Dear Readers, you might find it odd that I’m writing about cucumbers in the middle of winter, but I am currently reading Jenny Uglow’s wonderful biography of Gilbert White, the vicar of Selborne who she describes as ‘The First Great Nature Writer’. White was writing at the end of the eighteenth century, and in February 1781 he was much exercised by growing cucumbers. Generally, this vegetable was seen as being the food of poor people – Uglow reports that tailors were called ‘cucumbers’ because this was the only thing they could afford to eat once their rich customers had left town for the summer. A popular quip was that cucumbers should be ‘thinly sliced, dressed with vinegar and salt and pepper, and then thrown out’. They were also thought to be only good as food for animals, hence the name ‘cowcumber’.

However, cucumbers grown out of season were another thing entirely. Much like strawberries at Chrismas or asparagus in October here (though lately people have become re-attuned to eating seasonally), an early cucumber was a sign of status:  for rich estate owners, it showed that they could afford the most knowledgeable gardeners. White was intrigued by the challenge of this, although he was a poor country curate and all the gardening was done by him. He built his own cucumber frames, insulated the outside with ferns or straw, and filled them with dung. He then  topped the frames with broad panes of glass, and nurtured the whole plot carefully – adjusting the glass so that it got maximum light, wiping off the condensation, cloaking them with mats if a cold spell struck.

Cucumber competitions were held in late March, and the rules were strict: the cucumbers must have been grown outside, without artificial heat. It appears that White didn’t make the deadline, as he cut his first cucumbers in April, but he was very proud of them: one year he got forty large cucumbers from his frames, and sent thirteen to his relatives in London by coach, as they cost two shillings a piece in town, when the average worker earned about £46 a year.

What the hell is a cucumber, though? The original plant, (Cucumis sativus), comes from Asia, and is technically known as a pepo, which is the name for a plant in the gourd family with a hard rind and seeds which are not separated by hard pith as in an orange. So now we all know!

A cucumber is comprised of 95 percent water, which many of us might have guessed – its this that makes a slice of cucumber such a soothing balm if placed on the eyes after too many hours squinting at a computer screen. When I went on an Indian cookery course, the teacher explained that the cucumbers for raita should always be grated and then squeezed and squeezed until most of the water came out – a good tip for avoiding watery raita, and indeed watery tzatziki or any of the other related delicious dips. Cucumber sandwiches were the height of luxury when I was growing up, but only if you were lucky enough to go out for afternoon tea (as rare as hens’ eggs in our house). I always wondered how they managed to keep the sandwiches from going soggy, and can only assume that there was an army of cucumber cutter-uppers in the kitchen making each sandwich to order.

Anyone who has grown cucumbers knows that they just sit around looking juicy and tempting, but they are not defenceless: members of the cucumber family produce a bitter chemical called cucurbitacin, which is produced in greater quantities when the plant is under attack. The height of this is the bitter gourd, popular in Asian cooking, which is just about the most bitter thing I’ve ever eaten – clearly a taste that needs to be acquired when young. Although the bitter gourd is now popular right across Asia, it originated  in the desert regions of Africa, possibly even in good old Namibia.

While we’re on the subject of cucumbers, one of my favourite ways to eat them is as gherkins: the slight blandness of the raw vegetable is replaced with a vinegary/sweet/salty kick, and I love how different cultures have different pickling traditions. I love a ‘wally’ (a largish pickled cucumber) with my fish and chips – I can’t bear vinegar on my chips, but I love these guys! And also, little cornichons with a blini, sour cream and smoked salmon. Any other favourites? I’ve yet to hear of anyone making a cucumber dessert, though I have heard of cucumber granita/sorbet being served with savoury dishes.

And now, of course, the challenge. Is there a poem about cucumbers? And yes of course there is. Nothing that has ever happened in the whole history of the world doesn’t have a poem about it somewhere, even if the words are now lost. And this is a poem about an almost magical early cucumber, and what it means.

The Cucumber, by Nazim Hikmet

The snow is knee-deep in the courtyard
and still coming down hard:
it hasn’t let up all morning.
We’re in the kitchen.
On the table, on the oilcloth, spring —
on the table there’s a very tender young cucumber,
pebbly and fresh as a daisy.
We’re sitting around the table staring at it.
It softly lights up our faces,
and the very air smells fresh.
We’re sitting around the table staring at it,
amazed
thoughtful
optimistic.
We’re as if in a dream.
On the table, on the oilcloth, hope —
on the table, beautiful days,
a cloud seeded with a green sun,
an emerald crowd impatient and on its way,
loves blooming openly —
on the table, there on the oilcloth, a very tender young cucumber,
pebbly and fresh as a daisy.
The snow is knee-deep in the courtyard
and coming down hard.
It hasn’t let up all morning.

(trans Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk)

Source: The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry