Sisyphus had his boulder. I’ve got tomato plants. Despite being a Central Texas native, my best and most fruitful gardening happened in Denver where they have four proper seasons instead of just the one we have called “what the fuck.”
In Denver you worry about water. A lot. Without fail the answer to botanic dilemmas is more water. In Austin your plants can simultaneously be under-watered and mildew-ridden. They say it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity. I assure you plants care about both.
In Denver one minds the garden from May to October. At the latest. Here our season has no beginning and no end, no rhyme or reason. Things grow when they can and then stop when it’s too hot or too cold. Sometimes it’s a soft pause. Sometimes the show is over. You can’t tell. You can only pick up the pieces.
Yet here I climb again to martyr myself upon these two raised beds. I haven’t had good tomatoes since 2014. Lord knows I tried! The cinder blocks holding the dirt have even begun to shift from all the soil amendments I’ve thrown in. I could blame the birth of my second child, the time point for when all hell breaks loose in a parent’s life. But I think other factors were at play beyond lack of attention. The plants got leggy and their leaves and stems faded. One year it was unseasonably wet and cloudy and they all sort of putzed out on me. Then the weather pattern shifted and they baked and baked and never fruited due to the heat.
This year I said to hell with it – we’re doing wildflowers. I cleared out the beds. I found the collection of seeds I’ve collected over the years. I poured them all into one packet and then I spread them! I unleashed those tiny promises of greatness, those physical manifestations of potential. And I contemplated how we are all just like seeds with the best versions of ourselves primed to blossom. Then life starts happening to us and we end up who we are. Inside every acorn is a majestic oak. But a lot of acorns turn into middling trees that look more like shrubs. I should have more compassion for my fruitless plants. They are, after all, trying their best.
I buy new dirt and fill those beds as an act of dedication to the idea of hope. Things could be different if given the chance. In fact, you can almost always bet on it. It’s exciting and terrible and reminds me that we’re all just dollops of biology flying through the universe — me, you, this foster dog drooling on me, and these chocolate sunflower seeds emerging in my patches of dirt. This one’s arms are still caught up in his potential.
Recipe Recommendation
Referencing the gardening content above, you may realize spring is sprung here in Central Texas. Eat this easy, yummy lemon pasta from Molly Baz at Bon Appetit. It’s good with some asparagus or peas, too! Add sparingly so you don’t overwhelm the lemon flavor.