I am generally a very unbloggy blogger – I don’t normally share random immediate thoughts, although perhaps The One Show bit and my Charles Darwin post were a bit off the usually fairly carefully thought-out rails.
However, I would just like to share with readers the fact that despite the hideous work-enforced neglect of my allotment this summer, I have just eaten the most magnificent supper most of which came from my plot.
What did I eat? Chicken (regrettably I can’t lay claim to that), cooked with onions and garlic and tarragon (from my plot) and a dash or white wine (regrettably I don’t own a vineyard either) with lovely chubby chard stems (the leaves were a bit coarse and holey), french beans and butter (regrettably no cow, either) with more garlic and magnificent Charlotte spuds, carefully groomed to avoid the odd unfortunate tunnel, cooked with mint and then steeped in a parsley/butter goo (I really must think about getting a cow…). Totally delish. And followed by the first of my autumn raspberries.
But none of this would have been possible without my fantiastic friends who have been down to the neglected desert and picked things for me. This post is for them.
Over and out.