Purple haze...

Yesterday was designated Beetroot Wednesday.

As you all know, I have a fairly unhealthy addiction to the venerable beetroot, and I decided this year that pretty much all of my allotment would be taken up by vegetables which I enjoyed eating.  This will explain why four of my six beds were taken up with the little purple horrors.  There would have been five, but Donald Trumpkin breached the defenses a couple of weeks ago despite my intervention with a pair of stiff secateurs.  There is a very pathetic row of beetroot plants being smothered by Donald's ample foliage, but maybe they'll muster up the strength to beat him back eventually.

So.  Yesterday.  Armed with a Bag for Life, two dogs and a fork, I wandered over to the allotment to dig up a few of the beetroots.  Back home I had the vinegars and chillies ready and waiting, and as I had sterilized 48 jars on Monday, I was ready to rock and roll.

I'll be honest with you, out there in the open, they didn't look that big when I dug them up, but laying them out on the draining board, I realised that there may be an issue.  The recipe I had chosen called for 'putting the whole beetroots into a pan and boiling till cooked'. If I'd done this, I would still be cooking them sometime in October, as the saucepans would only take one or two (my stockpot, the hero) at a push.

Time to revert to Plan B.  I peeled all of the beetroots and chopped them up into the size I like in my salad, and threw them on the hob to boil.  Three saucepan loads later, they were ready for the jars.

The marinade was poured in over them, lids were screwed on, and then I took a quick look at my kitchen, or Armageddon as it's fondly known as, especially after the husband has been 'cooking'.

Gazing at the pink splattered worktops, tiles, floor, jeans, white pumps (aaaagh!), t-shirt and every utensil I had come into contact with, my kitchen looked like a set from CSI Home Counties, and a most unpleasant hour was spent cleaning up after myself.  The trouble was that a lot of sugar went into my Chilli Beets so the worktops were sticky as well as being pink.  Try and imagine a stick of licked rock, and you'll understand where I'm coming from.

The pink has also infiltrated my hands and nails which means that I look like Mr Blobby from the wrists down, and every time I shut my eyes I see small cubes of purple dancing before them.

It's the runner beans next.

They've got to be easier...



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