Every time I walk through my kitchen, I feel compelled to look out the window, to check again on my garden.
This summer was the first time I’ve ever tried my hand at growing anything besides children and I approached it with a sense of grim pessimism. All I need is one edible vegetable, I said, just one to make this all worthwhile.
is now this:
In a few weeks we will likely be swimming in squash.
It will go well with the cherry tomatoes just starting to ripen and the romaine lettuce whose tender leaves I’ve already started nibbling as I do the weeding.
The verdict is still out on whether my onions, carrots, cauliflower, cucumber, and spaghetti squash will go the way of the squash or the way of my herbs, all of which I have killed (R.I.P chives, basil and dill).
There is a slow magic to gardening. It is the most natural thing and yet I keep finding myself ridiculously delighted by the fact that there is FOOD growing in my YARD. Actual, edible food.
I’m already planning for next summer. A friend has promised me cuttings of her raspberry bush and my neighbor wants to go in on a joint apple tree venture (we’d each need one in our yard for apple tree sex, apparently). I want to expand my plot to include bell peppers and to grow full size tomatoes.
Ooh, and watermelon. Yes.
I think I’m hooked. This is the most Midwestern addiction (besides meth, I suppose) I can imagine.