There is something special about the first crop of potatoes every year. More than anything else we grow, it is our small potato crop that seems to make it all worthwhile.
We’ve already had a decent harvest of rhubarb, and we’re picking the last of the tiny alpine strawberries. The redcurrents are ripening well, there will be a few blackcurrents, the raspberries are now making an effort so it seems we’ll have plenty of those if the sun keeps shining. However, we may have lost our lone gooseberry bush. On the vegetable front the peas plants are growing well but there have been few flowers so, alas, there will be few peas. The onions, as always, are doing well but the beans are really struggling. I think it unlikely that we’ll be able to pick many.
In the greenhouse the warm weather – after the prolonged dismal wet and cold we’ve had to put up with – is at last paying dividends as the tomatoes and cucumbers race to make up for lost time, although I think they will be cropping late. At least we have something to look forward to.
But it is the potatoes that I really enjoy. Even though on our small plot we’d probably be better off growing something less mundane – they are ready at exactly the same time as the shops stock new potatoes at steadily decreasing prices – nothing can compete with the taste of home grown, freshly harvested potatoes steamed and served with butter. Even thinking about them makes my mouth water.