The mystery of the missing pineapple...
You wouldn't think it was that easy to lose a large pineapple in a suburban-semi, but you'd be wrong. One minute I was holding it in my hand, ready to dice it into a lunch of fruity-loveliness, next minute it had vanished. I may be exaggerating slightly. It didn't quite evaporate before my very eyes - there was one wee part of the event which may have some bearing on the mystery. I was looking out the kitchen window at the time and noticed my Fatsia Japonica. The one I'd given up for dead at the end of winter, it was showing signs of life. Among the tattered leaves, brown and singed with frost bite, was a single green bud. And that green bud spelled hope. I had no choice but to race outside to examine it further, without, I may add, a care or thought for the aforementioned pineapple. When I came back inside it was gone.
It had either been the victim of some Hogwart-ian vanishing trick, or I'd taken it outside with me and left it among the undergrowth. I did go out and have a look. A thorough search I did too. I found my old gardening gloves (moss-green suede, machine washable), a pair of secateurs (old and rusty from some bygone age) and a cats' bowl with the words PUSS embossed in rustic print to make it look hand made. All in all quite a haul; but no pineapple. I felt a vague sense of guilt at the ease in which I discarded that pineapple. To the Victorians, they were highly prized, conspicuous displays of wealth and status. Teams of gardeners toiled for months to produce just one single fruit. They used hotbeds, heated with horse manure and straw, and later wealthy households used hot water pipes from boilers to provide the heat, each one costing a King's ransom. Each one costing more too than most working men could earn in a lifetime. Once cultivated, the pineapple would be displayed in the fruit bowl during each meal until it was rotten and crumbling. And here's me - throwing one away without a care in the world!
You may wonder why I feel the need to share this with you. After all, on the surface it's got nowt much to do with the gardening calendar. It's neither seasonal nor topical like a good blog should be. But I feel we've bonded these past weeks, and I needed to get it off my chest. You see gardening is like that. One minute it's a mild hobby, something you dabble in occasionally. Next, it's an obsession that has you throwing exotic fruits asunder without a care or thought for anything else.
I was going to talk about garden pests, Rod Stewart and wilted Christmas trees this week. But they'll all have to wait their turn. For instead I really felt I had to pay tribute to the 'Ananas comosus', (to give it its proper name). That wonderful exotic specimen that takes 24 months to fruit and is now readily plucked from the super-market shelves in the buy one get on free aisle.
Looking forward to speaking to you on The Beechgrove Potting Shed this Sunday at 1205, until then happy gardening...
Theresa
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