In case you are wondering why on earth I am making homegrown garlic concoctions in January, there is method to my madness.
It all goes back to the unholy disaster last year was. I planted garlic. It didn’t do well. I left it too late to lift it, and was so annoyed, I ignored it hoping it might turn into a delightful something, maybe perfect bulbs… Funnily enough, it didn’t. What it did do was sprout.
I was rotavating in the walled garden today and my thoughts turned to the wretched garlic. Never one to waste things (my mother is to blame for that) I thought I should use it, rather than fire it on the compost.
So, I am undertaking two experiments.
- I am going to plant the best cloves in a nicely fertilised plot and see how they do. They have already sprouted and aliums hate being moved, but hey ho, they need to be separated.
- I have taken the smaller, usable cloves and turned them into lazy garlic. Rest assured, having dug them, sorted them, washed them, peeled and topped and tailed them, crushed them and jarred them, I am certain the lazy garlic is in fact not lazy at all. We’ll see how it keeps.
The injured cat is locked in the kitchen, and has eyes the size of saucers. He may be high on garlic fumes… I know I am.
Hens got cleaned today too, I got one bed ready for planting (complete with edging, and all thanks to Morag the Mantis) AND the new to me sit on mower arrived (name suggestions?)
Getting ready for season 3 seems to be the name of the game. Not sure I am ready for the hard graft yet…
You should have seen my face this morning when I discovered that the door to the shed where the hens currently reside had blown open overnight. Fortunately, no hen had had the guts to escape. Possibly because the wind howling through the doorway was too strong to walk against! My chores took twice as long thanks to the wind – it was a struggle to stay on my feet at times.
In less amusing news, the hens are starting to suffer from being housed for so long. I have lost two in two days, including my champion rooster, Rodney.
He did have it tough recently, protecting his ladies from his own son. The young pretender won. I have called him Boris. Having only buried Rodney yesterday, I was met this morning by the sight of Boris busily taking over where his father left off. He also has a far superior crow and comb. It’s a rooster eat rooster world out there.
This is Boris, a handsome beast and home bred! (For anyone wondering, he is not in my kitchen. That is an old stove, which lives in the outhouse and functions as a rather bulky shelf. I imagine the idea was that it would “come in useful” one day… The floor however, is not in a dissimilar state to my kitchen floor…”)
Also, #notmysheep, but they get kudos for getting in despite all the gates being closed, in their hunt for shelter last night.
RIP Rodney the Random Rooster.