The answer lies in our membership of a scheme that supplies free heritage varieties. The Heritage Seed Library has a catalogue with a difference: no glossy photos or special promotions; varieties with more whimsical names than we’re used to; free seeds. How does this work? Each member pays an annual membership fee, and may choose six varieties each year on a first-come, first-served basis. The seeds duly arrive in little brown envelopes with block-printed names – then it’s up to us to grow them!

What would grow from such mysterious seeds? In most cases, pretty normal plants emerged – such as Mr Fearn’s Purple Flowered French beans and Uncle Bert’s Purple Kale (purple seems to be a heritage hue). We also tried Cantalun melon (why not?) and were rewarded with a mini specimen – its diminutive proportions probably due to Uncle Bert and some broccoli smothering that part of the vegetable patch, indeed giving Mr Fearn a hard time too. When we finally dared to harvest and try it, the mini melon was reassuringly familiar: a sweet, orange-fleshed cantaloupe. But the star of our show was Georgia Candy Roaster. Three squash plants germinated nicely and grew into fine trailing plants that sneaked along the garden path and across the potato patch. It gradually became clear that each plant was maturing one large fruit, with a respectable oval shape and tan colour. And the culinary experience? Despite its middle name, the cooked flesh tasted anything but sweet. But the most striking feature of this fruit was the large, fat seeds. When cooked with the flesh, they resembled broad beans (including the creamy texture) – not my favourite, so imagine my face!

Yet redemption was at hand! When baked on a tray in the oven, the seeds were deliciously crunchy with a nutty roast flavour, enhanced by a little salt. Additionally, the flesh is a wonderful mashed potato substitute. Do try my recipe for fish pie made with a non-sweet heritage squash.