“There are different varieties of potato to suit every twist and turn of preference”
I have an unwavering birthday ritual, which is to take a fork to the first early potatoes, gingerly lever up the end of the row and then delve into the soil with my hands for the first pebbly, surprisingly smooth, new crops.
On some birthdays I can hold the harvest of conker-sized spuds in one hand, while on others they are like an overblown maincrop, several weeks past the perfect egg-size. Regardless of this, they get taken indoors, cooked immediately and relished as if asparagus or the first peas.
And they should be considered in this light: a treat that, by definition, cannot be replicated out of season without betraying the whole ethos of such treats. This is right at the core of the pleasure of growing your own. It is the
