In late April, I spent the weekend in Madison, Wisconsin, visiting a college friend. We spent Saturday morning at the opening day of the Madison Farmer’s Market, and it may have been the best market I’ve ever seen. Booths encircle the entire state capitol building, and even on the first day of the selling season, the variety of produce—asparagus, spinach, scallions, spring garlic, kohlrabi the size and shape of bowling balls—was astounding.
My friend, Amy, bought some perennials to add to the flower beds around her house, and a small basil plant that a seller promised would yield plenty of leaves for pesto and anything else Amy might want to use it for. I considered buying one of them, but was afraid it wouldn’t make it all the way back to Iowa City after sitting indoors overnight. I’m still kicking myself—this woman had really beautiful basil plants for $3 apiece.
We stopped at a stand a little further around the market square where a farmer advertised spring garlic, which was piled on one table. On another, a couple eyed his bags of triple-washed spinach. “You can even eat the stems,” he said. “In fact, if you sautéed them up with some of this spring garlic, it would be fantastic.”
The couple, obviously skeptical, bought some of the spinach, but left the garlic behind. Before they had even stepped fully away from the table, I lifted a cluster of spring garlic and a bag of spinach toward the farmer. “I’ll take these,” I said. “It sounds delicious.”
“Your cross-selling worked,” Amy said to the farmer.
When I got home, I cooked up the spinach and garlic. Steve and I enjoyed it along with some kohlrabi and a pork tenderloin I slathered with rhubarb jelly (also purchased at the farmer’s market) and roasted. Food tastes so much better when you buy it from the hands that made it or coaxed it from the earth.
“I have to get that basil and parsley,” I said. “I have to get those into pots. And I wonder if zucchini would grow in a pot. You’d think one zucchini plant would be OK, wouldn’t it? In a big pot?”
Steve shrugged. “What about just planting a garden? Randy said it would be OK.”
Back in April 2005, when Randy, our landlord, showed us the place we now rent, he pointed out our unfenced back yard. “If you want a garden, that’s fine with me,” he said. “I’ll just plant the grass again when you leave.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” I said, staring out at the broad expanse of green. “We’re not really garden people.”
“Well, if you change your mind, just let me know,” he said, closing the back porch door and continuing the tour of the house.
Genie, remember to sing to the tomatoes while I’m out of town…
Dear Inadvertent Gardener,
I was a kid during World WarII. In the USA everyone with any land was encouraged to have a Victory Garden to help with the war effort. The idea being if we could grow some of our stuff it would help our fighting men and women. I’m not sure how but this was the myth of the day.
My parents didn’t garden. Are you kidding! But they did like to dress up, they were really good at dress up, and loved to buy forbidden things on the black market. We had loads of goodies that you weren’t supposed to have. I even got a banana for Christmas, making me, I’m sure, the only kid in Baltimore with his own banana, during a time when bananas had to be bought in dark alleys from guys with shifty eyes and their hat brims pulled down
My parents put me in charge of the garden. Everything I planted died before reaching puberty. It didn’t matter. We won the war.
Now we are at war again. But things have improved. We are not being asked to garden. I’m glad.
Best wishes to you all,
Bruce Davis