Talc, first roses, ant poo, and rhubarb ketchup
Abundance: Friday 11 April 2025
The old man told me it was talc, but ants don’t sweat1. And if they did, I can’t imagine the circumstances whereby a subsequent dowsing in boiling water would improve their personal hygiene programme.
I’ve always liked ants. The idea that a miniature world - a hidden city - lay beneath my feet, the scurrying scouts and their bits of detritus the only indication, was straight out of the comics I read.
The other day, my wife and I cleared two beds. This is how we garden: largely spontaneous upheavals, coupled with sporadic, fully enjoyed maintenance. Life is too short to give yourself a hard time for what you don’t get done, and when there are always things that fall out the side of the rolled up carpet of life, what’s the point in choosing to piss yourself off. I like how this garden bobs along, imperfect and loved.
The garden is full of ants. It is also fuller than ever of primroses. They’re popping up where they never were; under things, next to this, adjacent to that. They’re very welcome - beckoning on this (so far) beautiful, dream-like spring. I’ve only just discovered that the'Primula' part of their name comes from the Latin ‘prima rosa’: first rose. Perfect.
Of the large number of primroses in those beds, many are skirted around, others potted for rehoming, one or two find their way, via a divers arc, into the green bin.
I notice the roots smell of something familiar. It takes me a moment, eyes closed but I get there: leather, specifically a new handbag of excellent quality. My wife - not unreasonably - asks how I know the smell of a handbag of excellent quality…
You often pay more attention to things you have dug up, as they aren’t several feet below your eye line. The primrose flowers are the same and yet not. I look, I read, and it becomes apparent that these lovely things are in two slightly different forms - ‘pin’ and ‘thrum’. Each plant has flowers of only one kind.
A 'pin' primrose has a long, pin-like female stigma at the centre of each flower, with the male stamens somewhat hidden further down; the flowers of a'thrum' plant have a short, less visible stigma and longer, more obvious stamens.
Each is as common as the other, which is lucky as each kind cannot pollinate itself. I imagine that sidestepping self-pollination keeps the primrose gene pool diverse and resilient.
Early season winged pollinators transfer pollen from the long parts of one kind to the long parts of the other, while smaller flies and beetles transfer pollen between shorter stamens and shorter stigmas; giving the primroses two shots at getting pollinated.
I confess that I’m only up for so much research, but what I discover before my tiny mind is full is that the reason primroses are popping up all over is the all but invisible movement of my pals, the ants.
Primrose seeds have a protein-rich lump on their surface known as an elaiosome2. It is thought that its scent is similar to a dead ant, which might prove quite a draw as many ant species return their dead to the nest.
Attracted by this delight, ants pick up the seeds and transport them to their nest for their larvae to consume the elaiosomes; the rest of the seed, left discarded outside the nest in its waste pile - a rich cocktail of ant poo, dead ants and larvae - where the seed germinates, takes hold and voila. A new primrose plant develops. In a way, where primroses appear is a kind of ant zoopla.
I confess to not really using primroses in recipes often, but my wife - a medical herbalist - is making a gut-friendly, fermented soda. At some point in the coming days, when it reaches peak fizz/funk, I will have a glass pressed into my hand. I will report back.
In the meantime, I’m plucking fat shoehorns of rhubarb from the earliest variety and making this lively rhubarb ketchup. I hope you like it.