From Bindweed to Baked Beans – A Day of Cultivation

This morning I rose early, donned my working clothes and set off for our new allotment in Radstock Road. We have acquired a plot on more level ground, conveniently situated closer to Françoise’s allotment. At my age, the prospect of not having to struggle uphill while carrying gardening equipment has a certain appeal. One learns to appreciate these small advantages.

I arrived at about 6.45 a.m., shortly after sunrise. I must say I love this time of day, with the birds singing and the world gradually coming to life. Unfortunately, the birds have to compete with the constant roar of traffic, which somehow seems even more noticeable in the early morning. I sometimes wonder whether the birds have simply given up trying to compete and are singing for their own amusement.

It is extraordinary what you discover when you start digging beneath the surface of an allotment. I unearthed quite a number of potatoes that had escaped the previous occupant’s attention, together with a truly impressive quantity of bindweed. The potatoes were a welcome surprise. The bindweed was not. I have encountered this particular enemy before and know perfectly well that it has no intention of departing simply because I ask it to.

My approach is therefore to give the ground a preliminary digging, allow the surviving weeds to reveal themselves and then have another go around April. I suspect the bindweed has already arranged its own spring programme and will be waiting for me. There is something almost admirable about its determination, although I would prefer it to demonstrate this quality in somebody else’s garden.

Having spent the early morning digging potatoes out of the ground, I was shortly to encounter them again, this time in a kitchen. It occurred to me that I was progressing through the food chain rather more quickly than usual. The only thing missing was a supermarket in between.

As part of my research for my forthcoming welcome book about the area in which I live, I had noticed an advertisement in Radstock Library for a cooking course aimed at older men. This appealed to me immediately. Not only was it precisely the sort of local activity I wanted to feature in the book, but I have also been conscious for some time that my cooking abilities could do with a little improvement.

I can prepare a few dishes quite competently, provided I have made them before and nothing unexpected happens. My difficulty is that I tend to regard recipes as helpful suggestions rather than instructions that should be followed to the letter. This approach works reasonably well with soup, where almost anything can be disguised by adding another ingredient. It is less successful with baking.

I was also attracted by the prospect of meeting other men of approximately my own vintage. There is something reassuring about being in a room where nobody expects you to understand the latest technology, where a discussion about the relative merits of different potatoes can be taken seriously, and where forgetting somebody’s name is unlikely to cause offence.

Having exchanged my gardening clothes for something more presentable, I set off for my second adventure of the day.

The topic of the small group was cooking lunch for and by older men. The proceedings began at 11.30 a.m. There were five men, including myself, and two capable and remarkably patient women whose task was to guide us through the mysteries of food preparation. Our menu consisted of jacket potatoes with homemade baked beans, followed by sticky toffee pudding. I felt reasonably confident about the potatoes, having spent the morning getting acquainted with their relatives.

We were divided into groups and set about washing, chopping, weighing and mixing. I soon discovered that cooking in company requires rather more negotiation than cooking alone. One person is looking for a knife, another wants to know where the scales are, and somebody else has already moved the ingredient you were about to use. I contributed what I could, occasionally by asking questions and occasionally by keeping out of the way.

The two ladies maintained an admirable degree of patience. I suspect they had encountered most of our questions before, although perhaps not always in quite the same order. I was particularly interested in the sticky toffee pudding, a dish for which I have considerable enthusiasm as a consumer but rather less experience as a manufacturer. I have always believed that appreciation of good food is a useful qualification for learning to cook it.

However, it soon became apparent that the cooking was only part of the attraction. The conversation wandered cheerfully from one subject to another, with plenty of good-natured teasing. Ages were compared, ailments acknowledged, holidays discussed and jokes exchanged. At 82, I discovered that I was by no means the oldest person present, which was encouraging. There is nothing quite like meeting an 85-year-old to make one feel relatively youthful.

I was particularly struck by the easy atmosphere. Nobody was trying to impress anybody else. We were simply a group of older men enjoying an opportunity to do something practical together. There was no shortage of opinions, and certainly no shortage of conversation. Whether the same could always be said of our concentration on the recipes is another matter.

We eventually sat down to enjoy the results of our efforts. There is something satisfying about eating food that you have helped to prepare, even if your personal contribution has been confined to a relatively modest part of the operation. I was pleased to discover that the meal was perfectly edible, indeed very enjoyable, and that no emergency services had been required.

Looking back over the day, I realised that my two activities had more in common than I had first imagined. Both involved getting one’s hands dirty, learning through experience and accepting that the results might not always turn out exactly as planned. The difference was that in the morning I had been trying to get things out of the ground, whereas by lunchtime I was trying to get them onto a plate.

There was also a more serious thought behind all this. For older people, particularly those who live alone, an activity like this can offer something far more valuable than learning how to make a pudding. It provides a reason to leave the house, meet familiar faces, exchange a few jokes and feel part of a small community. I suspect that the two ladies understood this perfectly well.

As for myself, I went along partly as a researcher and partly as a prospective cook. I came away having enjoyed both roles, although I cannot claim that my culinary abilities have been transformed in a single morning.

Perhaps the old saying that too many cooks spoil the broth needs reconsidering. In this particular kitchen, the more cooks there were, the better the conversation became.

And if I decide to return, I shall regard it as evidence that I have passed the entrance examination. Whether that examination concerned my cooking or my ability to tolerate the jokes remains to be seen.