Eyes on the competition

"There's some as big as marbles,  there's some as big as peas and then there's quite a lot of little ones."

Pop.

This quote is from a newspaper cartoon showing a pair of old men hanging over the garden fence and comparing their potato crops. According to my mother, the cartoon greatly amused my grandfather and so the quote has been handed down two generations now. It always springs to mind this time of year when our annual charity Potato Growing Competition comes around.

The rules are simple enough. You buy a seed potato for £1 back in early spring. You can only submit the crop of the special seed potatoes; no cheating with a heavier cropping variety. This year it was a variety called Casablanca. (Yes, that is very expensive for one seed potato but it is a charity fund-raiser.) 

You then have to grow the potato in a re-cycled container of your choosing - I usually use an old compost bag as it will exclude enough light to keep the potatoes from turning green. What soil compost or other growing medium and fertiliser you choose is up to you. Then on the day of the charity garden party you dig up all the potatoes from the plant and submit them for judging. There are various categories but of course the overall winner is the grower who has produced the heaviest crop. 

Now the most of  competitors are well acquainted. We arrange various other fund-raising events throughout the year and several of us have been involved with planning the garden party at which this competition is just one of a range of stalls and events.  Ever since the sale of the seed potatoes back in the spring there have been several committee meetings and over coffee afterwards there will be cautious probing and airy throw-away remarks about the amount of leaf growth and the emergence or not of flowers and whether these should be left on or nipped off. On the surface of it, the rivalry is all very cheerful and any claims to potato-growing prowess are all very modest, unless you closely observe the spouses of the competitors. There may be the merest flinch of an eyebrow or a barely perceptible shaking of the head.  Behind garden gates it is a different matter apparently. Eyes narrow in steely determination as the sights are set way beyond simply taking part and padding out the numbers, oh no. Nothing less than winning is intended. There are those of Irish stock  who feel that  the honour of their national heritage is at stake and those who have grown spuds for years who feel their experience and hard work should clearly count for something.  Happily I am not constrained by either of these.

Having spent the day before baking cakes for the afternoon tea and the morning helping set up the stalls, pricing preserves and plants, it was only when the  potato competition stall was set up next to mine that I remembered that I had an entry to present.  After dashing home for a quick bite of lunch, some scissors and more sticky labels, I went out and opened the recycled compost bag. I find harvesting potatoes is always something of a treasure hunt or a bran tub where you are allowed to find all the prizes. Unlike other fruit and veg, it is not the part you want that you get to see growing before your eyes. The real booty of the process is all growing  hidden from view, deep in the dark compost - or not, as the case may be. 

I was delighted and quite relieved therefore, to find several largish fist sized new potatoes as well as the inevitable tiny pearl sized ones. I suspected I already had my hands on the only prize I was going to get but that was more than good enough. Having seen the amount of slug munching the foliage had suffered I was glad to see all the tubers were smooth and free of any blemishes.

Creditable entry though mine was, I was right about the crop itself being my only prize. It was wonderful to see that one of the runners up was a girl aged about eight years old. When the judge, a local allotment holder, called her name she strode forward in true school assembly fashion, shook him by the hand, exchanged a few details on spud cultivation then received her certificate. She turned holding the certificate under her chin, print side facing outward and beamed at the audience, before  delightedly accepting her prize of a bright red tub trug. No feigned surprise, no diffidently waiting to be coaxed forward.  Now there, I thought, is someone who knows how to receive an award.
In spite of dismal weather the party had been well attended so having packed up, we finished the afternoon united in the euphoria of a job well done, appreciative of all the teamwork that raised an impressive sum for the clinic in Ethiopia. All headed home (possibly to spud suppers) the best of friends, at least until the announcement that the seed potatoes are on sale for next year's competition.