First Harvest

On Sunday Elsbeth and I had our first, albeit modest, harvest of the season.  Two of the four strawberry plants in our front bed had each produced one scrumptious red berry.  We split the bounty and spent a few short moments enjoying the spoils of our labor.  And while our garden will certainly not produce enough berries to make it past the hands (and stomachs) of whoever picks them, I am ever more eager to PYO (pick your own) until my red-stained fingers become crippled in arthritic pain...well, it's a possibility anyway.

 .. our next strawberry treat ..

 What happens when you forget to pick your broccoli?    ...   Flowers!

A much larger yield came from the proud and patient broccoli crowns which were picked from their center-right portion of the front bed.  The broccoli has special meaning to us as small urban garderners who choose, if sometimes by accident, to draw others into the beauty, wonder, and anticipation of growing one's own food.  It is a unique plant to choose for the front yard in a small but crowded side street where buildings compete with one other in the game of interior square-footage, fences, and concrete walkways in place of  open green space.  I'm not placing criticism on that choice, but it is interesting to consider what others find to be important.  

Our broccoli, in all its glory, has served as the cornerstone and benchmark of growth and progress since the first weekend of the Granite Street Garden.  It is tolerant to cold weather and thrives on little sun, occasional drought, and generally does best when you just leave it alone.  Even when temperatures were cool and the only weather we knew was grey, cloudy, unpleasant days (you know, the kind that make you say - "why do I live here, again?"), the broccoli still managed to keep our interest.  Matthew, our 12-yr old neighbor, recently mentioned that he always checks on the broccoli, in particular, to see how much it has grown.  It is a point of interest, a show-stopper for its upright stance, our sergeant at arms.  And now, it's lunch!  Just in time for the tomatoes and squash to star making things really interesting...

In a trusting moment, I took Elsbeth's suggestion to try the broccoli greens with the mind that she had very recently lead me to try several wonderful and surprising leafy treats.  But, alas, I cannot claim to have enjoyed or even really appreciated that experience.  Broccoli greens are bitter, thick, and rigid.. and that is exactly how they taste.  Even after I spit it out, the residual disappointment actually prompted me to reach for some weeds (yes - edible, nutritious, weeds) to take the sting away.  I'm sure if we had not gone a little mad with greens (red lettuce, pea tendrils, and a lot more) at the farmer's market just the day before, we might have actually tried to make the greens edible.. maybe... or maybe we would have stared at them for a few days until wilt took over anyway.

Admiring the harvest..

Botany of Desire

Today I came across a quote from Michael Pollan, my narrator-extraordinaire on morning walks to work.

"Sooner or later your fingers close on that one moist-cold spud that the spade has accidentally sliced clean through, shining wetly white and giving off the most unearthly of earthly aromas. It's the smell of fresh soil in the spring, but fresh soil somehow distilled or improved upon, as if that wild, primordial scene has been refined and bottled: eau de pomme de terre. You can smell the cold inhuman earth in it, but there's the cozy kitchen to, for the smell of potatoes is, at least by now, to us, the smell of comfort itself, a smell as blankly welcoming as spud flesh, a whiteness that takes up memories and sentiments as easily as flavors. To smell a raw potato is to stand on the very threshold of the domestic and the wild. (241)"

— Michael Pollan (The Botany of Desire)

In developing this post, I learned that PBS has an ongoing series inspired by the book.  While it is not currently on air (at least in my area), you can watch archived episodes on pbs.org!

More to come on potatoes and the miracle which is a spud...

Getting Started

It all started in late March.  Elsbeth and I had spent weeks talking about what we would do with our backyard garden space.  But between our demanding 9-5's, and other extra-curriculars stealing spare time, it was easy to put off starting the seeds.  

As frosty nights broke to foggy mornings, we made our trek to the garden store for seed starting supplies.  Trays, potting soil, and a few cold weather veggies (broccoli, strawberries, and lettuce) were enough to inspire an afternoon tilling session.  Of course in the bleak muddy greyness of March, a few bright violet and lemon yellow pansies, paired with Spring's sun-worshiping sergeant at arms - bright yellow tulips, were the perfect addition to our front window box.

Kentucky Wonder garden beans, Sugar Daddy climbing peas, sweet basil, red bell peppers, and heirloom garden tomatoes all took their place in two-by-three planting starters, sharing their small spaces, two seeds per pocket.  After weeks of daily soaks and afternoons warming themselves in the sun, our seeds emerged one by one.  They reached their little hands, ever so slowly, out of the pockets and into the world.  

And in those first few days I experienced a little miracle of nature of what can come from a tiny speck of a seed with a little bit of water and the warmth of the sun.  Every day I rushed home from work to watch them grow and stare, as any adoring mother would, as their little leaves pressed up and out of their little soil beds. 

Our next round of garden work was more intense.  On a particularly sunny and warm Friday afternoon in April, I found myself at mid-day already into overtime and itching for a boost in serotonin.  An afternoon of sun is a much needed compliment to a winter of fluorescent office lights and hours in front of a computer screen.  So off to the garden I went, digging up clumps of grass to make room in our front yard for some decorative broccoli and strawberry plants.  Next came the bean transplants along the front fenceline, and some flowers to break up the small plot. 

  

(( lettuce ))

It seems as though the more time I spend in the garden, the more it consumes me.  I have dreams of running away to my own self-sustaining farm, where honeysuckle grows on an old barn and my only neighbors sing every morning and evening.  But then I wake up, walk the dogs, and thoroughly appreciate my morning coffee, the 12 emails in my inbox, never-ending task lists, and organizing my 'priorities' for the day.  There is something to be said for grumpy Monday mornings and the few reliable coworkers that can always greet you with a smile.