There are certain experiences that I just can’t seem to remember until after I send in the seed order. Take radishes, for instance. One of those early crops that we can plant and harvest before the weeds become a problem, radishes are simple to grow. It isn’t the growing I have trouble with—it’s the harvesting.
There is a period of from twelve to seventeen minutes, exactly twenty-four days after planting, when you can pull up those radishes and find them perfect for eating. One second too soon and you will find them slightly smaller than peas. One second too late, and they will be woody, hot and probably chewed up by root maggots. In recent history, all the edible radishes that have been on my table came from the grocery store.
So why do I continue to order packets of Cherry Belles, French Breakfasts and White Icicles?” Because I remember that ivory-smooth bite, the sweet tang of the perfect radishes my father raised, and I’d like to experience that pleasure at least once more in my lifetime. I only want one taste of one perfect radish pulled at exactly twenty-four days and fourteen minutes after planting. Is that asking so much?
Then there is spinach. I want those fat, crinkly, dark leaves you can find only right after the snow melts. The only successful spinach that has ever come from my garden is the kind you find hugging the ground long before time to plow up the soil. They would have been planted the spring before. One day, they’d have been too small and pale for my favorite salad, the next day, they’d have been going to seed. It seems the best spinach is planted in the fall, by either those over-grown plants that have been allowed to go to seed on their own or planted by hand with seeds left over from the spring planting. Either way, I must wait nearly a year for the perfect spinach salad, and then I doubt if I’m entitled to the credit for it.
I gave up on peas years ago. One day, the pods are flat and crisp and full of sweet promise. Then, we have eight days of rain, and by the time I am able to pick my way into the quagmire, they are swollen, hard, and turning yellow. I must confess that we once raised some very nice green beans. Did you ever plant four twenty-foot rows of beans and have them all turn out perfect? It may be years before I recover my appetite for green beans.
Browsing through seed catalogs is a relatively harmless winter pastime, as long as you don’t actually mail in the order. To avoid this last, fatal step, put your order away in a drawer for six weeks then throw it away. You can always buy the seeds you really want locally.
Probably the most important (and successful) crop I’ve ever raised is tomatoes. There are so many varieties available these days that the novice gardener must be thoroughly bewildered by the choices. Aside from eating fresh, I always planned on having ample amounts of my favorites for canning. Rutgers were the best variety for my purposes. They are smooth and round for easy skinning and slicing, and they contain enough acid to make them safe for canning without adding vinegar or using the cumbersome and rather frightening pressure canners that low-acid vegetables require.
Both newer varieties and some of the older heritage varieties are worth growing for their range of color, size and flavor. I especially like those golden yellow ones for making the sweet tomato preserves laden with cinnamon and orange peel that my mother-in-law taught me how to make, and when sliced, they look pretty served on a platter along with red varieties.
Most of my canned tomatoes ended up in spaghetti sauce, tomato soup or chili. Once I discovered the less juicy Romas, I learned to make ketchup and my own pizza sauce, which led to a venture into raising basil and other herbs. Yes, gardening is an education in itself!
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