This year's harvest. In evening sunlight.
Dear Readers and fellow garlic fanciers, can you believe that some trifling ho came and ripped a bunch of heads out of my porch a few weeks back while they were drying? Those of you who correctly recognise garlic as both pillar of civilisation and indispensable personal solace will understand the magnitude of this violation.
I always wonder why people do this dumb, sleazy shit when A: there's plenty of garlic to be stolen from the supermarket down the road whenever you like, but more importantly, B: we could be stabby hypervigilant psychos who might catch you in the act.
I mean, R's a nice guy but I'm a paranoid and historically violent person with enviable reflexes, a jealous regard for homegrown produce, at least one undiagnosed personality disorder and definite impulse-control issues.
So buy your own fucking garlic next time.
Anyway, after a wet year we were happy with the yield in general and particularly with the smaller Printanor bulbs which were of a decent grade for once. I have a sneaking suspicion that these fussier soft neck varieties prefer heavier soil but they really are worth the extra fucking around with various sites etc. In comparison with their more basic cousins the old Continental cultivars offer the kind of heat and complex, savoury aroma profiles that blossom in the back of your throat and billow out into an almost extra-cranial headspace. They take those stews and vege bakes from whatevertown to fuckyesville. I may have said that before but it bears repeating.