"Vegetables of Interest"

Bandicoot Potatoes

Bandicoot Potatoes

(Being the adventures of a Hungry Farmer with a few too many Heirloom Potatoes and a bit less land than needed.*)

The plain truth* was that I was clearing a line for late summer melons when it become clear that there was no room* for a another hill of heirloom Garnet Chile Potatoes.  The solution or First Slice*, of course, was to bandicoot the hill of potatoes making room for a melon start.  To bandicoot a potato is a simple matter.  The soil surrounding the potato plant is moistened until it yields to probing trowel or hand.  The small, immature spuds near the surface are carefully harvested leaving their deeply positioned brethren to grow.

For readers of a certain age (5-100) and nationality (Australian) the phrase ‘bandicoot potatoes’ is instantly familiar if not evocative.  The bandicoot is a small marsupial resident of Australia.  Similar in appearance to a rat and armed with the foraging bravado of a pig bandicoots are famed villains in the Australian garden.  Bandicoots are said to sense the first moment when a sweet potato can be dug or a melon’s debut to sweetness.  Their larcenous, sly habits are immortalized in Australian slang.  To “bandicoot” is to steal but with a touch of flair and skill.

Much like Walt Disney’s animal creations the bandicoot has been given an anthropomorphic makeover in Australian literature and art.  He’s a quick-thinking thief and liar but not an altogether a bad guy.  He has his reasons and malice isn’t one of them.  The bandicoot in Norman Lindsay’s The Magic Pudding is the cornerstone creation in the Aussie imagination.  The 1918 children’s classic documents the travels of three characters on a journey in the company of a magical pudding that can be eaten without being consumed.  The pudding is soon stolen while the characters fight would-be thieves and one another when not breaking into song or verse.  We first meet ‘The Bandicoot’ in Lindsay’s brilliant drawings that accompany the text.  The Bandicoot is holding a stolen watermelon so large that we can only see his legs.  The subsequent interrogation of the bandicoot by Bill Barnacle is a sublime “cop-meets-criminal” moment.  Bill is looking for the possum who has stolen his Magic Pudding.  The Bandicoot doesn’t initially grasp that Bill’s interest in him is as a witness and not as a thief.  The bandicoot pulls out one lie and then another in an attempt to tell Bill what he wants to hear.  The exchange is deft, funny and as genuine as any reality cop show.

Bandicooting potatoes is not isolated to Australia.  Anyone forced to wait the full measure of a potato’s growth cycle can get hungry, particularly for the taste of a just-dug, “new potato.”  The time required for a potato to reach maturity varies by potato variety.  The English make distinctions between potatoes harvested at 12 weeks called “earlies” and those at 14 weeks called “seconds.”  Earlies are dug before flowering.  They are small with very fragile skins.  Seconds are dug just after flowering and are a bit larger but still with loads of ‘new potato’ flavor.  “Mains” are potatoes left 16 weeks or longer in the ground.  Mains are fully mature spuds with thickened skins ready for storage.

The ‘new potatoes’ we find in American produce aisles are faint images of a just-dug, bandicooted potato.   The ubiquitous bright red “creamer potato” is usually a modern variety bred for its appearance.  Cherry Red is popular here in California.  They are a ‘seconds’ potato dug early for smaller size and then misted under refrigeration until you buy them months later.  If they taste like new potatoes its purely an accident.

Any good potato is worth bandicooting if you can manage it.  Gardeners with foresight can make the steal easier by mixing straw with the soil when they ‘hill’ the potato plants shortly after emerging.  Hilling encourages spud formation near the soil surface and the straw makes fast work of the digging.  I particularly like bandicoot Red Lasoda potatoes.  If there is a more delicious new potato than Red Lasoda, I’ve not grown it.

The photograph shows the results of my potato larceny of a Garnet Chile hill.  I’ve written a long story about Garnet Chile a year ago but I can’t say that it stimulated much interest in them.  Perhaps people are still gaga over fingerlings.  Fingerlings are a fine choice for a wax type but there’s a bigger world of potato taste out there besides fingerlings and the fraudulent Yukon Gold.

It’s a sad puzzle that potatoes have sunk to an anonymous generic in the American market.  Marketers have taught us to prefer white-fleshed potatoes because they appeal to some notion of sanitation and purity.  We’ve bred potatoes to have smooth surfaces because we think that the ‘eyes’ are imperfections.  We refrigerate and drug our potatoes to prevent them from aging naturally.  And the largest consumer of potatoes in America has placed dimensional requirements on potatoes so that they yield the largest number of fries over 4 inches in length.  We seem to have every notion about a potato except taste.

But finding the ‘true taste’ of a potato is not a simple affair.  De Gaulle once commented, “Very important affairs never have a single answer.”  I think he was speaking about potatoes.  Much like Lindsay’s Magic Pudding potatoes can taste like potatoes unless they taste like something else.  In adept, sensitive hands the potato can suggest a tender spring moment while another pose can mimic stolid winter nourishment.  They can be a star or a foil.  Dairy is a favored partner but a naked flour potato baked in ashes can be a revelation.  The potato is a culinary chameleon adept in starkly different roles but always recognizable as a warm, fulfilling presence.  Perhaps bandicoot potatoes were in Norman Lindsay’s mind when Bill Barnacle the sailor observered  “There’s nothing this Puddin’ enjoys more than offering slices of himself to strangers.”

These bandicoot potatoes were organically grown in my garden in the Valley of the Moon.

C Lindquist
Vegetables of Interest, 2008

*  Phrasing suggested by N. Lindsay, 1918, The Magic Pudding

Walla Walla Onions

Walla Walla Onions
(Allium cepa)

Walla Walla Onions are a Spanish-type sweet onion of Corsican origin.  A Frenchman, Pete Pieri, brought them to America in the late 1800s.  By legend he acquired the onion during a tour of duty in the French army.  After immigrating to the Walla Walla area of Washington State he introduced them to several farmers in the region who were of Italian descent. The large size and early yields of the new onion impressed the Italians who initially called it the “French Onion” in recognition of Pieri.  Later the onion was renamed as the ‘Walla Walla’ as it became the dominant cultivar grown in the region.

Since the 1950s the Walla Walla onion has gained wide popularity across the Pacific Northwest for gardeners and chefs.  It tolerates our mild winters and it produces large, succulent bulbs for a mid-summer harvest.  The flesh is “sweet”  (a technical misnomer since ‘sweet onions’ haven’t any more sugar that other onion types) and if grown in the right soils it can be eaten raw with relish.  (I make liberal use of hardwood ash from my brick oven as a soil amendment for onions.)  These characteristics make the Walla Walla a fine onion for Northern gardeners who have less success with shorter-day sweet varieties such as the Granex onion (aka ‘Vidalia/Maui Maui’).

Walla Walla onions do have one significant flaw.  They don’t keep very long.  Careful curing and storage will keep a Walla Walla for a few short months.  Store bought Walla Wallas have usually been refrigerated to extend their storage at the expense of their delicate flavor.

My crop of Walla Wallas is in good form despite repeated April frosts that pushed some other onion varieties into despair.  The harvest/curing of the 08 crop has begun.

C Lindquist
Vegetables of Interest, 2008

A Goldfinch’s Palate

A Goldfinch’s Palate

Var. Brassica



The art of gardening has produced many a fine writer but few are on a higher branch than Hanna Rion.  Ms. Rion’s writing career in the early 1900s bridged a number of changing sensibilities in America about writing, gardening and women.  But despite the chasm of nearly a century since Rion’s entry into American letters her prose remains accessible, witty and beautiful.  In one of her most quoted lines she observed:  “One of the greatest gifts of the garden is the restoration of the five senses.”  That this is true was brought home to me earlier this week when I noticed several Goldfinches squabbling over snacking rights in a gathering of flowering radishes.
j
For those of you unfamiliar with the behavior of Goldfinches you should know that in general they are amiable, social little fellows who seem quite comfortable sharing close quarters on a sunflower.  So to find Goldfinches fighting over a natural food source seemed odd.  And the oddity was doubled in my mind when I considered that two other nearby plantings of closely related Brassicas were vacant of Goldfinch interest.  Something in those heirloom German radishes was hitting the spot on a Goldfinch’s palate.  The mystery of the Goldfinch’s discriminatory palate clearly called for the use of all five senses as Hanna Rion predicted.

The attached photo shows three of several flowering Brassica choices offered in my garden to passing Goldfinches. All of these are Brassicas  in stages of early maturing pod formation although some have slightly different forms and sizes.   From left-to-right you can see the fine pods of the mis-named heirloom rutabaga, Gillfeather Turnip, (Brassica napobrassica) *.  In the middle are the Goldfinch-favored Munchner Bier radish (Raphanus sativus).  And on the right are the pods and flowers of California wild radish (Brasica juncea).

The sensory differences between these pods are subtle to my crude, non-Finch palate but I have taken the extraordinary step of recruiting two other blind palates with similar results.  The Munchner Bier pods are crisp yet yielding in the mouth.  In a word they are “delicate”.  And their wtaste is less “radish” and the mild heat comes in late like a tardy child.  They are quite easily the best of crowd and much improved over my memory of eating the Rat Tailed Radish which is grown exclusively for its pods.

Despite the fact that my palate concurs with that of a Goldfinch I hold on to some uncertainty if this is, in fact, what wins the favor of my feathered gourmands in yellow tuxedos.  There could be something more important and subtler at work than I can detect.  But this small lesson reminds me again of the rewards of observation and curiosity in nature.  There are levels of wisdom and sophistication well beyond our own at every turn.  We need all of our senses including a sixth sense of humility to find them.

Bunches of Munchner Bier Radish pods are available to curious chefs and hungry Goldfinches alike but the finches come first.

C Lindquist
Vegetables of Interest, 2008

*For an explanation of the ‘Gilfeather Turnip’ please refer to my website Vegetables of Interest for a long-winded story.

French Grey Shallots & the Summer Solstice

Near the time of the winter solstice last year I wrote about  timing of shallot planting and harvesting . Now as the summer solstice approaches  the shallot harvest looms.  I've dug a few hills over the spring as a monitoring exercise and I think the much of the harvest will be on time and ready in two weeks.  The aroma of a freshly dug Grey Shallot is unforgettable.  Its not onion-like nor sulfurous.  Think of a dirty truffle stored overnight in a burlap bag that was used to carry fresh ramps.  Its a one-of experience for serious foodies.

And another experience is the Alain Passard French Shallot soup with bacon cream. The recipe appears below and I encourage you to try it.  Its simplicity might encourage the adventurous chef to add their own bit of whimsy but I've found that the 'basic' Passard 'recette' along with a bountiful glass of Lafon Mersault is sufficient to make anything that follows drab in comparison.

C Lindquist
Vegetables of Interest, 2008

Cream of Shallot Soup….Alain Passard

- 600 g (1 lb. 5 oz.) French Shallots
- 40 g (3 tbsp.) half-salted butter
- 1 1/2 garlic cloves, peeled
- 500 ml (2 cups) whole milk
- Juice of half a lemon
- Fleur de sel
Whipped cream
- 200 g (3/4 cup) heavy cream
- 150 g (5 oz.) smoked bacon, coarsely chopped
- Fleur de sel

Method

  1. Heat the cream and smoked bacon in a saucepan. Leave to infuse, covered, for 30 minutes. Remove the bacon and put the cream in a blender. Season and set aside in the refrigerator.
   2. Wash, peel and mince the shallots. In a skillet, brown them lightly in the half-salted butter. Add the garlic cloves and whole milk and cook for 15 minutes over low heat.
   3. Liquefy in a blender and strain; season with fleur de sel and lemon juice.
   4. Whip the cream as soon as you take it out of the refrigerator until it has the consistency of whipped cream.
   5. Serve the soup very hot. Top each bowl with a dollop of the whipped bacon cream.

Chicory Flowers

Shortly before Carl Linneaus proposed a system of naming and classifying plants in the mid-1700s he proposed a system of classifying flowers based upon the pattern they displayed for opening and closing their flowers.  He noted three general patterns of flower opening/closing.  One group of flowers open and close their flowers dependent upon the weather.  A second group open and close their flowers depending upon the day length.  And a third group of flowers, which he called “Aequinoctales,” open and close their flowers at fixed times of day.  For example, catmint opens its flowers between 6 and 7 AM while marigolds wake up around 9am.  Convolulus is a late starter opening at noon.

Linneaus proposed that a planting of Aequinoctales flowers that open at different times could be used to tell time by observing which type of flowers were open.  He called his concept a “horologium florae” or “flower clock.”  It isn’t clear whether Linneaus actually planted a ‘flower clock’ garden but he did lay out a chart which continues to be used 300 years later for such projects.

One Aequinoctales flower that appears in Linneaus’ list is chicory (Cichorium intubis).  Its beautiful distinctive blue flowers open between 5 and 6 AM no matter the weather or day length.   One might argue that there are other clues outside that its only 5AM but who can quibble with Linneaus?  Chicory closes around 4PM in Sweden but stays up later here in California.  There much more to do here.

Pictured is the flower of Puntarelle, an Italian chicory I’ve grown in my garden.  The greens are a bit past season but the flowers are stunning.  Chicory flowers figure in a number of herbal remedies of no particular value but one old French recipe has my interest:   candied chicory flowers.  That could be worth getting up early.

C Lindquist
Vegetables of Interest, 2008

Green Mountain Potato Flowers

Green Mt. Potato Flowers

In 1769 an apprentice apothecary named Antoine Parmentier entered a contest supported by the French government to find a “food substance capable of reducing the calamities of famine.”  Through much of the 17th and 18th centuries France suffered from periodic famines prompted by crop failures, particularly those involving wheat.  The French daily diet was largely bread-based with modest supplementation from dairy, fruit and meat.  Failures of wheat crops were common as were the consequent famines.

Parmentier’s proposed addition to the French diet was controversial but one based on his personal experience.  He had spent a greater portion of his service in the French army of Louis XVth as a prisoner of war in Germany.  There he was fed a steady diet of potatoes which were cheap and simple fare in Germany but only considered fit for swine by the French.   Parmentier, however, developed an appreciation for potatoes and conducted a variety of experiments with them after his safe return to France.  He became convinced that potatoes were an excellent food of “a delicate and flavorful nature”.

Parmentier’s 1769 proposal was to introduce potatoes into the French garden as an attractive flower and as food.   His entry won the contest and the interest of the new French king, Louis XVI.   Soon after Parmentier’s win the Queen of France wore potato flowers both as ornament and as a ploy to induce the production of potatoes.

Nearly everyone now appreciates Parmentier’s culinary foresight but few recall his appreciation for the potato’s neat habit and attractive flowers.   Attached is a reminder.  These are Green Mountain Potato flowers that are showing their best in my garden in the Valley of the Moon.  Green Mountain is an American heirloom potato that has fallen out of commercial production but never out of favor with Maine potato buffs.  It is a vigorous plant with handsome leaves and bright, confident flowers.  If so inclined you can wear a sprig of flowers and keep up with the fashion of a French queen.  And in a few week’s time you can dine on fare fit for a French king. 

Merci, Parmentier!

C Lindquist
Vegetables of Interest, 2008

White 1015Y Texas Sweet Onions ("Contessa")

White 1015Y Texas Sweet Onions   ("Contessa")
(Allium cepa)



Reading the history of Texas sweet onions is a bit like reading the Book of Genesis.  If you substitute "Dr. Henry Jones" for "God" and "1944" for "In the beginning" both stories proceed with a long list of "who begat who" that stretches longer than the average reader's interest or memory.  In the case of Genesis we can assume that that all the "begetting" was accomplished by the human-on-human pastime known as "whoopee."   The same however cannot be said for the creation of Texas sweet onions.  Herein lies a tale of an unusual quirk of onion biology and lots of smarts on the part of plant geneticists such as Dr. Henry Jones.

The "In the beginning" line for Texas sweet onions opens in the late 1800s when Texas farmers discovered that their climate and soils could grow Spanish short-day onions that tasted "sweet."  Sweet onions are usually not "sweet" in the conventional sense of having more sugar than other onions but they do have lower concentrations of pyruvic acid which gives an onion its pungent taste.  Thus a "sweet onion" tastes mild, less pungent.  Texas "sweet onions" were a hit nationwide and business was good.  But farmers grew impatient with the variable yields and sizes of onions from the same batch of seed.  They wanted bigger onions with more uniform growth.

From a plant geneticist's point of view the wish list for a better sweet onion was feasible.  Size, 'sweetness', color and maturation time are characteristics that are more or less under genetic control.   If  strains of sweet onions with one or more desirable characteristics could be crossed the resulting offspring might have more good things than either parent.    Moreover the first generation offspring of two genetically non-identical plants are are often more vigorous and productive in a general way, a phenomena called 'hybrid vigor.' But the problem was that no one knew how to make a hybrid onion.

The discovery of how to make a hybrid onion belongs to Dr. Henry Jones and his research group at the USDA.  It was a tour de force of observation, experimentation and hard work.  The technique is difficult to describe in a nontechnical manner but essentially Jones found a way to reverse the overwhelming odds that an onion flower will pollenate itself.  Onion flowers contain hundreds of both male and female organs.  The male organ makes pollen which falls only a few millimeters in order to fertilize the female organ on the same flower. In theory pollen from one onion could fertilize another onion but the home team advantage of co-located male and female organs is huge. 

Jones' method of creating hybrid onions pivoted on the observation that some rare onion plants make flowers but are nonetheless sterile.  They rely on an alternative method of propagation. Jones hypothesized that the mechanism of onion sterility might be hereditary and that it could be used to control the 'slam dunk' self-pollenation of the average onion.  He was right but it took many years to trial and error to bring the technique to a large scale.  His first and most famous hybrid onion was "Granex" released in 1952.   When Granex was planted in Georgia it was renamed "Videllia" and the rest is onion history.  Today there are many hybrid onions of varying types but all have been created using Jones' insights.

A recent addition to the hybrid sweet onion clan is the 1015Y onion.  It was developed in the 1980s by Dr. Leonard Pike from Texas A&M University.  Pike's group was looking for a way to make a tasty, large sweet onion that would resist a serious root infection caused by a fungus common in Texas soils.  After years of labor his group introduced the "1015Y" onion.  The "1015" appellation was the suggested planting date in south Texas (October, 15) and the "Y" reflected its yellow color.  Marketers have dropped its technical name in favor of "Texas Supersweets" but people inside the Texas onion beltway know better and still refer to it as 1015.

The onions at hand are a new white variety of 1015Y.  (Marketers are attempting to jump in early on this one and its being promoted as "Contessa".)  The genetic controls over onion color are fairly well known.  Five genes control the range of color in onions, giving them a palette of white, yellow, red and a rare purple or chartreuse to choose them.  Most commercial white strains have a gene called "I" which is a dominant genetic ace card that shuts off any other color gene the onion might have.  I'm betting that Contessa is an "II" genotype but I have been frustrated in my efforts to learn about Contessa's genetic wiring.   My inquiry to the Texas onion farmer who sold me my plants was returned with the comment that "It's the same as 1015Y only its white.  That's all we know."

So there you have it:  a new white Texas sweet onion called "Contessa" or maybe "1015W".  These plants started their life on a Texas ranch but were shipped and transplanted into my garden in Sonoma Valley of the Moon during a wet, cold February .  Its genetic roots go back to mild onion forebearers in Spain and the Canary Islands.  But its recent ancestry bear the traces of ingenious human tinkering because you and I like onions to taste a bit less like onions.  Onions begat onions and human ingenuity begat more ingenuity.  Originally there was yellow but now we have white.  And that's all I know.

C Lindquist
Vegetables of Interest, 2008

Thoughts on Planting Shallots

Thoughts on Planting Grey Shallots
Christmas Day, 2007


“Plant Grey Shallots on the Winter Solstice. 
Harvest them on the Summer Solstice.”
        Anonymous

In early December I began preparations to plant French grey shallots (aka “Griselle Shallots”).  I’m not a particularly prompt person but I respect Nature when she has been so clear as to set a date.

Grey shallots are small, tear-shaped bulbs that are beloved in French cooking but nearly unknown here in America.  Many botanical texts place them in a unique stature as the only ‘true’ shallot. Our familiar store-bought shallots are a type of clumping onion that grew up from seed.  One needn’t be a botanist to tell the difference, however.  A grey shallot has a dark, rich and earthy aroma while a supermarket shallot tastes like an onion that has swallowed a cheap antacid.

Grey shallots have drawbacks.  They don’t store particularly well nor do they seem to tolerate living under refrigeration, which is a mainstay of modern day vegetable storage. Grey shallots begin to ‘slump’ four or five months post harvest.  By Thanksgiving a few shallots will have melted away leaving only a dry husk.  And unless chemically poisoned, a true shallot will begin to think of sprouting after a few months of dormancy.  As the Winter Solstice approaches on the 22nd of December an intact grey shallot is thinking hard about sprouting roots and shoots.

This delayed yet specific sense of timing in a shallot’s behavior has made its way into a farming maxims that counsel us to “plant and harvest shallots by the Solstice”.  You can find those maxims today when talking to the best Allium experts such as John Swenson or you can uncover them in John C. Loudin’s ‘An Encyclopedia of Gardening” in the 1800s.  Good advice stores well.

Since the earliest times farming has produced crops and maxims.  The crops fed the farmer’s family and the maxims gave the farmer much needed advice.  Given the importance of farming to the survival and stability of early human culture it isn’t surprising that farm advice featured prominently in our earliest literary works.  A light tillage of the first Western literary cannon uncovers lots of commentary on farming.  Mago, Cato, Varro and Pliny all had much to say about farming.  Their advice ranged from the general (“In buying a farm do not be too eager”  Cato) to the specific ( “Plant wheat (emmer) on October 15.”  Pliny ).  Taken as a whole their advice is entirely familiar to anyone who has farmed.  In any era, past or present, there has always been a neighbor who has the time to tell you what you’ve done wrong.

The ancients crafted their farming maxims from collective observation.   There was surprisingly little supernatural or mystical about to their discussions.  These were practical people who built trust by accurate observation and reporting.  Agricultural quackery was a 20th century invention that began with Rudoph Steiner.  Luckily no smart farmer takes Steiner seriously which brings to mind the Camus quote that you can make progress by being wrong if you learn to be wrong all alone. 

I began my shallot planting on Christmas Day, three days late of the Solstice.  I first uncovered a few hills of grey shallots that I had left in the shallot bed over the summer.  As you can see in the photograph they had dutifully sprouted and were ready for division and replanting.  By some mechanism a shallot keeps time with an accuracy that matches our invention of the Gregorian calendar.  How does a  bulb no larger than a nickel sense the shortest day of the year?

Evidence suggests that onions, a cousin to the shallot, manage dormancy by silencing genes responsible for sprout formation.  It’s a form of ‘genetic checkmate’ that the onion can maintain for a typical but not permanent length of time.  Numerous factors influence this checkmate status including time; temperature; daylight; and the bulb’s maturity when harvested.  The innermost details of the mechanism aren’t known but some evidence suggests that histones are involved.  Histones are a family of small proteins that are plentiful in the nuclear chromatin structure and they are important in the management of the genes themselves.  Histones can act as ‘switches’ that turn adjacent genes on or off.  In the case of onions it is thought that declining amounts of a histone called H2 might act as a switch to activate the sprouting process.  The search is on to discover why onion histone H2 changes with time and temperature but there are abundant clues in both plants and animals that histones can be tweaked by factors external to the cell’s internal environment.

Recent work with flowering plants has shown that cold temperatures can have a cumulative effect of changing the histones that surround the chromatin structure on cells that make up the bud structure. When enough exposure to cold has taken place the plant’s genes that inhibit flowering get turned ‘off.’  Any subsequent warming spell can trigger  a second temperature-sensitive pathway that leads to blossoming.    Anyone who has seen a cherry tree blooming in February can appreciate that irony.

I am confident that one day that we will know what manner of switch or clock that tells a grey shallot to sprout.  It will probably involve a great number of steps each with its own universe of variation. Fate may have it that whoever discovers the identities and the script for this biological play will win a prize, perhaps a Nobel.  If they do I can imagine them being questioned for a summary of their work that can be of practical use for the non-scientific community.  I trust that they will say “Plant Grey Shallots on the Winter Solstice.  Harvest them on the Summer Solstice.” 

Good advice stores well.

C Lindquist
Vegetables of Interest, 2007

“Slenderette Beans”

“Slenderette Beans”   

(Phaseolus vulgaris)

Slenderette beans are not an heirloom bean.  They were developed by Stavely and Joseph Steinke of Rutgers University in the 1980s as part of a project to enhance resistance to a common fungal parasite called “bean rust.”

Slenderette has a complex lineage but it includes some wild beans from South America which have broad resistance to many of the 55 races of rust infestations endemic in the United States. 

Slenderette is a dwarf plant which is strikingly productive.  The pods are nearly hairless which give them a deep glossy appearance.  The flavor is good.

These beans were grown organically in my garden next to a patch of heirloom zinnias.  They didn’t seem to mind.

Piment d'Espelette

Text to follow