I’ve never thought that I would like gardening much. Kneeling in the dirt until your knees ache, the sun beating on your back, swatting at insects, yanking up weeds only to have them return as soon as you turn around–no, thank you. A succession of dried-out, dead houseplants from my year in Texas seemed to confirm my brownthumb.
So I am still surprised when I go out into the garden and spend hours kneeling (on a really cushy pad), in the cool shade, with insects kept away by lemongrass spray, meditatively yanking up weeds–and enjoy it. Surprised enough, in fact, that I reflexively procrastinate on gardening until it must be done. I hope that the enjoyment will become a stronger memory than the distaste.
In case I forget why I put up with six-month, subzero winters laced with multiple feet of snow–this is why:
A happy thyme plant on the sunny kitchen windowsill. Its neighbors are oregano, basil and chocolate mint.
Last year, for better or for worse, we planted strawberry plants as groundcover in our front flower garden (a.k.a. “edible landscaping”–we are always either early or late to these trends). They have enthusiastically filled up the available space, and this year we are getting our first real harvest.
They are small, but delicious, and have deep flavor ranging from candy-sweet to tart.
Picking strawberries is like a treasure hunt. Only the thought of seeing how many I can gather “this time”–and love for my husband–keeps me from popping all of them in my mouth as I go.
A bowl of summer: