Winter Onions

 Right then. If you’ve ever wondered what happens when a man sets out to mend one small puncture and ends up with a very long morning, pull up a bucket and have a read.

Monday was one of those days that doesn’t count. I was away from the garden and the allotments all day, running about doing jobs that needed doing but that I’d rather not talk about, and by the evening I felt like a plant that’s been left in a hot greenhouse with the door shut. So Tuesday morning, when me, Sam and Iris turned up at the plot with a few trays of winter onions and a very fair bit of enthusiasm, it felt like proper medicine.

The Plan (Which Lasted About Ten Minutes)

The plan was simple, as most of our plans are right up to the point where they aren’t. Sam would rotovate the area we’d broad-forked back in August, and me and Iris would plant the onions out on the other allotment. Three people, two jobs, nothing to go wrong.

Now, those of you who’ve been following along will know that August was dry. Bone dry. The soil we’d forked over had baked in the sun for weeks, and by the time Sam got the rotovator to it, it wasn’t so much soil as a collection of concrete bricks that happened to be brown. He’d only been going a few minutes when I heard that sound every machine owner dreads: a sort of sad pfffffft, followed by Sam saying something I won’t repeat on a blog my grandchildren might read.

A puncture. On a hard-baked clump of soil, if you please. I’ll be honest, I had a quiet chuckle to myself, because I’d been telling him for weeks to give that ground a good soaking before he went near it, and he’d been telling me for weeks that it’d be fine. I didn’t say “I told you so.” I just said it with my eyebrows.

The upshot was that I spent a good while on my knees with the wheel off, a bowl of water and the patch kit, doing the job I’ve done on more wheels than I can count. I’d love to show you photos of the repair, but I forgot to take any. That’s the downside of being so in the zone with a bit of mechanical work that you forget the blog exists. So you’ll just have to take my word that it was a thing of beauty, and that Sam stood over me hopefully learning how to do it if im not around.

Meanwhile, On the Other Plot...

While all that was going on, Iris got on with the planting on the other allotment, and a very good job she did of it too. Iris has really come into her own on the plot this year. She doesn’t need telling things twice any more, and she’s got a fussy eye for a straight row that I can only assume she gets from her mother, because it certainly isn’t from me.

First job was to set out the line. We went for nice generous spacings this time, a good bit wider than I’d usually bother with, because I’ve finally learnt my lesson on this one: if you can’t get a hoe between your onions, you’ll end up crawling about on your hands and knees weeding by hand in the spring, and nobody wants that at my age. Pat, from a few plots down, wandered over for a nosey while we were at it, leaned on his fork and announced that we’d “left plenty of room for a small family to move in.” I told him that was the idea. He went away shaking his head, but I noticed he looked back at our rows twice on his way.

A Few Lines on Growing Winter Onions

Since you asked, here’s how I do my winter onions. I’m no expert, just a man who’s made most of the mistakes so you don’t have to.

Pick the right spot. They like a sunny, open position with soil that drains well. Soggy ground over winter is the enemy, and a wet, heavy bed will rot them before they’ve even got going. If your soil is on the heavy side, a bit of well-rotted compost forked in beforehand makes all the difference.

Get them in at the right time. Autumn is the window, and we’re in it right now. Plant them too early and they run to seed, plant them too late and they don’t get established before the cold sets in. We’re using Augusta, which has done well for us, but there are plenty of good winter varieties about, so ask around at your own site and see what’s thriving locally.

Plant them firmly but shallow. Make a little hole, pop the plant in so the roots are down and the neck is just showing, then firm the soil gently round it. You want them snug, not buried. We gave ours roughly four inches between plants, with rows set a good foot or so apart, so there’s room to hoe.

Don’t go mad with feed. A light sprinkling of Growmore is all they need to see them through, and that’s what we did, a handful thrown over each row once they were in. Too much feeding in autumn just gives you soft, leafy growth that the frost will have for breakfast.

Look after them over winter. Keep the weeds down with the hoe on any mild day, and if the pigeons turn up, net them. And here’s my hard-won tip, learnt the proper way, by ignoring it first: after a hard frost or a run of wet weather, go along the rows and check them. The ground can heave a bit and push the young plants up, leaving their roots exposed. Just press them back in firmly with your fingers. I once left a whole row for a fortnight and came back to find half of them lying on top of the soil looking sorry for themselves. Never again.

Do all that, and come June or July you’ll be pulling nice fat onions, a good while before your spring-sown ones are anywhere near ready. They don’t store as long as the summer ones, so use them first.

Over a Hundred Plants and a Bit of Aching

Between the two mornings we got over a hundred plants in the ground. That’s a fair old shift, and my back reminded me of every single one of them that evening. Once the last row was in, I took a handful of Growmore and scattered it along the lines, Iris did the same on her side, and we stood back to admire the rows. Nothing looks quite as hopeful as a freshly planted row of onions, all standing to attention and looking slightly bewildered at where they’ve ended up.

Sam, meanwhile, had finished rotovating with the mended wheel and the look of a man who’d like it noted that he did the hard bit. He did, to be fair. I’d had a lovely time raking and planting, and he’d been working that machine over ground like a plank of wood. I’m learning to give credit where it’s due, even if it does go to his head.

The Afternoons: Fence Painting with Sara

Those afternoons weren’t spent with my feet up, though. Once we were back home and I’d had my lunch and a sit-down, it was Sara and me on the fence. You’ll remember the fence from the last couple of posts, the one with the broken posts that we’ve patched up for now and will replace properly next year. The mended section had been standing there looking raw and bare, and Sara decided it needed protecting before the wet weather really set in.

So there we were, two sixty-ish people with paintbrushes and a tin of fence paint, working our way along two panels. I’m pleased to report we’re still married. Sara does the neat edges and I do the big sweeps, which is a division of labour that has served us well since 1986. By the end of the second afternoon, it looked smart, and I could say with a straight face that it was one job properly done.

Wednesday: The Day the Heavens Opened

Then came Wednesday. What a day. It rained from first thing and it didn’t let up, and the plot was a no-go. Normally a rained-off day makes me grumble, but I’ll be honest, this one was very welcome. The gardens had been crying out for a good drink after that dry spell, and the new onions got a lovely soaking to settle them in, better than any watering can could manage. Sometimes the weather does your job for you, and the least you can do is not complain about it.

I spent most of the day indoors, in the workshop, with a cup of tea and a bit of tinkering. There’s something very peaceful about the sound of rain on the roof when you’re warm, dry and surrounded by half-restored machinery. Fern popped in at one point, looked round and said, “Dad, this place looks like a scrapyard,” and I said, “it’s an organised scrapyard,” and she said, “that’s not a thing,” and left. She’s wrong, by the way.

Saturday: The Thins Have Taken Off

Which brings me to Saturday, and the bread. You might remember my little experiment with sandwich thins instead of cobs, to save space in the freezer. Well, they’ve taken off in this house in a big way. Demand is high. The family has worked out that there’s a stash of them in the freezer and they’re disappearing quicker than I can make them. Iris takes one to the plot every day, Sam has them for his lunch, and Fern, who swears blind she doesn’t eat bread, has been seen sneaking a toasted one at midnight, and I’m saying nothing.

So Saturday I spent most of the day in the kitchen making fifty thins and two bloomers. The bloomers were Sara’s request, because every Saturday there needs to be a proper crusty loaf for Sunday. Fifty is a lot of dough, and my arms knew all about it by the end, but there’s something deeply satisfying about a kitchen that smells of fresh bread and a freezer that’s full again. I’m a self-taught baker, and I make the family’s bread every Saturday without fail, so I’d say I’ve earned a bit of flour on the floor.

Because I Can’t Resist a Recipe: Simon’s Onion Soup

Now, as it’s all about onions this week, and as you’ll need something to do with the first of the harvest come the summer, here’s a simple recipe for a big pan of onion soup. It’s cheap, it’s warming and it uses up a good lot of onions, which is handy when you’ve planted over a hundred. Serve it with a thick slice of fresh bread, or even better, a toasted sandwich thin with cheese melted on top.

Simple Onion Soup

Serves 4

• 6 large onions, peeled and thinly sliced
• 50g butter
• 1 tbsp olive oil
• 1 tsp sugar
• 2 cloves garlic, crushed
• 1 tbsp plain flour
• 1 litre good beef or vegetable stock
• A splash of cider or a drop of white wine, if you’ve got some (optional)
• A few sprigs of thyme, or a pinch of dried
• Salt and black pepper
• To serve: 4 sandwich thins or thick slices of bread, and a good handful of grated cheddar

Melt the butter with the oil in a big heavy-bottomed pan over a medium-low heat. Add the onions and a pinch of salt and stir well. Now the secret is patience: cook them gently for 40 to 45 minutes, stirring now and then, until they’re soft, sticky and a deep golden brown. Don’t rush it, and don’t turn the heat up, or they’ll catch and go bitter.

Stir in the sugar and garlic and cook for another couple of minutes. Sprinkle over the flour and stir for a minute, then pour in the cider if you’re using it and let it bubble away. Add the stock and thyme, bring to the boil, then turn it down and simmer for about 20 minutes. Taste it, season with salt and pepper, and you’re done.

While it simmers, toast your thins or bread, pile on the cheese and pop it under a hot grill until it’s bubbling and golden. Ladle the soup into bowls, float a cheesy toast on top and eat it while it’s piping hot. If you’re lucky, someone will say “any more of that?” and you’ll know you’ve done it right.

Does anyone else plant winter onions, and have you got a favourite variety? And has anyone else had a wheel give up the ghost at the worst possible moment? Let me know in the comments, I’d love to hear your stories.

Happy growing, everyone. See you on the plot