Drop the myths about roses

It’s very strange. Roses are wonderfully rewarding and easy to grow, but they have the reputation of being ‘difficult’. All that mumbo-jumbo about pruning, all that earnest advice on pests and disease that’s where the trouble begins. But almost all the traditional advice on how to grow roses is baloney.

I don’t spray my roses, even though I live in a very wet area and most of my plants get mildew or black spot. Some get both. Does it matter? Not at all. Fungal diseases never killed any rose and few are the plants that mildew and black spot actually render unsightly, but this year’s victims are often free from disease the following year. I’ve no moral objection to chemicals, but life is too short to spray and we’re not here to underwrite the profits of the chemicals industry.

The pruning of roses has acquired a mystique of its own. I don’t prune to any particular regime. In fact, the only time I prune roses is when I think they’re getting too big, not flowering enough or need opening up. That’s the key to pruning—think of roses as just another shrub. Take Hybrid Teas, for example. I do deadhead them if I have the time, but may let them go for three or four years without a proper prune, whereupon they start flowering much earlier and produce many more flowers.

When they reach their natural height (say, 6ft), they don’t flower so prolifically, which is when I give them a renewal cut, back to about half of their height, to encourage new growth. This could be at any time of the year—in midwinter, for example, or in midsummer after the first flush of flowering. It really doesn’t matter.

I grow at least 1,000 roses of every imaginable type and they don’t seem to suffer from my failure to apply the traditional rose wisdom (‘prune them in late winter to within an inch of their life’), which was developed in the 19th century by people who grew roses to win competitions. In fact, I think my roses look better than most.

Nor is it true that ‘roses are gross feeders’. This is also a myth that dates from the 19th-century fashion for growing roses for exhibition. A Hybrid Perpetual—and, later, a Hybrid Tea—would be grafted onto a vigorous rootstock, piled up with manure and pruned and disbudded so that it produced only one flower, big enough to win a prize. Then, the plant would be dug up and burned. Nowa-days, roses are garden plants.

I haven’t got the time to lug barrowfuls of manure around the garden in winter and, anyway, one never has enough of the stuff for every plant that would enjoy a dollop. So are roses gross feeders or not? It would be truer to say that roses respond well to feeding. All shrubs do.

Nurserymen encourage us to believe that rose bushes don’t live for long. That’s not true, either. The rose trade is posited on novelty new is beautiful, old is rubbish but some of the best roses are great survivors. There is a plant of the climbing Tea Rose Homère on the south side of the parish church at Staplefield in West Sussex that was planted in 1862. As for the quality of individual varieties, a Hybrid Tea such as Peace is still a much better rose, 70 years after it was first introduced, than many of its descendants. The RHS acknowledged this last year by confirming its Award of Garden Merit.

But one learns all the time. This year, the flowers on my roses have been enormous. I put it down to the very wet spring. The lesson? Roses also respond to watering, even in the damp British climate. In future, I shall water them—but only if I can find the time.

So, let’s abandon the myths. You know, I know, rose-lovers know, that roses are among the easiest and most rewarding of all plants. They don’t have to be constantly fed, watered, pruned, deadheaded and sprayed—just simply enjoyed!

Recipes from my little black book

There is a little black book on the kitchen table. Neatly annotated in places, virtually illegible in others, it is the latest in a long line of tissue-thin pages containing the hand-written details of everything I eat. This is not one of the kitchen chronicles where I write down recipe workings and shopping lists, ideas and wishlists, but a daily diary of everything that ends up on my plate. If I have yoghurt, blackcurrant compote and pumpkin seeds at breakfast, it will be in that little book. Likewise, a lunch of green lentils and grilled red peppers, or a dinner of roast cauliflower and a bowl of miso soup. Each bowl of soup, plate of pasta and every mushroom on toast is faithfully logged. I don’t know exactly why or when I started noting down my dinner, but these little books are now filled in out of habit as much as anything else. The notes are often made at night, just before I lock up and go to bed. I suspect my little black books will be buried with me.

I occasionally look back at what I have written, often as I change one journal for the next. One of the points that interests me, and perhaps this is the main reason I have kept the daily ritual going for so long, is that I can follow how my eating has changed, albeit gradually, over the years. There are, of course, unshakable edibles, (I seem to have started and ended each day’s eating with a bowl of yoghurt for as long as I can remember), but I also find marked changes in what I cook and eat. The most notable is the quantity – I definitely eat less than I used to – and there is a conspicuous move towards lighter dishes, particularly in spring and summer.

But here’s another thing. Despite being resolutely omnivorous, it is clear how much of my everyday eating has become plant-based. Although not strictly vegetarian (the bottom line for me will always be that my dinner is delicious, not something that must adhere to a set of strict dietary rules), much of my weekday eating contains neither meat nor fish. I am not sure this was a particularly considered choice. It is simply the way my eating has grown to be over the past few years. I do know, however, that I am not alone in this.

Greenfeast, like Eat before it, is a collection of what I eat when I finish work every day: the casual yet spirited meals with which I sustain myself and whoever else is around. The recipes are, like those in previous collections, more for inspiration than rules to be adhered to slavishly, word for word. But unlike Eat, this collection offers no meat or fish. The idea of collecting these recipes together is for those like-minded eaters who find themselves wanting inspiration for a supper that owes more to plants than animals.
How I eat

I rarely hand someone a plate full of food. More hospitable and more fun, I think, is a table that has a selection of bowls and dishes of food to which people can help themselves. And by that I mean dinner for two or three as much as for a group of family or friends. That way, the table comes to life, food is offered or passed round, a dish is shared, the meal is instantly more joyful.

In summer, there will be a couple of light, easily prepared principal dishes. Alongside those will be some sort of accompaniment. There may be wedges of toasted sourdough, glossy with olive oil and flakes of sea salt. Noodles that I have cooked, often by simply pouring boiling water over them, then tossed in toasted sesame oil and coriander leaves, or an all-singing and dancing Korean chilli paste.

A dish of red pepper soup might sit alongside a plate of fried aubergines and feta. Crisp pea croquettes may well be placed on the table with a tomato and french bean salad. South-east Asian noodles might be eaten with roast spring vegetables and peanut sauce, and a mild dish of creamed and grilled cauliflower could turn up with a spiced tomato couscous. Two dishes, often three, are very much the norm at home. I find the thought of being able to dip into several dishes uplifting in comparison to a single plate piled high. The recipes throughout the book are light. They are meant to be mixed and matched as you wish. A table with several bowls of unfussy food to please and delight, and, ultimately, gently sustain.

A note on the recipes: though all are plant-based, the recipes are not strictly vegetarian. They can, however, be rendered suitable for vegetarian or vegan diets with a bit of informed tweaking.
In a bowl

I am a collector of bowls. Bowls for soup and porridge, bowls for rice and pasta, bowls for pudding. I enjoy choosing which will be most appropriate for my dinner, deep or shallow, with a rim or without, earthenware, lacquer or wood. There is nothing precious about this, I simply feel food tastes better when you eat it from something that flatters the contents.

When I moved to London 40 years ago, I bought a couple of thick, heavy, white Pillivuyt soup bowls. I have them to this day. They were my only tableware for many years, long before I bought plates or shallow dishes. They are used daily, no longer to eat from, but for beating eggs or blending a dressing. There is always at least one sitting in the fridge, a saucer for a hat, keeping a little treasure safe for another day.

The holding of a bowl – more like cradling really – comforts us. But it is important how the bowl feels in the hand. Too rough and it can grate on the nerves, like nails down a blackboard or teeth on a pear drop. Too smooth and your soup feels refined and cold-hearted. What I appreciate most is the humble quality of a bowl and the food you put in it. Even the most exquisitely formed recipe is brought down a peg or two when served in an earthenware dish. The food jumbles unaffectedly in the hollow, the deep sides capture the scent of the food, increasing the enjoyment of every mouthful.

I have a certain reverence for food served in a bowl that I don’t when it is served on a plate. I am not sure why this should be, I only know that it is. I love the way the dressing, sauce or juices sit in the base, to be spooned up as a final treat, which is why so many of the dishes throughout these books are presented the way they are. It is my preferred way to eat.

We've Got Some Books for You

The “Game of Thrones” finale, which aired on Sunday, marks the end of a Twitter era. For those already feeling nostalgic, consider reading the books that the HBO show is based on — or plunge into a new epic world with one of these seven other series.

Broken Earth Trilogy, by N. K. Jemisin
Jemisin “burst on the epic fantasy scene with her earlier Inheritance trilogy,” our reviewer wrote about the last installment in this series, “and has pretty well conquered it with Broken Earth.” She won the Hugo Award for best novel for each of the books. Start with “The Fifth Season,” which begins at the end of the world and follows a woman as she tries to recover her kidnapped daughter.

Outlander, by Diana Gabaldon
There are nine novels in this time-bending series about Jamie Fraser, an 18th-century Scotsman, and Claire Randall, a World War II-era nurse, whose worlds collide when Claire is transported back in time. The Outlander series — which starts with a namesake title, “Outlander” — was made into a television show on Starz.

The Lymond Chronicles, by Dorothy Dunnett
The six historical romance novels that make up this series are “vivid, engaging, densely potted,” one critic wrote in 2000 (sound familiar?). The books follow Francis Crawford of Lymond, “the perfect romantic hero,” and its events unfold during the 11 years from the Scottish border wars of 1547 to the accession of Queen Elizabeth in 1558.

The Earthsea Cycle, by Ursula K. LeGuin
Set in the fictional archipelago of Earthsea, this series follows a child named Ged through his journey to become a wizard. LeGuin has an “intricate imagination,” our reviewer wrote, adding that in the first book, “A Wizard of Earthsea,” the “attention to physical detail effectively and exactly” represents “young Ged’s reactions to the strange world about him.”

New Crobuzon, by China Miéville
This series, which starts with “Perdido Street Station,” is set in the fictional world of Bas-Lag, in a complex city, New Crobuzon, inhabited by a broad range of human and nonhuman characters. In a review on the website Tor, one critic recommended several readings: “The first time, you read it as a travelogue of New Crobuzon,” she wrote, as Miéville dips in and out of multiple perspectives. After, “you reread it for the pleasurable intricacy of Bas-Lag’s cultural and economic substructures and to appreciate the inventive strangeness of the social details — languages, clothing, cultural artifacts and the like — that you zipped past the first time.”

Temeraire, by Naomi Novik
These nine novels reimagine the events of the Napoleonic Wars. The story starts when, while serving in the British Navy, Capt. Will Laurence finds a dragon egg in a captured French warship. He becomes the dragon’s master, and his discovery will alter the course of history. In a review in The Washington Post, one writer called the first book, “Her Majesty’s Dragon,” the “most original of dragon books” and wrote that it contains a “generous dollop of intelligent derring-do.”

The Accursed Kings, by Maurice Druon
These seven historical novels follow the Iron King, Philip the Fair, as he attempts to rule his kingdom and his family. “Believe me, the Starks and Lannisters have nothing on the Capets and Plantagenets,” George R. R. Martin himself wrote about the series in The Guardian. “It is the original game of thrones.”

A Song of Ice and Fire, by George R. R. Martin
Or you could just dive right back into Westeros and read “A Game of Thrones,” the first in Martin’s yet uncompleted series about the epic fight for the Iron Throne. In an interview with The Times from 2005, Martin described how he conceived of the series: One day, an image came to him of a man who was taking a boy to witness a beheading. They find a dead direwolf who has just given birth to a litter and decide to rescue them. This became the opening scene in “A Game of Thrones.” “To this day I don’t know where it came from,” Martin said. “But I knew that I had to write it.”