You know that whole thing about the best-laid plans? Yes. That.

This weekend, I meant to plant potatoes. Now, I realise they’re quite late, and that is entirely because… *scrabbles about mentally to think of justification* I am a bit crap at timing. That wasn’t such a great justification, was it? But it’s true, nonetheless. Oh, and I’m pregnant. Yes. That.
So, anyway, I have successfully chitted my taters (for ‘successfully chitted’, read ‘left in small cardboard box in damp cupboard under stairs, and completely forgot about’), and they now have lots of horrendously ugly and really quite disturbing lovely green shoots sticking out and waving attractively in the breeze (did I mention our lack of double-glazing?).* My plan was to get hold of rather a lot of old car tyres, insert a mixture of compost (which I smugly prepared earlier), manure and soil, plant the buggers, and retreat. Sadly, step the first was thwarted by the discovery that the Jerusalem artichokes we planted last year were on the verge of sprouting anew. This is no joking matter. We planted two rows of tubers last year, about, say, six a piece, and consequently we now have approximately fourteen metric tonnes of the blighters. Seriously. We dug them all up in a bid to regain at least the illusion of control, and the haul filled our not-inconsiderable wheelbarrow to the brim. This, despite having eaten them fairly regularly across the winter, pausing only to cast aside the odd bag to friends, relatives, and those too slow to escape unharmed.

So, the Jerusalems are now sorted, or as sorted as they are ever likely to be – three new rows, chosen from the best tubers we harvested at the weekend, are sitting in the ground, quietly biding their time until they unleash themselves once more in typical pestilential fashion – but the potatoes remain sadly neglected. However, I have formulated Plan The Second: engage chickens in gardening warfare against dodgy patch of ground elder, then plant taters in nicely weed-free path. That is the plan, anyway. In fact, I fully expect the chickens to escape, pausing only to cast a disdainful look at the weeds as they leg it across the nearest field.

As an aside, last night we had stuffed aubergines with baked sweet potatoes for din-dins. By gum, it was pleasant. It went like this:

Stuffed Aubergines – not as duff as they may sound

2 large aubergines;
5 onions;
A handful of mushrooms;
A chunk of cheese, size determined by greed (ours was brick-like).

Stick oven on to about 200°c. Cut the aubergines in half, lengthways, and scoop out the innards, but don’t chuck ‘em. Sprinkle a spot of salt on the shells, and stick them somewhere unobtrusive so you don’t accidentally do something foolish (like, er, dropping them. Who would do that? Such idiocy). Then chop up the onions, aubergine innards, and musheroons, and fry them all up in a spot of olive oil. A good spronkle (rather like a sprinkle, but with more, er, gumption) of oregano goes rather nicely at this stage, as does a handful of pretty much any fresh herb. Let the mixture fry for a while, and then rootle out your shells. Rinse the salt off (if you’ve used it), dry the shells off a bit and then stick the filling mix in. You’ll probably have to pile it up a bit, but don’t let that worry you – the more, the merrier. Whack the lot in the oven for about half an hour, making sure that some of the cheese is on the top for a nicely grilled effect.

The baked sweet potatoes did nicely with a good burst in the microwave to kick them off, followed by about twenty minutes in the oven with the aubergines.

* For some reason, ever since I was a small child, I have found potato shoots utterly terrifying. There is just something about them, with their… shoots. And their green bits. And their oddly-shaped rooty bits. Rooty rooty shoots. *shudder*