Cucumbers and chickenpox

The highs and lows of farm life. Sorry about the break; life has been doing its thing.

‘Bloody hell, it’s boiling in here.’

‘Sorry, I can’t concentrate on what you’re saying. I need to take my jumper off.’

‘Blimey.’ Fans self with hand dramatically. ‘I’m sweating like mad.’

These are just a few of the choice phrases I have uttered over the past couple of weeks, each time I have entered our greenhouse. I think they confirm two things: 1. Regulating one’s body temperature becomes a key concern in pregnancy, especially when one is feeling so spectacularly pregnant, like running-out-of-clothes-that-fit pregnant, and there are still two months to go. 2. The fact that I am perpetually surprised by the greenhouse being hot suggests that I have not properly internalised the purpose of a greenhouse. This may be something I need to address.

Anyway, the greenhouse has worked its magic, and last night my son ran into the kitchen holding a cucumber in front of him as though he had been tasked with carrying the Olympic torch. Our very first harvest. I asked him whether he was planning to eat some with us at dinner but, being three and anti-green things unless they are disguised under a layer of pesto, he refused with a look of disgust, as if to say, ‘Look, I support this vegetable farm and everything, but you’re mad if you expect me to actually eat the vegetables. I’m not a masochist.’ The grown-ups in the family did eat the cucumber though and, I promise I’m not just saying this, it was truly the best cucumber I have ever eaten. The satisfying crunch, the much-needed hydration, the smell that was so cucumber-y it was almost artificial. My dad always tells me that food tastes better when it’s prepared with love. Well, this cucumber was grown with love by all three of us (and my mum, who planted the seedlings) and it showed.

The crème de la crème of cucumbers

I should probably mention that during this exchange, my son was scratching his arms, not frantically, but in a leisurely sort of way. That is because he has contracted chickenpox, apparently for the second time, although I didn’t think that was possible. At the dinner table, he announced proudly, ‘J’ai une boite de poule.’ For a few seconds we had no idea what he was on about, then it became clear. ‘I have a chicken box.’ I keep saying that I need to write down all this fabulous franglais for posterity, so let’s record this one here. It’s one of my favourite things he’s ever said, along with, ‘C’est me!’ and, ‘On play au foot-ballon?’ Parental love is amazing because even covered with red spots, I still think he’s the cutest boy in the world.

So, we have cucumbers, and a chicken box, and the start of a heatwave (but just a mild one, only 35 degrees), interspersed with storms that bring relief and soften the ground for more planting. My boyfriend has adapted quickly to the wild farmer style: a moustache, a muddy face, and one ancient kneepad to make the kneeling easier. And the vegetables are on their way. Our next question is: where will we sell them? And, if we end up with a glut, how many cucumbers can one family (let’s be honest, one couple, because the toddler won’t touch them) realistically eat? I’m here for any cucumber recipes that you might wish to share.