldn’t bear to crush my excitement, I expect.

In early January I had gone to meet a lady at HarperCollins called Jenny who had bowled me over with her enthusiasm for my book. She fully agreed that a supermarket ban should take place and I had confidently told her that I would start right away. This had been somewhat foolhardy as we hadn’t lifted a single nettle, let alone planted anything, and now, another month on, I am beginning to envisage a cookery book with no recipes and no story.

Our weekly trips to the supermarket are carrying on unchecked. At first I had refused to go myself, but now even I am resigned to the fact that, until we get the allotment up and running, the supermarket is our only hope.

Towards the end of February, we have Dilly and Doug over for lunch (no prizes for guessing where the ingredients came from). As we sit around the table, the conversation drifts into choppy waters when MJ mentions the allotment. It comes as a huge relief to learn that they have also not visited their half of the plot and are wrestling with the desire to pack it all in before they start.

At meetings like these, you need a leader, someone who stands up and bangs their fist in defiance of the gloom. I’m not about to lead anyone anywhere, but my wife is made of sterner stuff. She leans on the back of the chair and makes a stirring speech along the lines of, ‘We will conquer this patch of land. Paul’s even going to write a book and he’s never going to a supermarket again – ever. And we are behind him one hundred per cent.’ It does the trick; all of a sudden we are four gardeners around a table ready to dig at a moment’s notice. We all agree that we will get down to the allotment and show our mettle … next weekend.

It is March – and still bloody freezing – when we take our first visit to the allotment. We have now had the plot for over three months and have failed to scupper a single weed. Dilly and Doug, and their children Eddie and Sylvie, join us so that we can divide the one very big plot into two smaller ones as per the original plan. Standing, shivering, in the middle of a frozen jungle that we have been silly enough to pay for, we agree ends and decide that a shared shed shall be the dividing line.

Our plot is so overgrown that it’s difficult to know where to start; the whole area is a mass of tall grass, brambles and nettles. I feel the best way forwards is to go home, make a nice cup of tea and sit down in the warm to devise a plan of attack, but MJ counters that meetings simply get in the way of progress. We have brief words before she grabs the only shovel we own and starts randomly digging like a woman possessed.

As this is really the extent of our garden tool kit my choices appear to be limited to standing in one spot and shivering, or standing in another spot and shivering. Eventually I decide to make a fire with the kids. One of the points of this mad folly is to give the kids a bit of outdoor life, so we collect as much wood and dried grass as possible and are soon all standing, hands held out, around a blazing fire like some 1970s workforce at odds with our employers.

As the day wears on, it becomes increasingly obvious that we need some sort of plan if we are going to defeat this tangled, weedy corner of Ealing; even MJ, when she joins us around the fire, has to admit as much. MJ, Dilly, Doug and I decide to concentrate on a small area that will eventually be the spot for our shed. The next two hours are spent pulling up brambles and digging down six inches until we have a relatively flat space.

A shed is a vital addition to an allotment; everyone who has an allotment has a shed. It means we can begin to buy some tools and store them on-site, and also that we will then have somewhere to shelter from the more extreme weather.

Sheds, of course, are joked about as some last domain of male authority, a place where a bloke can go when everything gets too much. I have never thought of myself as the shed type but, as I look at the patch of cleared ground, it is easy to get excited about the structure waiting to stand there.

We are the allotment that is furthest west so our shed will be like an outpost in the other west. The wild one. I start to ponder the whole shed thing and realise that I could really get used to having a shed. I then consider the five things I need in my shed: