by Alan Watkins

Why is it tomatoes insist on ripening all at the same time?

I ask this question because I have six plants – three in the greenhouse producing massive (and surprisingly tasty) fare –and three in hanging baskets producing literally thousands of marble-sized oh-so-succulent cherry tomatoes.

One evening they are green, attracting suicidal snails who never get beyond the tempting blue bail lying at the foot of the pots.

The next morning they are orange and by close of play are red, ripe and ready for the table. After looking at the monsters for several days, my wife started to use them.

We have eaten them raw, on cheese (raw and grilled), plain, salted and peppered, in salads, and baked with assorted fillings. Mince meat was fine, but I was a little surprised by the kangaroo and shark’s fin.

I have eaten them on their own instead of the more customary fruit such as an apple (which reminds me, weren’t the Discoverys a disappointment this year!)

Grimly biting into the 55th (all right, it may have been the 54th) greenhouse tomato of the summer – all eight ounces of it – but grinning to assure Sylv the toms were especially good this year, she looked at me and said: “I don’t like tomatoes that much.”

Several days later more tomatoes have ripened on the vines, the plants are trying to throw out more suckers to encourage yet more of the blessed brutes, and I decided to offer some to my colleagues.

I finally got one to say she would welcome some.

In my book (published by CW&J Codgers Ltd) that’s carte blanche to offer ‘em an ounce, and get rid of half a stone of sweet, fresh-scented, home grown fruit.

The trouble was, when I got home armed with a sturdy basket in which to place them, I discovered Herself had had similar thoughts.

The fiery sunset that had been the greenhouse for the past month was now a winter ocean green. It was stripped of ripening fruit.

She had picked them for my son and his family, leaving one split-sided brute that I wouldn’t offer one of the resident Spanish slugs before they encountered a salt bath.

The way things are now looking, I’ll have to pop round to the supermarket on the way into work on Monday to ensure there is no disappointed voice on the news desk when I arrive.

The word 'ignorant' is often missued. How many times have you been called ignorant because you didn't answer someone or because you didn't reply to their text message? I'm constantly being called ignorant for that reason, but then, I am constantly ignoring people. People irk me, they ask stupid, pointless questions and say things that don't need to be said, on top of that, many people still insist on taking pictures of their food and posting it onto Facebook. What are you doing? Yes, you have a plate with food on it, congratulations! Now, if someone from the third world did this, maybe I'd be more impressed. 

Anyway I digress, the definition of 'ignorant' is as follows

Define: Ignorant: 

1. Lacking knowledge or awareness in general; uneducated or unsophisticated.
2. Lacking knowledge, information, or awareness about something in particular: "ignorant of astronomy".

Food glorious food. I’m surprised I haven’t dedicated a blog to this before now.

As the girl whose idea of dieting is salad followed by a mid-afternoon maxi-banana split and who once ordered Chinese at 1am ‘just because’, it’s clear to see that I am victim to an ongoing (and often  excessive) passion for food.

I jest not. According to my family, my first words as a baby were ‘more-bread-and-butter’, which admittedly were in reality perhaps pronounced more like ‘morebednbutter, although I’m sure it was clear to everyone involved as I bashed on my high chair and shook my baby-fat fists that I was not referring to a quiet lie down.

You would think I’d grow out of this kind of behaviour as time goes on. Oh no. Before friends’ birthday parties from my childhood right through to my teens, I would always be subjected to the motherly (and in retrospect necessary) ‘don’t over-eat’ speech, but I’ve always remained powerless to resist the delights of a running buffet.

Even now, the phrase ‘all-you-can-eat’ summarises my ideal date, although possibly not a first date if I ever wanted to see him again...

Anyway, as a result of my bottomless stomach, poor Mumma Dove has been continually forced to endure countless impressed (possibly to the point of mildly disgusted) remarks from a selection of stunned parents. ‘Doesn’t your daughter eat well?’ ‘Ella really does like her food doesn’t she?’ ‘She was the last one left sitting at the table- even the arrival of Choo-Choo the Clown wouldn’t prise her away from those pork pies!’

So as you can imagine, the prospect of a year in France; home of the gourmet, could only prove a recipe (clever...) for disaster. Firstly, school dinners. Forget turkey twizzlers, the French do it properly.

With a hugely-subsidised four course meal every day for just 3 euros a time, it’s a wonder every school child isn’t obese! I sampled stuffed avocado, fresh king prawns and many exotic-looking salads for starter and elaborate main courses such as rabbit (which I happily tucked into much to the teachers’ amazement).

Desserts included homemade pastries, fluffy coffee mousse and triple chocolate gateau, followed of course by a variety of cheeses and (always black) coffee. Amazing.

In fact, the cheese there was so good that I forced myself to give it up for Lent, if nothing else to stop a well-established ‘camembert-a-week’ regime and attempt to shift my steadily-growing fromage baby.

I also gave up chocolate, which turned out to be okay due to the discovery of, wait for it...speculoos. Now, you’re probably wondering what this word means. No, it isn’t French for ‘slightly broken glasses’ or ‘optician needed’. Speculoos is basically Nutella, except, and here’s the beautiful thing for all you Lent giver-uppers, it isn’t chocolate. It actually tastes like crushed biscuits, and is a wonderful accompaniment to just about everything. Crepes, strawberries, porridge, even toast (apparently!). So if ever you find yourself on a Dover-Calais booze-cruise, do grab a jar of speculoos from the nearest hypermarket, I implore you. Honestly, you won’t look back.

I’d like to apologise now if I’ve made you hungry. Sitting with a bowl of carrot and coriander soup and a couple of crackers whilst a Lindt teddy looks on from my fruit bowl (where he was strategically placed amongst the oranges and apples to invoke a sense of guilt), I’m definitely torturing myself here.

Despite many previous complaints about UHT longlife milk and a serious lack of salt and vinegar crisps, France really doesn’t (often) disappoint with its nourriture (yes, that does mean food). With so many rich flavours and choices, even Café Rouge in Canterbury can’t compare. England, eat your heart out.