I am a spender not a saver. I was never much good with money. I enjoy the ability to be able to buy things. With seeds I am a hoarder. Except for the guilt that comes now, sputtering to the end of the growing season, when I have somehow failed to sow in time, to let my seed live a fuller life. To express itself, to grow, become an adult plant, a root crop, a flower. Though I guess there is always next year.
I trawl seed businesses like other addicts collect drug dealers. I favour small companies – the specialist suppliers, the monomaniacs where my money can make a difference: Roger Parsons for sweet peas, Ben Ranyard at Higgledy Garden for (mostly) annual flowers, Mads McKeever at Brown Envelope Seeds for open-pollenated organic vegetables, Jekka McVicar for herbs, Franchi for (mostly) Italian vegetables, Adaptive Seeds for kales, and many, many others.
I came late to seed-saving. It was peas what did it. Chef Eneko Atxa is a proud Basque cook and gardener who gave me my first tear peas – the legume holy grail, the supreme vegetable seed. I saved and shared with other cooks, such as Bruno Loubet (a brilliant grower) until he went to Australia and returned my stash 100-fold. So now they have spread further through the country.
Next was calendula, an almost fossilised seed head from flower, super easy to save. And sow and grow (with or without any help).
Such as they are, my saving rules are: pick the best strain you can, a perfect red Tagetes ‘Ildkongen’ or deep ruby chard, for instance; leave harvesting late, until the seed is fully formed and dried (never mildewed); sift and sort through later; keep away from damp and share generously with friends.
This last is the best bit. Except perhaps seeing the perfect seed you saved grow again year after year.
Allan Jenkins’s Morning (4th Estate, £8.99) is out now. Order it for £7.91 from guardianbookshop.com
