Wife, writer, tinkerer, grower of food. I'm happiest outside our rambling farmhouse with a basket looped on my arm, picking dinner from the garden. That's joy right there. Please follow along; I'm so glad you're here!
I drool. I drool every day, walking down my asparagus row.
We are getting close. I took this picture Tuesday, actually, and already it's pretty much unrecognizable. Warm days, the spears absolutely sprint. We will be eating asparagus this weekend.
This is the year we really get to go to town. This is its fourth spring; all the crowns are well-established, and we don't need to feel worried that over-zealous harvesting will wear them out. I am sharpening my knives.
Almost every time I'm out there, I'm remembering this post from three years ago, Planting Day. The cold, inhospitable rain, the cold, inhospitable clay ground. The puny little white crowns that seemed like such long odds-- will they ever really amount to anything?
Three years later, we have a crop. The raspberries I planted the same year are taking over the garden, one runner at a time. The apples and cherry trees are poised for another big summer of growth. Bit by bit, corner by corner, this place is becoming what I've hoped it would be. It is a good feeling, watching your keenest hopes begin bearing fruit. Sometimes literally.
Meanwhile, the peas are nearly hand-sized. I have beet and chard and radish seedlings, too. The broccoli is in the ground. The potatoes are in the ground. The onion sets are sprouting. Life is generally a very fine thing.
And away from the garden, we have scenes like this to consider. Ahhh, springtime. So fine and lovely.