The Secret Glamour of the Pumpkin Patch

 I'll be honest with you. For about thirty years of growing pumpkins, squashes and courgettes, I treated the flowers the way most blokes treat the instructions leaflet in a flat-pack wardrobe — I knew they were there, I walked past them constantly, and I never once stopped to actually look properly.

Then last week Fern came up to the allotment with her phone out, crouched down in front of a pumpkin flower for a good five minutes, and said, "Dad, this is honestly gorgeous, why have you never shown me this before?"

And do you know what? She had a point. I'd been so busy watching for the pumpkin itself, or worrying whether the courgettes were about to stage another one of their overnight growth spurts, that I'd completely missed the fact that I'm growing some of the showiest flowers on the entire plot. Bold, trumpet-shaped, orange as a Lincolnshire sunset, and about the size of my hand. I've been ignoring a free flower show for three decades. My dad would have had something dry to say about that, I'm sure.

A Flower I've Been Walking Past for Thirty Years

So there I was, crouched down next to Fern, both of us peering into this enormous orange bloom like a pair of nosy neighbours, when Sam wandered over wiping his hands on his overalls.

"What are you two doing?"

"Looking at a flower."

"Right." Long pause. "Is this a midlife crisis thing, Dad?"

Cheeky beggar. But I'll tell you what — once you actually stop and look, it changes how you see the whole squash patch. It stops being a slightly unruly jungle of prickly leaves that scratches your arms every time you go near it, and starts looking more like something you'd genuinely want to photograph. Iris got involved too, once she realised there was a phone out and a chance to overrule my choice of camera angle, and between the three of them I ended up standing there for twenty minutes doing absolutely no gardening whatsoever, which is rare for me, believe me.

Sara, when she saw the photos later that evening, said something that stuck with me. "You grow such beautiful things and you never tell anyone." Which is probably fair. I'm generally more interested in whether something will feed us in January than whether it photographs nicely for Instagram. But this week, I've come round to her way of thinking a bit. There's room on an allotment for both.

The Secret Life of a Squash Flower

Right, here's the bit I never really explained to the kids properly until Fern asked, so I might as well explain it to you too, because it really is rather clever.

Pumpkins, squashes and courgettes all belong to the same big, sprawling family, and every single one of them produces two different types of flower on the same plant — a male flower and a female flower. It sounds like the setup to one of Sam's terrible jokes, but stay with me.

The male flowers turn up first, usually in good numbers, sitting proudly on long, slender stems held up above the leaves like they're announcing themselves to the world. Their whole job is to produce pollen and look attractive enough that a passing bee thinks it's worth the detour.

The female flowers arrive a little later, and you can tell them apart straight away if you know what you're looking for — there's a tiny swollen bump at the base of the flower, sitting just behind the petals. That little bump is, in fact, a baby pumpkin, courgette or squash in waiting. If a bee does its job and carries pollen across from a male flower, that swelling starts to grow, and a few weeks later you've got dinner. If it doesn't get pollinated, the flower simply shrivels and drops off, and you're left wondering where your courgette went.

It's a proper little piece of nature's theatre, playing out quietly in the flower bed every single morning through summer, and most of us are too busy weeding to notice it. The flowers only open for a day or so as well, usually first thing, which is exactly why nobody clocks them — by the time most people are up and about with a cup of tea, the show's already closing.

If you fancy a lovely bit of nature watching that costs nothing and needs no special equipment, get yourself up to the plot early on a warm morning and just watch the bees work the flowers for ten minutes. It's better than anything on the telly, and I say that as someone who genuinely enjoys the telly.

Growing Them Without a Fancy Prepared Bed

Now, I know some of the gardening magazines and the posh telly programmes make growing pumpkins and squashes look like it needs a specially dug bed, tons of well-rotted manure worked in months in advance, and possibly a degree in horticulture. It doesn't. I've never once had a "proper" prepared bed for mine, and we still end up wheelbarrowing pumpkins down off the plot every autumn.

Here's what actually works, on perfectly ordinary allotment soil:

Pick a sunny, sheltered spot. That's genuinely the main thing. They're greedy for sun and hate a cold wind whistling through, but they're not fussy about soil type otherwise.

Dig one decent hole, not a whole bed. Rather than turning over an entire bed, I just dig a hole about a spade's depth and width for each plant, and fill it with whatever compost, well-rotted manure or old growbag compost I've got kicking about. Think of it as building the plant its own little larder, rather than trying to improve the whole allotment at once. Much less back-breaking, and far more realistic for anyone without a tractor.

Mound it up slightly. A small raised mound over your filled hole helps with drainage and stops the base of the plant sitting in a puddle after rain, which they don't much like.

Water generously, especially early on. Once they're established, squash and pumpkin plants are fairly tough, but that first few weeks after planting, they want a proper drink regularly, not just a token splash.

Give them room, and then some. This is the one people underestimate. A pumpkin plant will happily wander three or four metres given the chance. If you're short on space, grow a bushier courgette variety instead, or let a pumpkin ramble along the edge of a path or up an old bit of fencing.

Feed once it starts flowering. A weekly liquid feed, even a homemade comfrey or nettle feed if you're that way inclined, makes a noticeable difference once the plant's putting its energy into fruit rather than leaves.

That's genuinely it. No special bed, no expensive kit, just one good hole, a sunny corner, and regular watering. It's about as forgiving a crop as you'll grow, which is exactly why I'd recommend it to anyone starting out, particularly if the idea of double-digging an entire bed sounds about as appealing as doing your tax return.

A Little Something for the Table

Because I can't write a post without at least one recipe, and because those male flowers are ten a penny and produce nothing on their own, it seems only right to actually eat a few of them rather than let them go to waste. My dad would never have let a courgette flower go begging, and neither do I.

Simon's Frugal Fried Courgette Flowers

Pick a handful of the male flowers — the ones on the long thin stems, with no baby courgette behind them — early in the morning while they're still open. Give them a gentle rinse and check inside for any uninvited insect lodgers. Mix a light batter from a few tablespoons of flour, a splash of cold water and a pinch of salt, just thick enough to coat the back of a spoon. Dip each flower in, then fry gently in a little oil for about a minute a side, until golden and crisp. Drain on kitchen roll and eat while hot, ideally standing at the cooker nicking them before anyone else gets there, which is, incidentally, exactly what Iris does every time.

It costs next to nothing, uses something you'd otherwise be composting, and tastes far posher than the five minutes of effort deserves. Proper frugal, allotment-to-plate cooking.

Right, Your Turn

So there you go — thirty years of growing squash and pumpkins, and it took my daughter with a phone camera to make me actually stop and appreciate what's been flowering under my nose the whole time. I reckon there's a lesson in there somewhere about slowing down, though I won't pretend I'm about to become a full-time flower photographer.

Have you ever really looked closely at your squash or pumpkin flowers, or, like me, have you spent years walking straight past them on your way to more pressing jobs? And has anyone else out there tried frying up the male flowers, or is that just an us thing?

Happy growing, everyone. See you on the plot.