During my most recent pregnancy, "nesting" took a different form. I began pouring over gardening books. Devouring them might be more like it. I think finally being in our new house (and having no intention or desire to move in the next 20 years) gave me permission to envision putting down roots. The plant-related variety.
Our yard at the last house was an afterthought. I mowed and raked it when it was absolutely necessary. I occasionally planted things in our shaded flowerbeds and containers only to watch them die, which made sense as I had no sense of responsibility for watering them. I had a beautiful hydrangea bush for a few years, until we discovered and fixed a leak that had been providing a constant stream of water for it. It was never the same after that. I half-heartedly attempted to care it and even transplanted it to a back-breaking container for transport to the new house. But it died in the garage at my in-laws. Come to think of it, I even had a compost pile that magically grew an enormous squash plant one summer. It produced several half-yellow, half-green squash hybrids that (I'm embarrassed to admit) I was actually afraid to eat.
But over the past few years, our family has experienced gradual and dramatic changes in the way we think about food. And I'm finally discovering and indulging an insatiable urge to grow things, especially things that I can feed to my family.
So far my success has been limited. Really limited. We've been able to eat one salad each from our lettuce (which I grew from seed). We've used our herbs (which I did not grow from seed) in several dishes and drinks. And right now I'm working toward a future harvest of tomatoes, peppers and garlic. And it IS WORK, but work that fascinates me.
No comments:
Post a Comment