Summer’s ending. Yeah I know it’s still August but I’m good with that, cuz at my house the damn vegetables are everywhere. The small garden patch that my spousal unit carved out of the overgrown ground has shifted into overdrive. I’m not ungrateful mind you (except maybe for the kale) but this veggie thing has now morphed into a lot of work.
My kitchen counter is playing host to 70 ears of corn, four big eggplants, kale leaves, and a ginormous bowl of tomatoes. I won’t even go there about the zucchini. Leeks, squash and pumpkins are up next. All calling my name….
I’m not sure why we have this garden as there’s only two of us these days. Things like tomato sauce are not exactly purchased with platinum or your first-born child. Walmart sells Green Giant Nibblets in February too. Sleep well vegans, your lifestyle is safe here.
But, the call to dig in the dirt and plant stuff is both strong and unmistakable. My husband always answers that call with backbreaking labor and great enthusiasm. The land our garden occupies was once a farm field. You’d think that would make his prep work easier, but it hasn’t. He stripped old sod, broke apart lumps of dirt, and carted rock piles away before the fertilizer arrived. And yet more work remains.
I’m not a gardener. I love the concept, just not the labor. I am the harvester and preparer of good stuff. Not that I’m expecting the zombie apocalypse, but here nothing goes to waste. Creating consumables is, I think, my way of honoring my husband’s hard work.
So, I’ll keep chopping, peeling and blanching all the while praying for the big one-the kill frost.