As Garrison Keillor said once, “February is the month that God created to show people who don’t drink what a hangover feels like.”
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In which i panic because all of my seeds haven’t been started yet, and muse over past catastrophes of overambitious seed-starting.
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With the expectation of a rush of new gardeners’ fervor this season, I got a jump on seed-ordering, relying on some trusted suppliers and a lot of daydreaming. Yes, I ordered way too much. It’s a thing we do.
Now, the planning sessions begin.
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The first flakes of snow are falling in non-committal zig-zags, and my thumb-pad is chapped from rubbing tiny mouse-tooth lettuce seeds from their fluff.
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There is a moment in the June garden that needs to be exalted to an appropriate level.
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I love raspberries.
My dog did too. She’d accompany me on a picking-adventure, and learned quickly to skip her own hunt and instead watch my hand reaching for the most-ripe berries.
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It’s finally warm out!
The timer starts to the first zucchini blossoms…the first chiles…and that first luminous tomato, just waiting for the kitchen…
Strawberries require *just enough* work to make the reward worth it. They’re absolute easy successes, but not by reflex. By care. And then, when you return to the kitchen with a colander full of glowing summer carbuncles, you know your work paid off.
After all; nobody would care about finding the Holy Grail if it was just sitting on the coffee table.
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