July in the strawberry patch
I optimistically thought that if I can beat the slugs, discourage the field mice and net them from the black bird that watches me from the holly bush (because we’ve clipped back the cobnut now, so it’s too stumpy to work as an all seeing power seat for the true proprietor of my vegetable garden), then we (the humans) might just be in with a chance of actually enjoying our own strawberries this year.
Every time I went down I’d discover a new little hole carefully chewed through the netting by the field mouse, so I’d dutifully adjust it to hold him at bay awhile. I also discovered that overwatering was like waving a white flag at the slugs “I give in! Slide this way and fill you boots.” So I’ve watered far less. No wayward stem has been allowed to stretch beyond the netting and wave a curly tendril daubed temptingly with glowing digits of red. These are religiously tucked back in their corral every time I spot an escapee. And so with all these little tweaks and tricks I’m learning along the way, we’ve done so much better this year.
There’ve been times that I’ve crept down at silly-hour in the morning, gathered up a generous t-shirt pouch of them and wandered back with enough for my family to enjoy on their cereal/yogurt/straight from the hand. Actual bowlfuls!
It’s been the same with the other berries too. But these seem to be permanently guarded by that blackbird and as I open the gate to these fruit beds, he’s there, ready with a shouty stream of pure vitriol. I’d not realised that blackbirds actually knew such language.
But there’s plenty for all here, really.
It’s just the strawberries I don’t feel so inclined to share.
So this morning I woke early, and slipping on a t shirt and wellies, I grabbed a colander and took a wet-let walk through the field, such a whisper of grasses now prematurely brittle and bone pale. This Summer has been longer than the usual week we fondly joke about and has in fact stretched out for more than a month of relentless sun. It’s lucky we don’t mither over the rather middle class obsession of owning a perfectly green, weed-free lawn. The stretch that could loosely be called such looks scorched as if someone’s being playing with a blowtorch. But miraculously, the soft fruits don’t seemed to have suffered at all.
Burrowing under the netting I could see that all the fat juicy ‘domestic’ strawberries have long gone, their season ended last month, but still the wild strawberries keep coming, and some of them are the size of a Gobstopper! Their flavour is so much more refined and perfumed than their rather comical counterpart, almost soapy, but not in the frothy, gag-inducing way; there’s just the gentlest most comforting suggestion of Doves’ Beauty Cream bar… depending how ripe they are. I love them, in fact I’ve become just a little obsessed with them.
So in honour of these seasonal beauties that taste like no other outside of these few months, I found the biggest one, held back from popping it straight in my mouth, and instead took it up to the studio, sliced it in half and got my paints out.
I could go headfirst into a dizzy rant here, you know, about eating with the seasons. In fact I know of quite a few folk who’ve written very eloquently on this. And I know I’m one of the lucky ones that has the space to grow much of my own veg and fruit.
But I will say this: very little can surpass the flavour and texture of the food we choose to eat, when it’s been grown and eaten in the season it was meant to be. The strawberry is a perfect example of this ‘truth’.
You'll need a chest freezer and labels that stick ...
I was recently asked to write down the ten most important tips for illustrating food. It’s not something I’ve ever given a lot of thought to… As easily as our terrier edges surreptitiously onto my chair in the studio, I kind of slipped into illustrating, just by following my nose. Rather than training to BE an illustrator, I just chased after what I love doing, and so here I am 20 or so years later.
Here’s a photo of our terrier, Chewy. (We didn’t choose the name. If we had it would’ve been Houdini or Hellion.)
And here’s the article in all it’s glory! Let me know if I’ve missed any salient points!
With many thanks to the ever-inquisitive Qin!
Dear Mrs Grigg...
Of all the days to launch my blog I chose Halloween. I can’t write for toffee, even those appallingly jaw dislocating “trick-or-treat” ones my 3 seem to accumulate every year. Nevertheless, I will endeavour to give the impression of eloquence, and in so doing placate the formidable Mrs Grigg my former O level English teacher. I would hate to give her any cause for concern (or have to hand back the end of year prize for “most promising student”)
She was 4 ft 9 inches, her furiously backcombed auburn hair and teetering heels making up the 9 inches. The bit in between was a force of Nature on Red Bull. When we – a slowly shuffling army of somnolent oofs – sat down for our first lesson with Mrs Grigg, she must have been filled with ‘pass me the valium’ trepidation. I was actually somewhat surprised to see her the next day, assuming she would’ve at least put in a request for “gardening duty”.
To my amazement she took us on, shook us up and served up English as we’d never known it. By the end of our time with her we were literally bouncing off our chairs in an effort to be chosen to reinact The Canterbury Tales. Having been through this cathartic and eye-popping journey of Chaucerian design, we’d not only discovered that we weren’t the first to swear, but also that humorists existed before we were born, yes really.
So here I am, Mrs Grigg *stands to attention*. I’ll do my best.