This year I meant to document my garden’s progression from plot of nothingness to feast of green.
That was the plan, anyway. But life never quite works out as you plan, does it? In the grand scheme of things, not plotting the course of a tomato to fruit explosion is not the end of the world, so I hope my garden will forgive me when, in future years, it wants to know what it looked like when it was young.
I have a new garden this year, located right next to my house, which means that when I forget my spinach seeds or my organic chicken fertilizer, it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump back to my apartment to get it. I climb a lot of stairs these days.
And if those dastardly squirrels had left my poor spinach alone, I’d have tons of it.
Instead, what I do have is everything I started from seedlings, plus a few valiant heirloom tomatoes from a friend, heaps of sweet fava beans, the end of my sweetpeas, a prolific sorrel plant, one lone strawberry (one plant, one berry—which I intentionally ate under-ripe so the squirrels wouldn’t scoop it up from under me), purslane that I transplanted from a friend, one late zucchini plant, holy basil, tarragon, echinacea, Italian basil, struggling curry (it’s a plant as well as a spice blend), peppers that will never flower, red and green onions, ram rau (Vietnamese coriander I bought at Jean-Talon Market), and some other random bean/pea things I can’t identify. I planted a bunch and they seem to have all moved (I, again, blame the squirrels) , so I have no idea what’s coming up. And I inherited some garlic chives, too, from the plot’s last occupant.
I finished my dill and cilantro, and my towering cherry tomatoes, zebra tomatoes, brandywines and beefsteaks are coming in. The cherries are little bombs of sunshine.
The garden has been less work this year, though, thanks to the squirrels negating a quarter of my plot. And the consistent rain and lower heat and humidity than last year makes everything more manageable. I built a trellis with a friend for my beans and zucchini. My melons and cucumbers never sprouted. My broccoli never came, and my bok choy is all bitten and torn. I’m, perhaps, less fruitful than last year. But no less thankful. And much more relaxed. I don’t think I’m killing anything all by myself. And I have very few weeds.
Plus, I’ve only gotten in one garden fight. Not a fight, really—more of a morning of frustration. There’s a lovely woman with a plot next to me who insists on giving me gardening adivce, such as picking the suckers off my tomatoes. Except I already know that. And on a day when you have zero patience, the last thing you need is a woman coming over to your plot and judging your tomatoes.
“Have you been on vacation?” she asked me in French.
“No, I never take vacations,” I replied. Which isn’t quite true, but I didn’t have the time to search for the full French explanation that I’m in school full-time and freelance for far too many businesses. I bike so much that my quads are mutinying, and my massage therapist is shocked at my neck tension. I don’t actually have a regular massage therapist. I have a trained woman I go to when I can’t stand the pain any longer.
And then this garden neighbour tried to tell me my holy basil was a weed. Well that did it…
“Yes, I know about suckers on tomatoes, and no that’s not a weed. No you don’t need to water my garden when I’m away. Because I’m never away. You just don’t see me at the times you’re here.” On my way out, I wished her a good day and scrunched my face into an almost friendly smile. Apologizing without apologizing.
My sucker-less tomatoes waved in the wind, nodding in approval.
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