This series of stories will be titled ‘I’m surprised I turned out as well as I did, given my childhood…’ 12

Both my grandads enjoyed working the soil. They were both excellent gardeners.

My mother’s father had a large garden he used entirely for growing foodstuffs.

I remember the rows of beans taller than me (twice as tall), row upon row of potatoes, carrots, peas, cabbages, onions. AND he had an allotment.

I’m not sure other countries have allotments so I’ll try to explain.

An allotment is a plot of land, usually divided into smaller plots and rented out to individuals for growing food and flowers (sometimes for competition). It’s an extension of a private garden and sometimes called a communal garden.

My grandfather had two such plots (I believe) and I remember him walking down the street with the stalks of onions poking out of his pockets. His pockets would be filled with vegetables because he simply couldn’t carry everything in the bags he had.

I don’t think I was ever taken with him to his allotments, probably because I used to steal the peas from the plants at his home and he didn’t want to risk everything he had there.

More likely was the fact that grandfather was a little older than my other one, he had less energy and less patience. I remember him as being grumpy… maybe that was a reaction to me, I don’t know, I was always in trouble…

As I said, I used to pick peas straight from the plants on the garden and if I was caught, my grandmother would yell at me to stop it. I still can’t resist the delicious, sweet flavour of freshly picked peas straight from the pod!

I’d help my grandmother string the beans. She’d work so much faster than me, though. Cut one end off, pull the strip down the length of the bean pod and cut off the other end.

She would pick beans from the very delicate, thin pods, right the way through the season until great heft kidney beans were the result.

Yeah… not such a fan of beans, I’m afraid and she’d always shout at me for leaving them on my plate.

Don’t give them to me if you know I don’t like them!

My mother told me that when my grandfather (her dad) and the family moved in to their house, the soil was nothing but heavy clay. He started a fire and began to work in all the ashes from the fire. It took a good few years, but the results were the yields of vegetables I remember.

Then there was the ’oss muck’.

Even when I was born and was growing up, there were still vehicles that used pure, basic horse power (usually one) and when the coal man or the rag and bone man came round with their carts, if the horse left a ‘deposit’ on the road, it was scooped up in a bucket saved for that purpose and taken to the garden for use in the compost.

Both grandads did that – one for the vegetables and the other for the roses.

There’s a joke my father’s father used to tell me.

“What are you collecting those horse-droppings for? said the lady.

“It’s for putting on my rhubarb, missus,” said the scruffy-looking guy.

“Oh, we put custard on ours…”

Both grandads had rhubarb and we’d be given a little twist of greaseproof paper with sugar in it, a stick of rhubarb and we’d dip the rhubarb in the sugar and eat it. The satisfying crunch, followed by a burst of tart flavour, combined with the sweetness of the sugar is a treasured memory.

Oh and mint! Freshly-made mint sauce is a delight on fresh, home-grown potatoes!

Both from my garden.

To make mint sauce, take a few leaves from the tops of the plant, wash the leaves and then chop as finely as possible, with a generous sprinkle of sugar. The sugar sweetens the mint and helps to mash the leaves as you chop.

Put everything from the chopping board into a small dish and cover with vinegar. Leave to steep for a couple of hours before putting on your dinner. Yum!

My mother’s father was also an expert at crochet. You’d never think it of him, his hands were large and calloused but he made the most delicate doilies from thread not much thicker than cotton.

I don’t have any pictures, I’m afraid, but I’ll try to find one on Google.

My daughter does this kind of thing now. She’s recently taken up tatting.

My mother’s parents were married in the 1920s – they eloped to get married. They had a hard life, Grandad was a miner and he’d tell me about the times when they were on 3-day weeks and had to scrimp and scrape to get by. They had 5 kids, so I can well-believe it. There’s no wonder he took up gardening to subsidise their food.

My grandmother baked bread and cooked just about everything remotely meat-like in order to get by. You couldn’t afford to be picky in those days. Anything with any calorific value was treasured and utilised.

Tripe, bread and dripping – things I’m thankful we didn’t have to eat and I’m delighted I was able to do better for my children!

Dear lord what were they doing when they found out this could be eaten?

Bread and dripping, with a bit of salt sprinkled on top – I’m surprised they lasted so long with that kind of diet.

Dripping is, as the name suggests, the drips of fat from cooked meat. Collected, cooled and solidified and spread on bread – like lard with crunchy bits in it.

No thank you very much, I couldn’t…

Images mostly from Google