I’ll be glad to squash you onto my list of friends

July 2012

On a recent sunny morning, I took a slow walk around the raised beds in our yard, checking on the progress of the vegetables I am growing. I began at the corn patch, the jewel (so far) of my garden. In April, I planted corn seeds in tiny peat pots on my dining room table, and then transplanted them into the raised bed when the weather warmed (briefly, as it turned out) in May. They held on through the June rains, and, exactly on schedule, were knee-high by the 4^th of July. It’s true that I’m only 5’2”, so I guess this knee-high triumph is relative. But, still, I’m growing corn, and by now the stalks are as tall as I am and even have tassels!

One patch of sugar snap peas was nearly ready for picking, but the second planting had newly empty spots in the rows, and some of the remaining pea stems looked chewed-on. For once, I did not blame this minor horticultural bungle either on myself or on my garden staff member, Benjamin BadKitten. The ragged pea patch was probably the combined work of a caterpillar-like critter and my arch-nemeses, the four crows who hang out in our trees and in the garden.

I moved on to the pumpkin patch and smiled. Tiny, pale yellow balls were forming on the vines. By October, I hope, my two little grandsons will be able to choose their favorites for jack-o-lanterns. In the next bed, small artichokes rose from the centers of the four spiny plants I set there in May. To an Italian cook and an artichoke lover, this is beyond cool.

The asparagus bed was a testament to two uncharacteristic traits of impetuous gardeners: preparation and patience. Before putting the asparagus roots into the soil two months ago, I read every word of their planting instructions. Later, most of the roots grew and sent up fern-like growth. A few of the roots, though, turned into tall, slender, unmistakable asparagus stalks. I did my “Wow! I can grow asparagus!” happy dance, of course – but did not give in to the temptation to harvest my crop of four beautiful, perfect stalks. “Vegetable Gardening for Dummies” makes clear that we asparagus farmers must be patient and allow the entire first-year crop to become ferns. This will give the roots a better, stronger start and produce a harvest next year that’s big enough to make an entire pot of asparagus soup (maybe.)

So I felt proud as I continued my tour to the next bed – where I immediately realized that I need more friends – right away. The only requirement to enter my social circle is a willingness to accept frequent gifts of zucchini from me. Accept no substitutes. In April, curbing my typical nature, I decided to plant only three zucchini seeds. The trio all grew well in their peat pots and then thrived when I transplanted them into their roomy new raised bed. They looked so innocent on transplant day, so small in that big expanse of topsoil. I remember regretting that I hadn’t planted more zucchini seeds. That bed, after all, had room for at least six more plants. If I had planted nine zucchini seeds, instead of three, we would have had to buy a herd of cows. Cows, I have been told, love zucchini.

My three plants are so prolific that I can check the sizes of the current crop, go into the house for a quick lunch, and then return to find they’ve doubled in size. How much squash can one woman eat? It is possible to shake one’s head and continue swallowing forkful after forkful of sautéed, lightly breaded zucchini rounds, seasoned with oregano, garlic and lemon. What was I thinking? I am the only person in our household who enthusiastically eats zucchini – and, believe me, after dining on this stuff every evening, my enthusiasm has gone the way of the manual typewriter.

Even my neighbor, the kindest of souls, sighed when she saw my three plants. “I stopped growing zucchini,” she said. “People leave them on your porch and then run away.” Dude. Now if she finds a gift on her doorstep, she’ll know where to return it. Other friends have suggested sneaking zucchini into meat loaf, spaghetti sauce, and casseroles, or, of course, baking it into the ubiquitous Z bread. But, really, do you know anyone who flashes you a big, joyous grin when you offer a loaf of your famous zucchini bread?

I’m getting so desperate that I have resorted to writing truly wretched doggerel:

A Gardener’s Plea

Shred some into fettucini,

Dress it up in a bikini,

Name it Zelda or Zaninni,

Drop one into your martini,

Serve with mustard and a wienie,

Top it with a jaunty beanie,

Pick it quick when it turns greeny.

Just, please, – take some of my zucchini!