Ted The Shed, Chapter 24 - Hotbeds

Following the satisfaction of making an allotment bench, I am keen to enrol on another gardening related course - The Ancient Art of the Hotbed. I learn how to build one. It must be filled to the brim with fresh manure, of course, and this is where Mr Mandy Sutter comes in, though he does take a bit of persuading.

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Transcript

Hello there,

It's Mandy here again.

Welcome back to Ted the Shed,

My memoir about my dad's allotment.

Before I begin,

Please go right ahead and make yourself really comfortable.

Settle down into your chair or your bed,

Relax your hands,

Release your shoulders and soften your jaw.

That's great.

We've reached January 2018 and if you're sitting or lying comfortably then I shall begin.

Hot beds.

The joy of allotment related learning has inspired me.

As soon as the dust settles on the woodwork course,

I enrol on another local offering taking place at the end of January,

The ancient art of the hot bed.

We've had the allotment for seven years now and I could use a refreshment to my way of doing things.

We have got Christmas out of the way.

On the day,

Always difficult for dad,

He talked at some length about how much he loathes January and February.

Perhaps many elderly people feel this way but his words only made me realise how much I look forward to these cold but bracing months all through the darkling days of November and December and the thought of the hot bed course makes me look forward to them even more.

To clarify,

These are not the kind of hot beds you read about in the Daily Mail.

They are the sort that people have been constructing since the year 200 BC in pursuit of the gardener's holy grail,

The extension of the growing season.

With a hot bed you can start growing vegetables as soon as there is a decent amount of daylight around.

In other words,

In January and February instead of the more standard April and May.

The day of the course,

A perishing one,

Finally arrives.

The course is run by Jack First,

The UK's foremost hot bed expert who lives amazingly in that little town 10 miles from ours.

At his extensive allotments under his instruction,

Eight of us swaddled up in coats,

Gloves,

Scarves and hats make a hot bed.

We take a big slatted compost bin and stuff it with fresh manure.

Jack says that when we come to make our own hot beds we can use anything organic that's already part rotted.

I mentally earmark some ancient cotton underpants I saw drying in Dad's bathroom and some disreputable jeans that belonged to Mr MS.

We put a cold frame on top and fill it with compost.

Then we plant seeds.

These seeds apparently will go off like bilio,

Turbocharged with the steady warmth from the decomposing pants,

Trousers,

Manure etc.

In winter,

Slugs and snails are still a slumber in the soil so the produce,

Lettuce in February,

Spinach in March,

Carrots in April,

Won't be attacked by pests and will come out glossy and hyper real like in a TV gardening programme.

And by the following winter the whole contents of the hot bed will have turned to compost,

Ready to be used as the growing medium in next year's hot bed.

It is a thing of beauty.

Jack leads us through a series of polytunnels which he has effectively turned into hot bed houses.

Frost abounds outside but inside it is so warm that we all take off our woolly hats and gloves.

We drink our coffee and witness tomato and lettuce seedlings coming through.

You can almost see them growing.

I am completely sold on the idea and buy Jack's book.

The only difficulty will be procuring sufficient quantities of manure,

Heavy stuff to lug around.

I realise I will need to start grooming Mr Mandy Sutter,

Who has shown prowess in the manure department once before,

Immediately.

We could go to the allotment tomorrow,

I say as I walk through the front door.

How nice that would be to get out into the fresh air after being cooped up in the house all winter.

He looks up from the joyless philosophy tome he forced me to buy him for Christmas.

Cooped up is good,

He says.

Fresh air is overrated.

Is that what Schopenhauer says,

I ask.

Then I deliver the killer blow.

I think we've still got some plums in the freezer.

I could make that lovely plum hazelnut and chocolate cake.

We could have it with our flask.

His expression changes.

Oh well,

If you put it like that,

He says.

The following morning,

Once he is welled up,

It is child's play to lever him into the camper van.

Inside he smells a rat.

What are those carrier bags for and that spade?

It's good to be prepared,

I say.

That's surely the kind of statement Schopenhauer makes,

Or would do,

If he had any sense.

Prepared for what,

Asks Mr.

MS.

I let the question hang.

The doors are locked and we are already caning it down the A65 towards the local stables.

At the stables we stare at sky-high piles,

Some steaming,

Some glittering with frost.

What the,

Says Mr.

MS.

I talk of the steaming pile he'll see in April,

Of new potatoes slathered in butter.

I say that although Dad's status as a grower is diminishing,

His status as an eater remains strong and he'll love the runner beans that will climb down the sides of the bed after the early crops finish.

Mr.

MS.

Looks at me.

Manipulation,

Shaming and emotional blackmail are my middle name,

He knows.

But it's his kindness that makes him go along with me.

He picks up a carrier bag.

I hand him a spade.

Get shovelling that poo,

I murmur.

He laughs.

He loves it when I talk dirty.

Late winter is here.

The hotbed is set up and I'm excited to see radish seedlings already coming up in it,

Just as Jack said they would.

On the rest of the plot,

The winter crops planted last year are still going.

We have perennial kale,

Which produces nearly all year round.

A blessing,

Of course,

But as noted elsewhere,

It's amazing how familiarity breeds contempt.

And also,

Swedes,

Which I've grown for the first time this winter and which are doing a bit too well for my liking.

The difficulty is getting anyone to eat either of these noble and health giving vegetables.

This problem has got worse as the years have gone by.

The novelty of homegrown veg having now worn off completely.

Everyone has retreated back into their comfort zone.

When it's Mr MS's turn to cook,

He goes to Tesco's for his veg,

Just as he used to in pre-allotment days.

I find a shrink-wrapped head of broccoli on the kitchen counter alongside an extortionately priced four-pack of baking potatoes.

Why buy broccoli when there's all that kale to eat,

I want to know when he comes back in.

And we've still got potatoes left in the garage,

Plus there's all that swede.

We need to start making inroads on it soon.

My frustration,

Naturally,

Is sharpened by fierce envy.

If only I could go to Tesco's to buy broccoli.

And Mr MS,

Having hoped for some brownie points for making the tea,

Looks dismayed.

He shuffles the innocent potatoes into the fridge.

The ones in the garage take too long to peel,

He says.

They're small and most of them are full of worms.

And where's all this kale and swede you keep talking about?

Where do you think they are?

On the allotment.

You mean I'd have to go down there and get them?

His face is a picture.

It's no good blaming the chill weather.

He was the same in summer.

Later that afternoon,

When I come back with the gigantic swede,

He's still not convinced.

But it's all covered in muck,

He exclaims.

Then he says he's forgotten how to make swede mash,

Even though I've told him countless times.

Dad is no better.

When I lifted my admittedly poor rainbow carrots last autumn,

He stared at their purple,

White and yellow hues and said,

Don't expect me to eat those.

I like my carrots orange.

And he has never eaten a single root veg from the plot,

Apart from potatoes.

Isn't that the stuff they feed cattle?

He asks when I try to slip him a swede.

Anyway,

I'm on salads at the moment.

A likely story.

Who but a raw food zealot would be eating salads in February?

I leave it a week,

Then present him with another one,

So much smaller that it is almost cute.

He eyes the knobbly form.

The thing is,

Love,

He says,

I've adopted a new regime.

I breakfast like a king,

Lunch like a lord and dine like a pauper.

Swede doesn't really fit in.

A cry escapes me.

Such is my despair that for once I'm letting my real feelings show.

He relents.

Oh,

All right,

I'll give it a go.

I suppose I could try a stew tomorrow.

Over the next week,

I make polite inquiries every time I ring,

But dad refuses to be drawn on the subject of either the stew or the swede.

It's in the fridge,

Is all he will say.

I chip bits off it now and then.

This approach may have its merits,

But it won't make much impact on the 20 fat Swedes lolling around down at the plot.

Needless to say,

Both dad and Mr.

M.

S.

Enjoy swede and even kale when it has been picked,

Cleaned,

Chopped and incorporated into a delicious casserole by someone else,

Especially if gravy and dumplings are involved.

Or cream,

Which isn't my dream of allotmenteering.

Not only do I have to grow the blinking vegetables,

I have to cook them too.

Hoping for romance,

I once asked Mr.

M.

S.

What he liked best about me.

Your stews,

He said.

Another dream shattered.

Thank goodness for dog M.

S.

,

A quick learner when it comes to food.

When offered grapes on a stalk,

She quickly learned how to pull them off one by one,

Rather gently with her teeth.

Later,

She discovered how to mount the settee and take the whole bunch out of the fruit bowl.

But that's another story.

With blackberries,

She watched me pick them a few times,

Then was out in the garden picking them herself.

I take her down to the plot secure in the knowledge that vegetables don't have to be cooked for her to enjoy them.

They don't have to be cleaned.

They don't even have to be dug up.

She plonks herself down in the middle of my root veg bed,

Digs up a swede and wedges it between her front paws.

Then she begins grating it with her four teeth.

The sound strikes me as charming.

Interesting to reflect that if Dad or Mr.

M.

S.

Were reproducing that sound at the dinner table,

I would find it infuriating.

Happily,

Dog's teeth aren't designed for swede,

And this relaxing sound goes on and on,

Making for a companionable hour together.

What a delight,

And I can't help feeling proud.

One always hopes that one's child substitute will inherit one's own values.

To be continued.

Reviews

There were many funny moments in this! So enjoyable.
He loves it when I talk dirty to him! 😆

Great job on the hotbed Mandy (and Mr. M. S.. of course!)

Hotbeds: nothing like getting into hot water! You probably knew it would be you, Mandy, who would be putting in all the time and energy into the garden patch after the first couple of years. And it sounds like you still enjoy it - good thing. Thanks for the continuing bedtime entertainment. 📖🙏🏻😊❤️

I look forward to every chapter, Mandy! Thank you for sharing this lovely story.

I am loving the story your gift of descriptions and insights to people and animals is amazing. You definitely chose the right career as so many get the enjoyment of your stories. I love laughing out loud 💝Thankful for finding you. Sending blessings your way.

Mandy, your witty sense of humor is contagious, lol. Mr MS, Dad, I listened three times and will listen again! Plus, we don’t deserve dogs ❤️ Thank you, Mandy 🙏 ❤️

Lovely—and hilarious! Thanks again for sharing these vignettes❤️🙏🏼