The sweet corn has a tassel. The mystery tomatoes are not cherries. The yellow crook neck have tiny squash. The strawberries are in full fierce little force. There green beans are gearing up for a long season. The carrots won’t quit and the okra is gaining height. The melon has vines and the peppers have flowers. It’s been a long and lovely spring. Summer is starting.
And the carrots and peas just won’t quit. The sugar snap peas haven’t made it in the house before this week. (Don’t tell the little ones or they’ll disappear before I get a taste.)
My thumb is split and splitting more yet. My nails peel and my scalp hurts. My heart is sore, my mind spins, and old fearful aches returned home to roost.
And so I look to others to bloom.
Nasturtiums calling hello.
Volunteer mystery squash shining through.
Snow peas’ purple greeting.
Snap peas white nod has passed.
Red potatoes without red petals.
Blackberries without black blossoms.
A mess of friends of all ilk.
I’ll see if I can’t tend my soil a little more. If I can’t feed my roots a little extra. If I can’t water my leaves a little softer. I’ll see tomorrow.
The only kind of blooming onion I like.
Not every common name makes common sense. (What even is a moonglow tomato?)
But this chard, Perpetual Chard, is aptly named. This is a perennial in my garden. Come caterpillar or cold weather, leaves spring forth a-new from the ever-increasing girth of the trunk.
There’s a fiend in my house. No matter the hour, the meal, or the availability – she wants them.
And sow I put in twenty of them. And while this will not suffice to her appetites, it may help with a budding understanding of seasons, consumption, and responsibility.
Until then, and after, the clamshells that transport her fix will be cherished as squirrel and bird deterrents to her papa’s fix, potted up one final time before the giant leap for garden kind.