LOSING THE PLOT
The whole ‘lifespan’ thing N
“
ow, can you tell which ones are the broccoli?” my friend asks, with the air of a kindly Victorian schoolmaster giving a chimney sweep his first lesson in Latin. “Can I tell!” I snort. Really. After all these years with my hands in the dirt… I squint as I lean in for a closer look at what, to the untrained eye, would appear to be three plastic six-packs of identical seedlings. But the untrained eye wouldn’t see what I see. It wouldn’t note the somewhat more oval shape of the leaves in the punnet furthest to the left; the miniscule, but telltale, slightly more jagged serrations; and the way the morning light brings out an infinitesimally deeper green. “This one!” I announce, in what I hope is an “Elementary, my dear Watson” sort of tone. “And it would be the Italian heirloom variety, broccoli ‘De Cicco’, if I’m not mistaken.” “Not quite,” he says. “That one’s red cabbage. Look at the red stem!” The stem, the stem. I always forget to look at the stem. “Try again,” he says. “And this time, read the label.” Of course. The old label-your-seedling-tray trick. Should have known he’d be organised enough for that. “They’re ready for transplanting,” he says. “Are you sure you’ve got a bed free?” He’s looking at me with one raised eyebrow. And he’s still hanging on to one end of the punnets. I’ve got hold of the other. “Just got to do a bit of soil prep, first,” I say. “Won’t take me any time at all.”
90
We eyeball each other. Time stands still. You can hear birds shuffle on their branches; lizards skitter over leaves; worms burrow through the earth. Then, with a reluctant grunt, he lets go. I don’t mind saying, I’m a little bit offended by his reluctance. Doesn’t he know how long I’ve been gardening? How many punnets of seedlings do you reckon have passed through my hands over the years? Enough to feed an army. Admittedly, not all that many have made it to the actual harvesting stage of the whole plant lifespan thing, but there have been circumstances beyond my control. There have been insects and diseases, rabbits and chickens, floods and droughts. You’d have to be Penny bloomin’ Woodward to grow anything decent in conditions like these. At home, I look at my three raised beds, each of them overflowing with polycultural fecundity. Do I really have room for all these brassicas? Yes, I do. Just as soon as I get rid of the nettles, the thistles, the wandering jew, the farmer’s friends, the nutgrass and, ooh, is that rocket? Come on, I say to myself. You can do it. You’ve got the tools, you’ve got the time, you’ve got the motivation. But it’s starting to rain. Probably best if I just put the seedlings in the laundry for now. I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry: I’ll put them next to the sink, so I remember to water them. They’ll get some light from the window there. And it’s not forever. A day or two at the most. The weather’s bound to clear up soon.
ILLUSTRATION: BRENNA QUINLAN
Simon Webster has dealt with enough punnets of seedlings over the years to feed an army. But can he feed his family?
