Season With Garlic and Time

Sometimes we seem to speak of the growing season as if it were like the football season: a defined term of set fixtures with a fixed start and end date. But plants’ life and death is not a matter of football: whilst we can comfortably generalise that plants stop growing once ground temperatures fail to score six celsius, each year is, like a snowflake, a person or a radicchio, unique. That said, I’m sure League games never used to start as early as this, the first weekends of August. But perhaps they did, and believing otherwise is just one of those signs of getting older, like thinking the police are getting younger, or that shop-bought tomatoes are tasting blander.

 
Of less irrelevance to a gardening column is the further point that one of the many stunning beauties of a diverse farm or garden is that, like Russian dolls, there are growing seasons within growing seasons, and beyond, like Ukrainian ones. Turn, turn, turn. At Hawkwood, it is summer: our twelve heritage varieties of tomatoes, which I swear blind are less bland than ever this year, are flooding out of the glasshouse; the french beans are in their pompe; and life is, at last, a peach. At the very same time, this week the air is smelling fairly autumnal, and the garlic’s long trail reached the winter stores.

 
In terms of land area, little garlic is our biggest vegetable this year, occupying the whole of the Old Kitchen Garden’s soul, or, to be precise, going twos-up on it with a spring undersowing of white clover and yellow trefoil. It’s a risky business this undersowing: timing is of the essence. Sow too early and the green manure will compete with, and therefore dwarf, the garlic; too late and it barely establishes, rendering the whole exercise somewhat pointless. Time it to perfection, and you’re a liar or a show-off. This year, nice, plump bulbs stood firm amongst exquisite drifts of flowering shamrocks, something the gardeners here kept drawing my attention to: in particular, how the latter made finding and harvesting the former a bloody nightmare. Romance might be on the ropes, then, in this corner of the garden, but in practical terms, the soil here now has a vital emerald carpet of protection going into the off-season. There’s a fulfilment in reaping the fruits of your labours, and not having to look back and contemplate the emptiness that follows.
Spread out all over the glasshouse for their final cure, the garlic looked and smelt glorious, but I was fearful we’d never manage to crowbar it all in to the cool safety of the Ambient House. This Thursday though, Aimee and I wedged the cloves in there tidily enough. Doing so turned out to be one of the great sensual gardening tasks: the reassuringly bone-dry, papery rub of the pale pungent skins a real contrast to the glossy, yielding ripeness that is August’s dominant meter: the gages, nectarines, damsons, courgettes, toms, peppers, raspberries, all looked slightly askance.

 
They’re still a rough, unready five o’clock shadow of the white garlic you see on stalls and shelves around the whole globe. The finishing touch before market is the topping, tailing, and stroking off the outer flakes of soiled epidermis, to call forth that lighter peel. This takes time rather than timing, and I’m sure on a big scale it’s mechanised in some way, but really, if you have to employ machines, for pity’s sake don’t give them all the best jobs. Garlic sorting becomes a warming, convivial indoor option on the rainy and blizzardy days to come.

 
Shedding skin: it’s not just for reptiles then. Buddhists speak of the “Onion Game”: the process of peeling away layer after layer of self: somewhere deep down is the egoless void, the Eternal Season. Geologists refer to “Onion Skin” weathering, the flaking off of the outer crusts of rocks. This is one of the first stages of the forming of soil, and with this the emergence of life herself, and the levelling of mountains into fertile plains. This too takes time, time that precious, slippery wisp of a thing which, however much the capitalists try to enclose and privatise every aspect of human and natural life, they seem unable to control and commodify the raw materials of.

 
Having just spent a timeful week’s break in France, I am touched again by their institution of “Appelation d’origin controlee”. This certification, covering Puy lentils, Nyons olives, Provencal lavender, Basque paprika and animal products as well as, most famously, wine, recognises specific time-honoured production processes as well as the associated origin of production. The origin is the terroir, which translates into English as both “region” and “soil”. In food terms, then, terroir refers to particular quality that the wedding of a particular soil, to a particular climate, to a particular cultivation method lend to the foods that arise from them. Terroir can’t be outsourced; trucked or flown in; continually expanded; or relocated to areas of cheaper labour. As such, it provides one alternative discourse to the homogenisation of the neoliberal market. A market whose peddlers in government are seeking to push into insane areas with the latest proposed trade agreement, the Transatlantic Trade and Investment Partnership (TTIP).

 
Savour the flavour of our garlic, from the legume-enriched Palaeogene marine mudstone clay of the Upper Lea Valley: 2014 is truly a vintage year. Resist the TTIP. Fight back against the War On Terroir.