Peas and potatoes

Tucked behind a brick house in the heaving metropolis that is Carlisle is a tiny vegetable garden, fastidiously tended by the husband of my bridesmaid of oh-so many years ago. He is a number cruncher by trade, she has meandered into insurance. They are seemingly normal people, but if you scratch the surface, you find thinking, delightfully quixotic folk. When not writing policies to protect cows from death by lightning (actually it reimburses the farmer for his loss, for there is simply no way to protect a cow in a thunderstorm), she works arduously to obtain and maintain fairtrade town status for her hometown. Her accounting spouse loves planting the beans more than counting them, and has decided to leave his high-powered post go back to university to pursue a degree in environmental studies.

It was at their table in their as-yet unpainted breakfast room that we shared the bounty of their garden, from courgettes (that’s zucchini to thee and me) to yellow chard, to fragrant heritage sweet peas and classic English shelling peas. Little One delighted in hunting for the plump pods, and we all dug into the ensuing risotto with gusto.

Nestled in a vale near the English west coast live the parents of Number One son’s first crush. Lest he blush, I should remind the reader that he was but four years old at the time, but must also note that she has not lost her charm, though it is currently crowned with blue hair. I am tucked into a cozy stone cottage across the garden from the main house on their alpaca farm, where we are awaiting the appearance of Flossie’s cria (that’s a baby alpaca to thee and me). My Little One and their smallest headed out to the potato patch with a basket, and came back lugging grubby new potatoes and fat broad beans (not just for broads, mind you). We scrubbed and shelled and chopped and roasted and feasted on these, and a few more handfuls dug this morning also graced a lovely vegetable stew at lunchtime. They are gentle folk, who quietly lead by example, and have chose quiet, gentle beasts to populate their fields. There are no other animals, not even a chicken, for they keep a vegan household and would have no use for eggs. Aside from the fresh-baked bread, I can relax about the food on the table, for I know it will be healthy and delicious.

Perched on a rocky hillside just inside Bavaria, we gathered for the weekend joining of two soul mates. The menu was predictable, and predictably unsuitable for our travel-weary bodies and thinking lifestyle. Bookended between the visits to our other two friends in England, it stands out, sore-thumb like. Prepared products, conventionally grown and highly-processed offerings were the rule here, and champagne, consumed in quantity, was likely the most traditional and purest consumable. Vaguely aware that we ate outside the mainstream, our hostess provided us with Ökotest margarine; similar to the American Good Housekeeping symbol, its name implies some sort of awareness, but the hydrogenated oil in the product belies corporate emptiness.

The weeks of peas and potatoes serve as healing times, inbreaths between the weighty weekend ceremonies, and I am thankful for the good food as much as the good company. I suspect that in the long run, I shall recall the tendrils and the mud with at least as much fondness as the toasts and vows.