in the soil

A year in the soil inevitably could be listed as a year of setbacks, one by one as the seasons turn, a calendar made of

the month the frosty earth was too hard to dig

the month the blackfly came

the month of blight

or

the month it did not rain

and certainly if I look back at what I managed to cultivate and harvest I have to admit that it is rather less than I might have done, if I was better organised, if the weather had been different, if slugs and mice and pigeons were not so hungry. It is unfortunate that the rhythms of my work as a chef in a seaside town mean than I have been busiest when the earth is busiest, and that in my quiet months of winter there is very little practical work for me to do at the allotment; pruning, trimming, tidying away, finite tasks unlike the never-ending demands of summer gluts and green grass growing, nettle, dandelion, thistle, creeping buttercup, teasel, plantain and bindweed, all of which need dealing with in their particular way; I could go to the allotment now and take stock of all the things I have not done.

A better way to spend my time might be to evaluate my successes, to note that the rhubarb forcibly relocated up towards the hedge is doing well, that the wild garlic I planted out beneath the hazel tree has taken hold and even multiplied beneath the soil, that the roots are down there riotous; that despite the blackfly the spring-sown dwarf broad beans gave sweet little pods for salads and soups; that cucumbers and climbing beans do well together in each other’s space and shade, good harvests of each; that if I keep an eye out I can take enough nuts off the tree to make a splendid cake and still leave enough for the squirrels; that the allotment’s green chapel is as fine a place to spend an hour or two on a cold winter’s day, squinting into the lowering sun, as it is at the end of summer, picking berries between thorns.

in the kitchen

Somewhere towards the end of this summer I began to realise how long it had been since I had cooked anything new in the course of my restaurant work; new to me, that is – I don’t think I have ever cooked anything that could be called entirely new. The garnish on the mozzarella changes from broccoli to broad beans to melon to squash, asparagus and mushrooms and herbs and greens come in and out of season in Italy and in Britain, on and off the menu. I don’t think that this is a bad thing, a testament rather to the identity of the restaurant that it can be so secure in what it cooks and what it does not, always different, always the same; but it was a sign to me.

In my monthly workshops at Windmill Community Gardens, on the other hand, constrained as they are by what is available locally, by what is possible and pleasurable to do sitting together in the outdoors, each session brought something new – techniques I hadn’t tried before like macerating fruit for cheong, ideas like using a puree of nettle leaves in miso, challenges like a meat grinder breaking half-way through grinding pumpkin seeds. For these and other reasons this is my last week in the restaurant kitchen for the foreseeable future, probably not for ever; I do like cooking, if not necessarily for 16 hours straight. It’s hard of course to finish anything but I’ve been encouraged by new projects and opportunities coming my way even before I had told anyone my changing circumstances – more to come I hope in the new year. I look forward to cooking with different people, leading workshops, working on my photography, and writing much much more. Get in touch if you’d like to do any of these things together!

on the page

For the last few years I have kept a month-by-month list of all the books I read. Originally intended as a simple record (I read a lot and tend to give paperbacks to charity when I have finished them so I don’t always remember everything I read) this perhaps inevitably (Aries sun and moon, you know) became a mild competition I have with myself, comparing yearly stats, staying up late on the 31^st to get one last book in for the month; I don’t like this tendency in myself! Volume is an idiotic way to think about reading. Anyway this year I see I have dipped to an all-time low (unless I read 18 books in the next couple of weeks) although I think that is partly because I have read more interesting books, and savoured them. Here in only chronological order is a list of my favourite books I read this year:

The Unreliable Nature Writer, Claire Carroll

I Gave You Eyes and You Looked Towards Darkness, Irene Solà

The Goose of Hermogenes, Ithell Colquhoun

The Accidental Garden, Richard Mabey

Pariah Genius, Iain Sinclair

Fascist Yoga, Stewart Home

House of Day, House of Night, Olga Tocarkzuk

The Tower, Thea Lenarduzzi

The Silver Book, Olivia Laing

The Future of Truth, Werner Herzog

leaf / notes is taking a break now until the second week of January – I’ll see how much reading I can get done before then, and whether the broad beans survive the cold.