September garden
09/07/2009

We interrupt this regularly scheduled blog on writing my novel (see August archives) to bring you this late-breaking update on my garden.  It probably says something unflattering about my character, but I now have the garden that I deserve.  My garden suits me. 

Earlier in the season I had garden envy.  I admired others' gardens--those with the ruler-straight rows, weedless walkways, and lush green foliage promising bounteous harvests.  My garden, by comparison, looked like something you'd pick up at a rummage sale.  An asparagus here, a few straggly rows of onions there, peas that refused to climb their wires and instead writhed like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum on the ground, an attempted flower border mostly missing in action.  You get the idea.

But this little come-from-behind-garden has not only cranked out the produce--I'm talking lettuce, squash, peas, cucumbers, beets, raspberries, squash, potatoes, tomatoes, bell peppers, chili peppers, squash, cantaloupe, carrots, tomatillos, squash, corn, beans, and herbs--it has now thrown off all restraints, over-run any semblance of order, and transformed my staid, under-achieving little plot into a wild jungle of fecundity.  Squash, cucumbers and pumpkin vines spill over one another so that you never know what species you'll find when you lift a leaf.  The arugula have gone to seed and are falling over on the rows of romaine, which stand three-feet tall and and are still sprouting salad.  (Rather leathery salad, but I like leather with olive oil and oregano.)  The sunflowers have grown so heavy they've toppled over onto the asparagus, but they keep on blooming just the same.  The birds and bees don't seem to mind their sunflowers prone.  The corn stands tall and rustling in the breeze, with half a dozen ears on every stalk and weeds growing up nearly as tall between the rows. The border flowers have discovered some secret growth hormone hidden in the soil and are blooming now as if it's their last chance before frost.

And it may well be. 

The point is, I've discovered I like my gardens disorderly.  I love this wild profusion of life that refuses to stay where it's put.  I love the sight of the produce overpowering the weeds.  I love seeing the birds and bees so happily harvesting from our garden every time I come through the gate. (They've been very thorough with the sunflowers: I haven't gotten to sample a single seed.  But they've left us a wealth of everything else, so I am content.) 

Two weekends ago, Micheal and I harvested an entire wheelbarrow full of potatoes--reds, golds, and russets--from our potato patch.  They are now cooling their heels in our root cellar, alongside 21 pints of tomatoes and 12 quarts of pickled cucumbers I've "put up" in the last couple of weeks.  And we're still eating tomatoes for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  As I write this, my food dryer is desiccating basil, marjoram, and sage, which I was loathe to pick (fresh is so much better), but went ahead in anticipation of a possible freeze tonight.  I've tried half-a-dozen new ways of cooking zucchini (did I mention we have squash?) and we've eaten eggplant parmesan with homemade tomato sauce four times in the last 10 days.  (There aren't too many promising ways to preserve eggplant, apparently, so we eat what the garden gives us.) 

If it freezes tonight, my wild garden may be a brown mass of pulpy plant cells by morning.  But it will have gone out with a bang and a flourish, giving all it had--generously and with wild abandon.  May you and I go and do likewise.