While staying home the past year-and-a-half, I’ve been given plenty of time to focus attention on areas I neglected in the past. One of these areas is food. And in our case, homegrown food.
Country Man is a natural gardener, a farmer at his heart’s core. He knows soil, he has a gift and confidence in knowing whether a plant is growing and producing as it should. At first, this was a completely foreign chore that made my brain fizzle from reawakening that never-discovered territory (the medulla oblongata?)…
…but, now, I’ve come to realize, this gardening, this growing and waiting and callousness and sore fingertips, is not for the few, but for anyone with a heart for homegrown food, sprinkled with patience.
I walked out to the garden yesterday.
It appeared sad and empty, but life is buried beneath the soil.
Like the blonde-version of me above, I can see the garden full and ripe in my mind, ready to harvest.
To pick a fresh tomato for a noon sandwich is one of the greatest joys in life, I’ve found.
Sitting inside, pen in hand, the list of vegetables are jotted down on paper. I cultivate my heart to prepare for a year of feeding our bodies well. This is no weak task, and one I do with pride.
The first few years taught me one can plant too much (artichokes), or plant a food you want to like but cannot stand the smell, let alone the taste (rutabagas).
With great intent, I mark down numbers in order and flip to the next page in the catalog. It’s a big list, again, but more precise to what we will eat and how it efficiently it will be prepared.
We still have months until the gardening begins.
Patience, be mine.