I won the genetic lottery
There are, I’ve long believed, two great lotteries in life. The first is where you’re born. The second is what taste buds you’re issued while floating about as a vaguely hopeful cluster of cells.
Now, I don’t like to brag (I absolutely do), but I’m fairly certain I won the second one. (And probably the first one too - I live in Middle Earth with, as yet, no sign of Sauron).
Somewhere in the great cosmic administrative office, where newly formed embryos queue politely for their lifelong preferences, I clearly found myself in the correct line. The premium line. The velvet-rope, fast-pass, “this way for superior beings” line.
The CORIANDER line.
And for that, I’m deeply, profoundly grateful.
Because coriander - fresh, bright, slightly citrusy, unfairly divisive coriander - is quite possibly the finest herb ever to grace a chopping board. It elevates everything. Salads. Salsas. Stir-fries. The general mood of a Tuesday. It is, quite simply, excellence in leaf form.
Which is why I feel a mixture of sympathy and confusion for those who didn’t make it into my queue. You know the ones. The “it tastes like soap” people. Soap!
Imagine missing out on one of life’s great pleasures because your taste buds took a wrong turn at conception. I can only assume there was a mix-up. A clipboard error. A moment of inattention.
Or perhaps - more likely - you were all standing in a different queue entirely.
The coffee queue, perhaps.
Now, I know coffee has its devotees. Passionate ones. People who speak of “notes” and “body” and “mouthfeel” as if they’re describing a fine wine rather than what is, fundamentally, hot bean water. But I have tried. I have REALLY tried. At best, it tastes like disappointment with a hint of regret. At worst, it tastes like burnt dirt.
So, I can only conclude: if you’re in the coffee queue, you cannot also be in the coriander queue. There are limits, even in utero.
And then, of course, there’s the Brussels sprouts queue. I don’t wish to be unkind, but… oh dear.
I assume it’s located somewhere dimly lit, with a faint smell of overcooked cabbage and quiet resignation. A place where people nod politely and accept their fate. “Yes,” they say bravely, “I do enjoy these tiny, bitter orbs.” And you admire them for it, in the way one admires someone who runs ultramarathons or willingly assembles flat-pack furniture without swearing.
But let’s not pretend it’s the top-tier option. No, that honour belongs firmly to coriander. We - the chosen few - stand at the peak of taste bud sophistication. (It’s not arrogance if it’s true).
Of course, possessing elite taste buds does come with its challenges. Mainly, the small and ongoing issue of actually growing the stuff. Because coriander, much like a gifted but temperamental artist, has a tendency to be… difficult.
It bolts if it gets too hot. It sulks if you transplant it. It resents poor timing. It may, at times, object to your general attitude.
There are days I’m convinced it will go to seed simply because I looked at it the wrong way.
And yet, I persist. Because when you’ve been granted this level of genetic privilege, it feels only right to honour it. To strive. To persevere. To attempt, again and again, to grow lush, abundant handfuls of coriander that justify your place in the superior queue.
So, I sow. And I water. And I try not to make direct eye contact. And one day - perhaps - I will master it. Until then, I will continue to celebrate my good fortune, extend my condolences to the Brussels sprouts community, and remain deeply suspicious of anyone who claims coffee is “an acquired taste.”
Some things in life should not require acquiring. Coriander, for instance, should have come standard.
Did you know?
Tomatoes were once widely feared in Europe and nicknamed “poison apples,” largely because they belong to the same family as some genuinely toxic plants. Tomatoes belong to the nightshade family - an eclectic group that includes both kitchen staples and plants that could quite literally ruin your day. You’ll sometimes hear the rather dramatic explanation that wealthy people were dropping dead after eating tomatoes off pewter plates, with the fruit’s acidity supposedly leaching lead from the metal. It’s a great story - very suspicious vegetable, very dramatic ending - but there’s little solid historical evidence to prove it actually happened. Most experts think the tomato’s bad reputation came down to simple mistrust of unfamiliar foods and unfortunate botanical relatives, rather than a murderous side hustle involving tableware.
What to do in the garden this week
Northern hemisphere
🍅 Basically, if it grows in summer, it’s ‘go time’. Unless you’re in a cold area where late frosts are a given, then you can direct sow pretty much everything from this point on - carrots, beetroot, radishes, peas, lettuce, spinach, brassicas, tomatoes, courgettes, beans and herbs.
🌼Sow annuals - cosmos, calendula, nigella. Plant out sweet peas.
🌷Apply a balanced fertiliser or compost to your beds to give your plants a boost.
🪴Pots dry out faster than you think so keep an eye on their moisture needs.
🏷️ Label your plants at planting time to avoid everything becoming ‘mystery plant #7’.
Southern hemisphere
🍅If you haven’t already, pull out spent summer crops. Add them to the compost, unless they had some disease, in which case, bin them.
🥬Keep planting winter veggies. Succession sowing/planting is the method where you’re sowing/planting small amounts every few weeks to ensure a consistent food production line rather than everything be ready in a massive glut, followed by nothingness. Succession sowing/planting will see you through whatever season you’re in and prevents food going to waste (I preach this, but I don’t always practice it well. The chickens don’t complain though).
🪻Overgrown perennials? Wrong spot? Mild regret planting decisions? Now’s a great time to divide and move things while the soil is still warm.
💦 Did you have water pooling problems last winter? If so, get onto it now before this winter rolls around. I lost a couple of driveway trees after we added more gravel to our parking area a few years ago. This changed the flow of water, and it pooled all winter around the bases of two trees in the driveway. So that was the end of those two. We’ve since built a ‘french drain’ out into the paddock to take all the parking area water away from the garden and straight out to the paddock where it doesn’t matter. And now I just have to wait years for my newly planted trees to fill the void.
What’s new on Behind the Garden Gate?
🌿Nitty Gritty: this week it’s all about dirt. Specifically, how to work out what kind of dirt you have, and how to tell if it’s healthy. Then just for good measure, I’ve included a pile of information on how to improve your soil if you, like me, are not lucky enough to have dreamy loam.
🪴Garden to Table: well since, I’ve been discussing coriander already, it makes sense that this week’s article is about my challenges with growing the stuff. This article talks all about the theory of growing great coriander, and my actual experience trying to grow it.
📷Snapshot shed: continuing on the autumn theme this week, with more photos added to show why I’ve planted a garden full of deciduous trees.
As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, I’m in the process of migrating my articles to Substack. It’s so much better set up for publishing this type of content, and I also think probably a much better user experience for you too. The articles I publish arrive straight to your inbox rather than you having to make an effort to head onto my members-only page to find the content. It’s just easier on Substack. I’ve realised that now, and so I encourage any of you who would like to receive my content in that way to head over and subscribe over there. I have free and paid options. Free subscriptions give you my free Sunday newsletter each week plus all the photos and notes with little tips and guidance that I add to my feed every day. Paid subscribers get all that, plus two additional articles each week with much deeper dives including garden knowledge, design tips, plant care advice, the odd recipe, and a bit of humour. You’ll find me as The Manic Botanic on Substack - not Behind the Garden Gate.