Digging for Buried Treasure: Our Maincrop Potato Harvest

 There's a particular kind of daftness that comes over this family once the potato haulms start dying back, and it hit us right on cue this week. You'd think, after all these years, I'd have learned to read the signs calmly, pick a sensible day, maybe even check the weather forecast first. Instead, Sam took one look at the brown foliage on that good plot of ours, the one that's been carrying us through this whole drought business, and announced "right, that's them then." By half nine we were up there with forks, buckets and absolutely no plan whatsoever, as most daft ideas in this family do.

I'm not complaining, mind. There's not much in gardening that beats the first fork-full of a potato bed turning over to reveal a nest of spuds sat there like they've been waiting for you. Sixty years old and I still get a little thrill out of it every single time. Some things never wear off.

Reading the Signs (Or, How We Knew It Was Time)

Now, I'll be honest, after the drama of the other plot this summer, I was half expecting these to have thrown in the towel too. But no, this lot had done exactly what maincrop potatoes are supposed to do: grown steadily all summer, then started dying back naturally from the top once the tubers underneath were properly bulked up and ready.

Here's my hard-won tip on that, and it's saved me a good few disappointing harvests over the years: don't lift on a whim just because you fancy chips for tea. Wait until the haulms have died back on their own, gone yellow and collapsed rather than green and standing, and then leave them a further two weeks before you even pick up a fork. That fortnight does something proper useful. It lets the skins toughen up underground, which matters enormously if you want your potatoes to store rather than turn to mush in the sack by November. Rush it and you'll get lovely potatoes that won't keep past a fortnight. Wait, and you'll be eating your own spuds at Christmas.

We did a test dig first too, just the one plant at the end of a row, more out of impatience than method if I'm honest, but it confirmed what we needed to know. Good size, skins that didn't rub off with a thumb, and not a slug in sight. Green light given.

Sam, the Fork and a Few Casualties

There is, I'll admit, no elegant way to dig potatoes. It's a job that turns even a fairly dignified sixty-year-old into someone grubbing about in the dirt like a dog after a bone, and Sam's no better despite being half my age and considerably more limber.

We lost a few to the fork, as you always do, no matter how careful you think you're being. Sam speared one clean through with what I can only describe as more enthusiasm than technique, held it up like he'd found the crown jewels, and declared it "still perfectly good, just needs eating today." He wasn't wrong, but I did remind him, not for the first time, that going in from a good six inches out from the base of the plant rather than stabbing straight down the middle saves an awful lot of casualties. He nodded in the way sons do when they're not really listening. We'll have this same conversation again next year, I've no doubt.

The trick that actually works, and I mean properly works, is to loosen the whole clump from underneath with the fork tines angled well away from the row, then lift and let the soil fall away rather than trying to spear individual potatoes out one at a time. Slower, yes, but you end up with a bucket of whole spuds instead of a bucket of very expensive potato salad.

By the time we'd worked our way down two rows, we'd got a proper haul, more than either of us had guessed at from looking at the foliage, which is always the nicest surprise gardening has to offer. There's no way of knowing what's under there until you've turned it over, and I don't think that surprise ever gets old, no matter how many summers you've done it.

One word of warning if you're digging your own this week: go back over the bed a second time a few days later. We always find a handful we've missed the first time round, tucked in deeper than expected, and if you leave them in the ground they'll happily sprout again next spring as what we call volunteer potatoes, popping up uninvited among whatever you plant there next. Not the end of the world, but it does make a mockery of your crop rotation plan.

Iris and the Last of the Colour

While Sam and I were on our knees in the dirt, Iris was doing what Iris does, camera in hand, finding the one interesting angle in a job that mostly consists of mud and swearing quietly under your breath. She got down low and photographed a fork-full of potatoes still half buried, soil crumbling off them in the low morning light, and it honestly looked like something out of a magazine rather than a Tuesday on our allotment.

The marigolds and nasturtiums along that bed's edge, the ones that refused point blank to notice there was a drought on, are still going strong even now, bright against all that turned earth, and Iris reckons the contrast between the gold of the flowers and the brown of the freshly dug soil made for her favourite shots of the summer so far. She's not wrong. There's something about a muddy fork, a handful of new potatoes and a splash of orange marigold behind it that sums up an allotment in late August better than most words could.

She's talking about starting a proper little photo diary of the harvest from here through to the first frosts, one picture a week, whatever's coming out of the ground or off the vine. I think it's a lovely idea, and I'll happily take the credit for encouraging it, even though it was entirely her own doing.

Curing and Storing, So They Actually Last

This is the bit people skip, and it's the bit that decides whether you're eating your own potatoes at Christmas or binning a sack of slimy disappointment come November.

Once they're out the ground, don't just tip them straight into a sack and forget about them. Leave them out on top of the soil for two or three hours if the weather's dry, which lets the skins finish toughening up in the air and any loose soil dry out enough to brush off. Never wash maincrop potatoes you're planning to store. Water on the skin is an open invitation to rot, and a stiff brush once they're dry does the job perfectly well without it.

After that, they want somewhere dark, cool and frost-free, hessian or paper sacks rather than plastic, which sweats them and starts the rot before you've even noticed. I keep mine in the old dresser in the workshop, out of the light entirely, because any potato that sees daylight will happily go green on you, and green potato is not something you want anywhere near the dinner table. Check them every few weeks too, and pull out any that have started to go, because one bad potato in a sack really will spoil the lot if you leave it be. Old Pat, up on the other allotment, swears by laying his in a single layer rather than piling them deep, and having seen the state of some of my own sacks by February in years past, I'm starting to think he's got a point.

Fern, Chips, and What Sara's Doing With the Rest

Fern, who as most of you know wants absolutely nothing to do with the digging itself, appeared exactly as the first bucketful came in the back door, drawn by chip-related instinct alone. She's only ever picked up a fork a few times in her life, but she can smell a bag of new potatoes from two rooms away, and I do love her for it in a funny sort of way. Different children, different talents, and hers apparently involves showing up right at the good bit.

Sara's already got half of this lot earmarked for the freezer, parboiled and bagged ready for roasting later in the year, because there's nothing quite like a proper roast potato in December that you dug yourself back in August. The rest are going straight into meals this week while they're at their absolute best, and if you want the full run-down on how she preps and freezes a glut of anything, potatoes included, her blog Frugal in Lincolnshire is well worth a visit. She's forgotten more about making a harvest last than I'll ever learn, and I'm not too proud to admit it.

Because I Can't Resist a Recipe (Or a Loaf)

You'll know by now if you've read more than one of these that Saturday in our house is bread day, whatever else is going on up the plots. I bake for the whole family every single week, it's become as much a habit as the allotment itself, and this week felt like the perfect excuse to put some of our own potatoes straight into the dough.

Potato bread is one of those recipes that sounds fancier than it is. The mashed potato keeps the crumb wonderfully soft and helps the loaf stay fresh for days longer than a plain white loaf ever does, which matters when you're trying not to waste anything.

Simon's Simple Potato Bread

Ingredients:

• 200g potatoes, peeled, boiled and mashed (no butter or milk added, just plain mash)
• 500g strong white bread flour
• 7g sachet fast-action yeast
• 1 tsp salt
• 1 tbsp sugar
• 25g butter, softened
• Around 200ml warm water (start with less and add as needed, the potato changes how much you need)

Method:

1. Mix the flour, yeast, salt and sugar together in a big bowl, then rub in the butter with your fingertips until it disappears into the flour.
2. Add the mashed potato and about three quarters of the warm water. Bring it together into a rough dough, adding the rest of the water a splash at a time until nothing dry remains in the bowl.
3. Turn it out and knead for a good ten minutes, until it's smooth and springs back when you poke it. The potato makes this dough softer and slightly stickier than a plain loaf, don't panic and keep adding flour, just persevere.
4. Pop it back in the bowl, cover with a tea towel, and leave somewhere warm for an hour or until doubled in size.
5. Knock it back, shape into a loaf, and put it in a greased 900g loaf tin. Cover again and leave for another 30 to 40 minutes until it's risen up nicely above the tin.
6. Bake at 200°C (180°C fan) for 35 to 40 minutes, until it's golden and sounds hollow when you tap the base.
7. Let it cool before you cut it, if you've got the willpower, which in this house we rarely do.

It goes without saying that a slice of this, still warm, with proper butter, is about the finest way I know to finish off a morning spent digging spuds out of the ground. Frugal, filling, and it uses up potatoes that were too small or too knobbly to bother storing, which suits me right down to the ground.

So that's where we're at, one plot's worth of buried treasure safely in, the workshop dresser filling up nicely, and Fern already asking when the next batch of chips is happening. I'd love to know how your own maincrop's looking this year, has the drought played havoc with your yields too, or has your patch surprised you the way ours has?

Happy growing, everyone. See you on the plot.