Lookee there! Two blogs for the price of one! I’m trying to atone for my sins of yesterday.
I was out in my garden this evening, pulling out pea vines. The sugar snap peas have come and been eaten, and the vines were dry, dull green and brown, wilted reminders of their former glory. So I was yanking them out, and as I was doing so, something caught my eye. There, on one of the tomato plants, was a tomato. A little green marble of a tomato, with the papery remains of the flower clinging to it. I was surprised, and set out on an exploration of the garden. There were no less than four baby tomatoes, and one round little button of a baby bell pepper. Two nubbins of jalapeno, and at least a dozen velvety slivers of green bean. I was amazed.
I love to garden, and I’m fairly successful at it. However, this does not stop me from being somewhat dense on the subject. Every spring I put seeds in the ground, and then hover over them until they come up. I fret, I check on them several times a day, and I make everyone come out and admire the seedlings when they do poke through the dirt. I’m vastly relieved when they sprout. Again. Just like last year. And the year before, and the year before…and like they have since the beginning of time.
This year I grew lettuce for the first time. One day I glanced at the calendar and realized that the window of spring in which I could grow lettuce was fast closing. So Dad ran to the store for a packet of seeds (he’s great for stuff like that – and making tea unexpectedly. A gem.), and I sprinkled them on my carefully prepared soil. Then I fretted. I misted them. I weeded around them. This was April, not much to weed yet. But I was out there no less than five times a day, poking around and inspecting the ground for signs of lettuce. And (I know you’re all on the edge of your seats here), they sprouted. Beautifully. I grew eight heads of lettuce, ruffled rosettes of green and red. They were just beautiful. And I was amazed.
The thing is, I know too much to be surprised by the facts of gardening. Yet they sneak up on me. Like the flat-leaf parsley. I grew some last year, a plant I bought from the local gardening center. Parsley, you should know, is a biennial. It grows for two years, flowering the second year. I know this. Yet I watched as my transplanted parsley grew lacy flower heads. Watched as they bloomed and faded. Watched as my sons took the remaining seedpods and broke them apart and scattered them throughout the garden. So why would I be surprised this spring to find eight ZILLION little flat-leaf parsley plants throughout my garden?
Dense.
I also watched as the chives bloomed. Gorgeous purple spiky globes of flowers. I even picked a few and dried them. The rest dried there, on the stalk. The other day I felt one of the papery flowers and noticed tiny black seeds sifting down through my fingers. Here we go again. Next year I’ll be staring in awe at an army of green hedgehogs springing up in my garden. Chives as far as the eye can see. That is, if they can compete with the parsley.