Sprouting
I have to admit, I'm impatient.
About some things, anyway — and especially about the magic of spring. I've checked the irises and the daffodils every single day, measuring every slightest increase in size or bud. We put in the beginnings of a garden a few days ago, and I shook my fist at every snowfall since, worried about the fate of my peas, shallots and garlic. None of those have come up yet, so I'm hoping the cold didn't kill them before they got started.
My saving grace has been the little pot of herbs — chives, parsley, oregano and basil — sprouting on my desk, here at work. It's warm here, and safe from the depradations of our cats, and the dog, who at 70 pounds, THINKS she's a cat ... with the accompanying challenges. But they all like greens, so we're keeping the greens away from them.
The parsley is the tallest, so far, leggy and gangly, but it all bears the promise of tasty eating, down the line. I'm looking forward to getting it into the ground, and to plotting out my piece of land in the local community garden. Between my husband's spot and mine, we'll have garden space half the square footage of our house. We keep remembering more things we want to plant. Zucchini? Sure, but not too many. How 'bout leeks? OK. Mealy AND waxy potatoes? Definitely. Corn? Why not all three of the three sisters? Tomatoes? As many kinds as we can fit. Turnips. Onions. Strawberries. Yum.
But for now, what I have is a little biodegradeable pot on my desk, with a handful of herbs coming up, whispering promises. I'm listening. I can hardly wait.