Nearly Planted

Yesterday, Michael was able to take a day off work, and we planted a bulk of the lower garden. I'd forgotten I had muscles on the backs of my thighs until I had both feet down on the hardwood this morning. Then, they alerted me to the fact that they had a grievance. They called me ungrateful, said I don't pay enough attention to them. (They have a point.) My lower back also had complaints. But I'm used to its grousing. I quieted them all with Motrin and a coffee chaser. They seem happy now. So am I.

Strawberries have formed. By June, we'll be having
shortcake for dinner. Mmmm....

I enjoy doing garden work very much, and it's not so much the planting as the prospect of the meals to come. Fat tomato slices with basil and mozzarella, stuffed peppers, oven-baked potato fries. And, quite honestly, even though it's hot work, I really enjoy canning. I don't think I'd enjoy it half as much if Michael weren't part of the process. We have a ritual: after breakfast, we finish our coffee, pour iced tea, put Jerry Clower on the CD player, and get out the kitchen scale. We start the fans overhead and above the stove, and open the door to the garage to help release the steam and the hot air. Then, we get to work. We cut vegetables for hours. Our eyes water. We sweat like it's heavy labor, but I love it because it's something we get to do together. By the end of the summer, our fruit cellar shelves are nearly overflowing with wonderful things to use in the winter.

Mostly, when my mother cans, she does it single-handedly. My father does boy-related work: fixing the mower, weed-whacking, killing weeds, burning garbage, painting woodwork, etc. But my Mom, who has a very good kitchen--but not half as fantastic as all the kitchens we designed for people whom I suspected would never even use them, except to microwave meals and cut cookies from tube-squeezed dough--makes do with what she has. Not to say that it's not enough, but when I go back home and work at her stove, I usually hit my head on the skillets hanging from the pot rack. Also, there's a burner that's too far for me to reach. If I've got a pot cooking on the front burner, I can't safely reach over it to the back without feeling like the skin on my underarm is beginning to ooze and meld.  I must, instead, stand on the opposite side of the island, directly in the traffic area. Still, Mum cranks out dozens of jars of various pickled items, plastic freezer boxes of stewed tomatoes, sealed bags of blanched green beans and peas.

Our radishes, still growing.

I've got so much more to say about the subject of canning, most of it to do with my late grandmother's canning habits--something that was truly a ritual, one that lasted most of the day when I was a child. She filled jars with giant pear halves flavored with wintergreen lozenges. But not yet, not yet....more on all that later.

Yesterday, while I was making lunch, Michael and I had the first radishes of the season. Now understand, these were rogue radishes. Not like those you see to the right here. These rogue radishes came up of their own accord near my herbs. They were white and round as marbles with long, hairy tap roots. They were incredibly hot, too, with the blooming kind of heat that makes the back of your palate glow. But they were good, perhaps because of that. I've heard that the French (is it in Provence?) eat radishes with breakfast, but until I do a little research, I can't image what they might eat it with. Cheese? Cheese would be good. But then again, cheese is good with most things.

Chives and oregano.

On the left is a portion of my herb patch, which, in the past, has gotten out of hand pretty quickly. Right now, I've got oregano and cilantro drying on cookie sheets in the kitchen in my attempt to preserve some of the harvest and to pare the plants back (woah, girl, woah!). Eventually, I'll bring the dehydrator upstairs, but it's early days, kids, early days.

We've also planted basil and St. Johns Wort (not for any medicinal reasons other than it's supposed to be very good for bees). There are a few tiny little green sprigs that have punctured the cracked earth, but so far, they've largely been a no-show. We bought some larger back-up basil plants, just in case.

Yesterday, while Michael tilled the upper garden, where we plant potatoes, pumpkins, and yellow corn, I planted a white corn breed called "Country Gentleman," which is apparently an heirloom variety. I also planted cabbage, eggplants, and sweet peppers. By the late afternoon, as Michael was erecting the tomato 'cages' I had all the hot peppers in as well. Together, he and I got the tomatoes in the ground. That was right around the time I hit a wall. After that, I collapsed inside, my leg muscles twitching. Who knew gardening could be such a workout?

Below, are pictures of the rest of the lower garden, which is almost entirely populated with plants or sewn with seeds.

In the beds near the garden entrance
are beds of lettuces, spinach, beets, and carrots.

Here are our squash, melon, and in the forefront, hot
pepper plants. In the background is our compost bin and
a top bar behive that will soon have nucs inside.

Tomatoes are our most used garden item. We
can it for sauce, which I use for soup bases, spaghetti sauce,
and pizza toppings. Often, we make it into salsa. Instead of
those wicked tomato baskets this year, Michael is trying
something totally different.

Our baby robins are gone. The last one left the nest
while I was in the garden yesterday. I had to rescue
the poor frightened hopper from Jasper and Fred,
who had him cornered by the air conditioner. I'm
pleased to say he got away safely.

Soon, soon, there will be a fence around
our berry bushes.