I am beginning to wonder if I have an unhealthy relationship with my vegetable garden.
Last year, I was seduced by a zucchini. For more on that, I call your attention to last year's solitary blog. This year, I’m having trouble breaking from a high-maintenance relationship with cucumbers.
After purchasing salt and spices, vinegar jugs and canning jars —the out-of-pocket price easily exceeding that of the commercial pickles readily assessable in the grocery aisle—my husband and I sliced, salted, and spiced gallons of cucumbers into pickles. There were the dill varieties, (hoping that one will be the perfect meeting of garlic and dill and crunchiness) and the obligatory old-family-recipe bread and butter variety. I even went out on a limb and processed the never-to-be-repeated (it-only-took-four-days-of-work) sweet gherkin.
I get it. I was the one who planted four hills of five plants, but still. The vines go on and on, flowering and fruiting, either not caring or not aware of what it costs the harvester slaving away in her kitchen.
What is it about the human gardener species so loath to uproot a still producing vine? Are the dog days of summer interfering with normal brain function? Is an over-developed conscience whispering warnings against slaying the innocent? Has the gardening experience formed her kind into some pitiable, amateur philosopher, wasting not but wanting to?
No matter which way you slice it, it's mental.
In this 2019 growing season, I had my sights set on one thing only: sinking my teeth into an ear of sweet corn. In anticipation, I planted four short rows, behind the four cucumber hills. How many kernels of sweet ears did I enjoy?
Zilch. Zero. Nada.
The raccoons ate it all.
They won’t touch the cucs.
