Seeds

One of my favorite books growing up was a slim tome called The Carrot Seed. In it, a young man named Harold plants a seed, and despite his family’s dire predictions, it sprouts and grows into a root vegetable so massive that the poor child needs a wagon to haul it off. (There is no word of his mother’s reaction when he brings it into the kitchen, or the ensuing mono diet of carrots every day for a month.) I somehow identified with the child, not because my vegetable-growing efforts ever amounted to much of anything, but because I understood the hope of sticking a seed in the ground, and the joy of seeing them sprout and thrive. (And perhaps because my father smoked a pipe, just like Harold’s father.) And as an adult, while I can usually get things to germinate just fine, the local climate (temperate rain forest), flora (towering cedar trees that I love dearly) and fauna (slugs the size of small dogs) conspire to deprive me of the bountiful harvest I dream of while perusing seed catalogs in the dead of winter.
This year is particularly challenging, as I am coming off a rare success. A small one to be sure: our snug little house in Ireland had some empty pots, so last year, I made my way to the local garden centre to pick up some flowers for said pots. I must have my flowers, even if they don’t usually amount to much, just some spindly petunias. And of course, I couldn’t resist seed packets for lettuce and sweet peas. I tucked them in with the petunias and daisies and promptly ignored them. We even went away for three weeks without making any provisions for their care. And when I came back, I was rewarded with tender green lettuce and fragrant sweet peas. For the first time in my life, I felt like little Harold. And the flowers were spectacular.

Clearly still giddy, I headed out this year with gusto, buying all sorts of seeds, checking the lunar calendar, filling strawberry pots and deck planters, and working garden beds. Furrows were dug, minerals and compost spread, seeds tucked in (no need to water yet, sigh). And they sprouted, and I was happy. And then the sun came out, and I was even happier. And then the slugs came out, and mowed paths through my garden, even munching onions down to bare earth. And then the remaining three spinach plants bolted, in spite of torrential rains. And the slugs ate the rhubarb, and even started in on one potato (Hey, aren’t those leaves toxic? Why aren’t the slugs dead?). They left me one of two pumpkin plants—sofar. The beans are sprouting, and I am harvesting slugs, big slugs even by northwest standards, but I am not optomistic that I will win this battle.

And so it was that yesterday kicked off our CSA’s summer session. The clouds parted long enough to warm our heads as we enjoyed a few stawberries in the u-pick field, and I happily tucked tender young lettuce and bok choy into my crate. And I realize that I am so incredibly thankful to have a professional farmer tilting at the elements—and winning. I will keep picking slugs from my garden in the hope that I may enjoy a harvest, however meagre, from my own backyard, but I can rest easy knowing that someone else is doing the heavy lifting.