(Here’s a hint: you don’t want it. Nobody wants it.)
(Last year’s – this year’s isn’t half as good; too damp. And that’s a clue, I guess…)
You’ve probably got it by now. Well, not literally I hope – yup, that’s right; I’ve got blight. (And I can even rhyme in the face of disaster…)
Well, not me, as such: my spuds. Of course.
Every year I expect it. Sometimes it happens; sometimes it doesn’t; I grow earlies to even up the odds a bit. I have been accused of being neurotic about it, and expecting it to happen. Personally I think it’s some deep-seated ancestral race-memory, transmitted down the generations. But this year I was right.
It came on really fast. No doubt at all about what was that was making the leaves go spotty and yellow – no, not magnesium deficiency – because I wasn’t quite fast enough myself cutting back the haulms and it hit the tubers. There’s nothing for it; I shall have to emulate my ancestors and take ship from the green and soggy west for the new world (mind you, that was Liverpool, in their case). Or go to Tesco.
I did try and kid myself for a day or so; the volunteer spuds that magically appeared in last year’s potato plot were fine. And then I remembered – they were a Sarpo variety, on test. Guess what I’ll be growing next year?
The ones that are OK are never going to keep, and everyone I know is eating spuds like mad. From the ones I’ve kept myself, I’ve made soup – several kinds – and frozen it, had potato pie, sauté potatoes, chips, roasties and rostis, mashed a few, and experimented with different salads. And I’ve got another patch to dig, too. Heaven only knows what’s going on underneath the ground there; I daren’t look.
So much promise. Bum.
These, I think, are the Juliettes. They’re the ones that have been wiped out. You have been warned.