It strikes me as a cruel twist of fate that at this time of year, when gardeners should be brimming full with excitement, joyfulness and undying thanks for the bounty of our harvests, we're 'bout worn to a nubbity-nub and couldn't care less if we never again saw another perfectly ripe vegetable or fruit on our kitchen counter impatiently waiting to be preserved.
This just isn't right. I mean why do we prepare the soil, plant, water, nurture, weed and tend our gardens in every way possible if not for this, The Harvest? I think (totally impossible though it would be) harvest time should come somewhere around, oh say, July 4th when we're all still basking in summer's vitality and are so committed to our gardens which we lovingly walk through, talk to and are full of enthusiasm for.
Now, in this month of September, I'm nearly apoplectic. I'm tired of those rasty weeds that keep growing. Tired of rearranging the pantry shelves and freezer baskets in an attempt to squeeze in six more jars of jam or four more packages of broccoli. Tired of going out into the garden and bringing in a basket heaped with yet more goodness that represents hours of time in the kitchen cleaning, prepping and preserving. Tired of feeling guilty about those last couple of cups of past-their-prime blueberries on the bushes or kohlrabi that is turning woody as we speak. Tired of the dirt stains on my knees which no amount of scrubbing will eliminate.
And then there are the potatoes, carrots, cabbages, pumpkins, onions, squash and Brussels sprouts that aren't even ready for harvest yet.
What about the fall planted beds of edible podded peas, lettuce, salad greens and shell peas that are coming along so nicely? Somehow, I'm not as excited about them as I was their predecessors that grew and matured two or three months ago.
Oh. I am such an ungrateful wretch.
Finishing the Ladder to the Hay Loft
2 hours ago