Potatoes, Billy MacKenzie, The Helford River and eggs

Abundance: Friday 5 January 2024

The dog hogs the fire. As gormless as he is predictable, he parks himself two feet from the flames. Eight minutes later, hyperventilating, he stares at me for clues as to who is responsible for his discomfort.

My fork pecks at supper while what little heat evades the small furry cylinder warms my feet, still cold from a few New Year days in Cornwall.  

Full moon on the Helford

When the Christmas decorations come down, as usual, I’m making lists of what I want to grow - or rather what I want to eat - this year.

Calling the year on, anticipating flavours and inhabiting times to come. It reminds me that the planet revolves, spring follows winter, night follows day; that I am a pointless fluke of temporarily agglomerated atoms, a sneeze in the bigger picture, using his few precious moments in the universal whatever to endlessly contemplate what to eat while in the company of a silently farting dog.

These are the most important moments in a gardener’s year - sat still, ordering meals that will be served in delicious increments over the coming months. I can’t control the weather or what pests and diseases come this way, but I can at least choose varieties that are full of flavour. These moments set the parameters for pleasure later in the year: it takes no more space or energy to grow the most delicious peas than it does the most mundane; it’s no trickier to grow the most flavoursome tomatoes than the blandest.