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(COLUMN OF THE MONTH)

“Let’s grow an organic vegetable garden,” I told my husband one spring day. “Potatoes, tomatoes, carrots, Swiss chard, rosemary and sage.”

He looked up at me with one eyebrow raised and skepticism written all over his Doubting Thomas face.

“What you mean by “we” is in reality “me.”

“I’ll tell you where to plant them,” I shrugged.

Admittedly, I would most likely starve to death if I relied solely on my own farming prowess. My houseplants, all on their last leaf will testify to that. It’s not that I purposely kill them. It just sort of happens. Either from over watering (drowning) or under watering the poor things. In the spring I put them outside in God’s hands, who does a far better job than I. I actually hear them cheer as they exit my house.

After extolling the benefits of an organic garden—no pesticides, lots of nutrients, etc, my husband wearily conceded and off we went to buy our plants and stuff. The “and stuff” including fertilizer, shovels, pots, tomato cages, watering cans, soil---the list goes on and on, a grand total of 97.32. We returned to our yard and soon-to-be mini-farm.

I acted as director indicating where the best lighting for our vegetables would be. Hey! Could an orchestra play well without a conductor?

My husband grudgingly planted six tomato plants as one of my yellow labs ceremoniously baptized two. Next were potatoes. New potatoes. Eyes up. Love new potatoes, baked with a touch of Rosemary and lots of butter. Then the Swiss chard. Carrots And herbs.

Eight mosquito bites and fifty-seven curse words later, our garden was planted. Now all we had to do was water and wait. I did the waiting.

Fast forward to July. Something was growing. Something round. It was a tomato. I think. Still green. Three more appeared two weeks later. We were elated. My husband’s idea of elation is a nod of his head and a grunt. When they turned red, we…or I should say, “he,” picked them

How delicious they would taste on a turkey and cheese sandwich, I thought. I took my tomato slicer (19.99) and cut one open. A big lumpy green creature greeted me. Apparently, he liked tomatoes too.

We checked on the carrots. They looked like something out of a horror movie: mangled and twisted. Totally inedible.

The Swiss chard would have been picture perfect if the squirrel or bugs hadn’t made Swiss cheese out of them. Ditto for our herbs.

And finally we unearthed the soil in search of a new potato. And there it was. One lone potato. An only child. The size of a golf ball looking up at us mockingly. Now that I think of it, probably the most expensive potato in Brooklyn.

This page was last updated on 08/11/10.

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