When I opened my kitchen door to the afternoon sun (which seems to be fairly permanent now), I was greeted by the pungent odor of grass being cut by one of my neighbors. He was giving his spacious back yard a trim, but only that – he switched to a cultivator and plowed up a good bit of it for his annual planting. His thumb, however, is not green.
And my other neighbor, my garden Guru, has planted already, and his garden is a professional potagerie, full of just-coming-up potatoes, leeks, broad beans, you name it.
I, too, am planting but it seems way too early.
I’m baffled by our weather changes, which include vegetables coming up in March (!), seedlings of shiso poking their little early heads up everywhere in random places, and the plethora of roses. Roses that never bloom in March. Why, they barely make it in Easter unless there’s a hot wind blowing from the Sahara, coaxing them to make buds. And yet, and yet, roses everywhere, especially the heavily perfumed Sweet Loves that began as cuttings and took off during the winter, and are now scenting the garden as if it were summer already.
This weather thing has everyone buffaloed, even the Guru. He, too, has no rational answers to the questions about this unusual activity of Mama Nature.
I’m baffled by our weather changes, which include vegetables coming up in March (!), seedlings of shiso poking their little early heads up everywhere in random places.
Today from his bounty, which he plants according to the moon’s phases, he shared with us (via a bucket we let down into his garden) a bunch of 10-12-inch long beets with skimpy tops with which I could make pasta sauce or roast in a hot oven until they turn into beet-leaf-chips, but the beet itself had no taste at all! This is NOT a normal beet.
Last year they were sweet, cylindrical, and deep red with abundant sweet tops.
Another bucket contained 20 or so leeks, long and lean but in their baby state. They simply refused to fill out. Stubborn, those leeks.
My own hectic, unplanned, topsy turvy garden has only blessed me with two good patches of cilantro, which took ages to come up. It appeared only a few weeks ago and has suddenly bolted, throwing out shoots that normally do not appear until late in its season.
In short, it’s going to seed when it shouldn’t.
No worries, at least not about my garden, except that I feel we simply cannot know about what this climate change is going to produce, other than melting the ice caps and raising ocean levels to devastating heights as it devours beaches.
My own small patch of earth, though erratic, is forgiving. So I did my hopeful yearly planting of radishes two months ago in winter, as their appearance is usually quick and boosts one’s morale. Radish planting is always is the first thing I do ASAP as encouragement that the broad beans and tomatoes, the chard and lettuces might just make it too.
Speaking of which, my broad beans were not planted at the Guru’s suggestion of proper October-waxing-of-the-moon time but instead were hurriedly poked into holes in late in November with a prayer, but I just recently discovered clusters of them weighing down what I thought were barren bushes! Who knew?
The planting puzzle now is that I was compelled to plant tomatoes indoors in a sunny window in pots and they have suddenly shot up to towering heights, clearly dying to get out of their root-bound state! In April? You can’t plant tomatoes in April! I’ve never planted until May or June, but I’m going out there today to put those suckers in the soil, come hell or high water, or in our case, high winds of 40-50 kph every day now for about two weeks. Unheard of.
Radish planting is always is the first thing I do ASAP as encouragement that the broad beans and tomatoes, the chard and lettuces might just make it too.
Aren’t they called March winds?
Wish me luck as I get brutally whipped.
It’s challenging, this global change.
Maybe I’ll just go for another consoling radish crop, something I can count on to boost my flagging gardening-ego. Who needs perfect pasta sauces and sweet slices of homegrown tomatoes brushed with Umbrian olive oil and delectable beets?
My garden wants and needs are simple, and I have, thanks to the Italian couple in our open market, pepper-studded pecorino to go with my fave.
I am reminded, too, that one of the most famous chefs of all time, Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, ate only radishes, butter and sea salt for his supper each night after having served his marvels all evening to worshipping diners.
I can do that!
I just won’t have the same vintage burgundy he sipped with his. Sigh.
