Long before the outdoor beds wake up, our greenhouse is already green. In late winter we sow butterhead and oakleaf into shallow trays of our own compost mix, mist them twice a day, and watch the first true leaves unfold under the glass.
Lettuce is a humble crop that punishes impatience. Sow too deep and it sulks; let the tray dry once and the edge burns. Six seasons of saved notes taught us the rhythm: damp, bright and cool, with a whisper of airflow from the louvre vents.
From tray to transplant
At three weeks the seedlings move into gutter beds inside the same house, spaced a hand's width apart in living soil. The greenhouse holds just enough warmth for steady growth while the nights stay cold — that contrast is what builds crunch.
We water from below, feed nothing but compost tea, and pick off the odd slug by torchlight. No heated benches, no forced air: slow-grown leaves that have never known stress stay sweet far longer after picking.
Cut in the morning, in the salad bowl by lunch — that is the whole philosophy of our greenhouse.
Picked crisp, packed fast
Harvest starts at dawn with a sharp knife and a cold rinse. Heads go straight into the cool room, then into veg boxes and the market stall the same day, outer leaves and all.
If your box lettuce ever tastes almost fizzy, that is freshness, not fertilizer. Eat it within three days, keep it in the crisper drawer, and save the root ends — tucked back into damp soil, many will sprout a second small head.
