Scary stories from a lovely place
On today’s blustery afternoon we managed to sow our seed potatoes.
It’s been a long time coming. We chitted the potatoes a couple of months ago – they’ve been sitting in a cupboard in a brown paper bag, growing alien-like tentacles. I dug the bed a good month ago and have been digging in compost and manure and turning it every few days. Usually I dig and plant all in the same afternoon, but I wanted to do the potatoes exactly right.
I feel under a fair amount of pressure to get the potatoes right. It’s likely that most of my efforts in the garden will be a failure, but please, please let the potatoes flourish. Stephen is mad about all things potato, and this humble tuber vegetable is also deeply linked to his heritage and sense of personhood. I have seen first hand the abundant potato crop that can come from a small patch of earth. Harvesting my in-law’s potato crop with Stephen and his brother-in-law, dad and nephew, was one of the most special experiences I have had the privilege of observing.
We dug a good sized trench, lined it with well aged chicken poo, soaked it in water and dropped in our sad looking chitted potatoes. We lightly covered them in soil, leaving lots for the hilling up later when the plants start to grow. And we soaked it all in water again. I was concerned about the amount of water, but then Stephen said we had to keep the soil wet all the time! To my mind, that seemed wrong, but then I remembered that he is the Irish one, the one who played soccer in the rain, all day, everyday and then had potatoes for dinner. Potatoes grown in that same rainy climate.
Grow, my beautiful seed potatoes, grow, grow, grow.