Only about two hours before I sat down to type this, I went down the stairs and into my modest backyard garden, where my jalapeno plants had been busy.
I spent several minutes there, picking enough sun-ripened deep green fruit to fill both hands (and I have big Gil Hodges-style meathooks … as I said, my jalapeno plants had been busy.)
Then I marched my takings upstairs, mixed them with some vinegar and kosher salt, and made a tall jar of vaguely Tabascoid hot sauce that should enliven my food for some time to come if I can keep from sneaking spoonfuls between meals.
July 26, 2014.
It is at times like this that I feel sorry for people who don’t have space to garden, and mildly contemptuous of people who have land but don’t plant anything in it.
I do not deserve to stand on any gardening soapbox — my ‘penos seem to thrive on little more than sun, rain and benign neglect.
But really, it doesn’t take hours of back-breaking labor to grow just a few herbs, fruits or vegetables. They’ll add flavor to your table, while giving you a sense of pride and accomplishment beyond your actual effort.
My grandpa was a real gardener — much more committed and hard-working than I’ve ever been.
This week’s calendar entry finds him both investing time in his garden, and profiting from it.
(I assume “dust toms” means “apply some sort of fertilizer and/or insect repellent to one’s tomatoes.” I similarly assume “1 lb Beans” means “Picked 16 ounces of beans.”)
I bet those beans tasted good, if my grandma didn’t boil the hell out of them, or something similarly ill-advised.
And, I bet my grandpa took pride in harvesting and eating them.
Just like I’m going to savor each spoonful of homemade jalapeno sauce I ladle onto my ice-cream sundaes.
July 26, 1975. Mets win in extras; Yanks lose.
Hope Street 