I think I speak for most East Coast people when I say THANK GOD. The time for tiny green sprouting things is upon us. I spend a lot of time silently cheering for those bold enough to be popping up their heads and blooming.
Spring at a new house: Ben and I have acres to our names all of a sudden, which is a bit paralyzing. I am a very amateurish gardener at best, but I think what I’ve learned most about growing food (well, about growing anything really) is that the planting is the easy part. Seeds know what to do, all bound up in their tiny package, just waiting for the right conditions. Knowing where to put them, knowing the dynamic of the place you live, knowing the places that soak up heat during the day and give it off at night: these are the tougher pieces of the puzzle.
I would like to note here that my significant other is a dude who really loves flowers. He is better than I am at growing things for the sake of how beautiful they are. Some day, when we’re old, and he’s been growing me zinnias for 50 years, I’ll write an essay about it. In a new house in the springtime, Ben is on this constant delighted journey of discovery as bulbs and rhizomes that the previous inhabitants planted start appearing. The tally so far: tons of daffodils, some bluebells, big clumps of irises, possibly peonies, and something called bloodroot which I had never seen before but is quickly becoming a favorite.
The place we bought needs a lot of updating, and I perhaps have been a little overeager in my destruction of things that I want to get rid of. The linoleum floor is ripped up in the corner where I attacked it like an animal. I pulled down a bunch of ceiling tiles and there is duct tape hanging down from bare rafters in the hallway. Only a few of the rooms of our house actually resemble rooms. But we got seeds started, so I feel reasonably accomplished. Or so I try to tell myself.
I’ve been working on a nice rye bread for toasting that I want to share, so I’ll hopefully be back soon. Happy spring.