Reminds me of Ford Maddox Ford's late volume of poems, Buckshee, about his
vegetable growing in Provence.
Robert
-----Original Message-----
From: mallin1 [mailto:[log in to unmask]]
Sent: Monday 29 November 2004 20:40 PM
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: Re: for what is left of a Sunday:
Hi
As I've just been described in an autobiography as a "genetically unmodified
poet" I thought I would join in on this culinary strand. I like writing
about food and sometimes run workshops on culinary themes. Better than
writing about food is growing it and making it. My love is my allotment. It
is a haven, my religion. The annual rent is still reasonable at £26 and,
with the continual advice of older residents, I get given all manner of
seeds, cuttings, manure, canes and string.
It is "my empire of dirt." Along one side I've an extensive blackberry bush
and wild plum trees on another. This being my first year, I didn't do too
bad and had a glut of courgettes and tomatoes. Many I gave away but there
were just scores of each left, so I took to making chutney and pickles and
jams. Many I'll give away this Xmas. Orders?
I leave a substantial notebook in my small shed. A few poems there but more
about making organic fertiliser from a fusion of nettles, comfrey and
seaweed.
It's smack bang next to the A12 and I expect many looking in think it's a
scrappy old place. Who said heaven wouldn't be a scrappy old place? Though a
committed 'townie,' it's been a saviour. Ironically, was cooking got me into
this magic - 'Cooking in a Bedsit' was my bible. Couldn't boil an egg. Now,
I've a 35 year old vegetarian male friend, articulate, in a job, who cannot
and will not boil an egg! Oh well.
Present best preserve, served with cheese, is my marrow and ginger jam. It
certainly is one of my better poems.
Best wishes, Rupert
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