Two varieties of quince grown in the gardens of houses within half a mile of each other in South East London. Both are intensely sweet-smelling, the small one with a bright and almost citrussy note and the big scarred one with en ever-so-slight whiff of fermentation, which makes it smell something more like sea buckthorn. The fluff on the big quince must have quite a bit of yeast trapped in it, more so than the smooth one, and I will scrape it off this and a few others to start a quince mead.
Four years ago I planted a tiny horseradish seedling. Every year it grew up into a fine, broad-leafed plant, with what I always assumed would be a little horseradish root underneath, perfect to use in a single dinner sometime. I did nothing about it, watching every autumn as the plant started to wither and vanish, wondering whether it would return each spring. It continues to do so, and I continue to look at it, every year, thinking about digging it up and cooking with it, and doing nothing.
Maybe this will be the year