a man and his hoe

Madge is settled in. She’s found a quiet, dark, out of the way spot to hatch eggs. Spending day and night in the dark, she’s missing out on harvesting garlic, and finding all the good things that come out of the garden every day to eat. Today’s lunch was extreme home cooking. You can’t get more extreme than growing all the things on the plate: new potatoes, spicy arugula, pea pods with shallots.

It’s time to turn the compost pile again, and as soon as I have the pile broken down to rebuild it, it is all hands on deck. It’s been cooking at between 135ºF and 155ºF since the third, and I’ve turned it twice. Each time I turn it, which entails lifting the wire frame off it, breaking it down, and rebuilding it so that everything is well mixed, the chickens come running, wanting to lend a hand.

You can take a pinch of developing compost, dilute it with some water, put a drop of the water on a microscope slide and dive into another world of microorganisms. So many invisible living beings, too many to count. Bacteria, amoebae, protozoa, fungi, wriggling nematodes, microscopic insects. Thousands and thousands in a single drop of water. Things we never see, and yet they are what make life possible for us. The microorganisms are what feed our plants. They purify our water. They weave together the fabric of life which sustains us. They make it possible to enjoy a bowl of fresh greens for supper.

For supper there is rhubarb sauce to make from thick, juicy stalks of rhubarb, shooting out of the ground. There is a sound only rhubarb makes when you slice a knife through it, a sound so distinct there should be a special word just for that sound. It’s a crisp, wet, crunchy sound. No other fruit or vegetable makes that sound. The sound is best on just cut rhubarb. Slice several thick stalks from the garden and rush to the kitchen to hear it. Don’t stop to do anything else. With each passing minute, rhubarb loses its vitality, its ability to make your knife scrunch. Quickly rinse and toss the rhubarb on the cutting board. Grab your knife and scrunch, scrunch, scrunch.

The grapes are budding. Will they ripen this year? If they don’t, the poppies will. Poppies are pure magic, from their tiny, tiny seeds, to their fantastical jagged jade leaves, to their glorious flowers, and perfectly shaped seed pods. What’s so amazing about their capped vase seed pods is that when they dry and you turn them upside down, all the tiny seeds roll out. You don’t even need to open the pods.

It’s no surprise they produce opium. If you had no idea which plants produce opium and you were shown a hundred plants in a verdant garden, you’d pick the poppies without a doubt. They scream, “We’re the crazy ones. We’ll make you happy!” It’s a scream only poppies make.

Look at what a marvelous bird Skunky has become. She has so many colors. It’s like nature couldn’t decide what color to make her and used a whole box of crayons to color her feathers. Skunky has a couture like no one else.

For supper tonight, kale, radish, and one very large garlic. This is my first season growing elephant garlic. If the customers who come to Bow Little Market enjoy them as much as I think they will, I will grow a lot of them next year.