An Edible Garden

Playgroup starts fifteen minutes before Dylan wakes up from his morning nap. We’re always a little late but this week is worse than usual. I take Dylan to Vassell’s Park in the morning and when he’s so tired he’s sleeping on his feet, I take him home for food and bed. An hour and a half later and it's time to leave. We have one foot out of the door when the phone rings: it’s my mother-in-law and she’s phoned us by mistake. I hang up and discover that Dylan has adopted his code brown emergency* pose. I change his nappy in the hall (without removing his trousers or shoes) and ask him to climb into his pushchair. Still half asleep, he refuses to leave the house, so I have to manoeuvre him outside. I close the door behind us, but not before Dylan’s managed to squeeze his fingers between the door and the frame. His wail is enough to let me know we’re going to be very late.

Dylan hasn’t slept through the night since I left work and it’s beginning to take its toll. He’s up most mornings around 5am because it’s too light or too hot or because the birds are too noisy; and we could probably cope with this if he wasn’t waking up through the night as well. We have a blue, floor-level nightlight on the landing, which shines through our bedroom door against the wall opposite our bed. A few nights ago, around 2am, I opened my eyes and in front of me was the shadow of an eight foot humanoid with a disproportionately large head. And it was moving. In the middle of the night, when I’m half asleep, this is not the sort of thing I want to have to deal with. Then Dylan says ‘Mummy?’

He's talking more and using new words every day. He's singing nursery rhymes. He has an idea of the alphabet and can count from one to ten in his own, unique style. He won't always chew his food but he does tidy up, sometimes on request and sometimes who knows why? And he's building good relationships with his family and friends. The speed at which he's growing up is incredible. But he's still testing boundaries and I guess he will be until he leaves home. He sticks his tongue out to announce forthcoming naughtiness and waits to see what we're going to do.

The sunny weather changes everything. It starts with the Harbourside Festival, where I’m part of Ant Noel’s Peabody Choir. Nearly everyone in the choir is a local singer-songwriter and this event has a wonderful sense of community and friendship. And Ant's such a great songwriter, it seems everyone knows the words to his songs. It’s my third year of singing at the festival and, as I vaguely recall explaining on BBC Radio Bristol afterwards, it’s also Dylan’s third year in the audience, even though he’s only two. This year, he’s amongst the first to dance, he joins me in the choir and he manages to persuade around twenty members of the audience to part with their helium balloons so he can set them free and wave as they disappear. There are times when he's the main attraction.

(Photo by Holly)

The garden has come alive. We don’t see the foxes anymore but a family of frogs have moved in to help us keep the snails at bay. Dylan’s sunflower has done its thing and everything else is growing with conviction. The tomatoes and potatoes look healthy; and we’ve eaten rocket and various other lettuce leaves, as well as cabbage and a single new potato (I forget the variety but there are more on their way), but the highlight must be the courgettes. Or rather the courgette flowers.

I mention the courgette flowers to my mum and she tells me they’re edible. A few days later, Holly’s dad arrives with a belated birthday present for me: Hugh Fearnley-Wittingstall’s fantastic River Cottage Veg, and the first page I turn to is a recipe for deep-fried courgette flowers stuffed with ricotta and herbs. I vary the recipe slightly; using mascarpone mixed with grated goat’s cheese and home grown chives and apple mint; but the end result is still delicious. My efforts are finally paying off. Thank you for the book, Vince & Jacqui.

When we eventually make it to playgroup, it's time to take the kids to Page Park. It’s me and an army of mothers pushing buggies along the high street. Dylan knows Page Park well, including the water feature, and he’s drenched from head to toe within minutes. He’s the only one—the other children are content to stay dry—but he’s having so much fun I haven’t the heart to stop him. Several minutes later, I look up and Ellie’s son, Lucas, is jumping up and down in a muddy puddle. I smile at Ellie and say ‘You have no idea how happy that makes me.’

A few days later I have a gig in town and there’s a four year old girl watching her father sing with one of the other acts. She’s quite rightly mesmerised by her dad’s performance. Her mum says she’s mostly lovely but occasionally she’s a “little madam”. I tell her I could say exactly the same thing about Dylan.

And, in sentiment at least, it would be true.

*Holly's words



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