The minute, the very second, one of my potato plants at the allotment showed a flower on top, I was in there, carefully scraping away with trowel and fingers to reveal these golden wonky orbs of deliciousness. With skins so soft they came away with a gentle rub of the thumb, they tasted earthy and sweet, melting in the mouth with a satisfaction that comes from growing, and eating, your own produce.
By far the best potatoes we'd ever eaten. With butter (or butter substitute in my case - not the same at all) and mint from the garden, a corn on the cob so yellow it was almost indecent and thick slices from a baked ham, accompanied with my Mum's pickle and a glass of white wine.
We talked about how good they were, how the runner beans were doing, our next growing plans.
They were absolutely the best things we've eaten this year. Apart from the one ripe raspberry from the cane in the back garden at home. But I didn't share that.