I should have been more bullish on the fertilizer

Writer's note: I wrote this in late August, 2011, when my garden rocked and the Northwest had not been hit by a double smack-down of drought and wildfire smoke.

The limits of my vegetable gardening ability are visible now, in late August. I’m thinking there might be a lesson here for those of us who have impetuous tendencies.

In June I transplanted six pumpkin plants, all of which I grew from seed, into an outdoor raised bed. Four small Cinderella (rouge de printemps variety) pumpkins are turning golden orange out there. None of these gourds shows any promise of growing plump enough to become a coach for a fairy-tale princess. I’m not sure even our neighborhood’s wild rabbit is small enough to be chauffeured from garden to garden in one of my pumpkins. Maybe our little grandsons will enjoy painting these mini-pumpkins for Halloween.

My corn patch is “representative,” a term former Seattle Mariners manager Lou Piniella used regularly as a euphemism for “these guys won’t be heading to the Series any time soon.” The stalks and leaves grew tall and remained dark green for the first month after their transplants from my dining-room table greenhouse. Gradually, though, they have turned a paler shade of green, far too close to chartreuse. Each stalk has produced several ears of corn, with tassels that are slowly turning brown. But the ears aren’t as plump as I’d expected, considering the plants’ spectacular start. Instead of many late-summer corn feasts for our small family, we might be down to only two rounds of hot buttered ears.

I have been faithful about watering the pumpkin and corn beds throughout our hot, dry July and August. The pumpkins, especially, are excellent nags about their need for hydration. I check my gardens every day, and, as soon as I see the pumpkin leaves drooping, I brandish my water wand and perk them up again. So it’s not a lack of watering that has caused this late-season slump. Instead, I think the curse of the impetuous gardener has struck again: a failure to follow through. Specifically, I think I should have relied less on the excellent compost I worked into each bed’s topsoil in June, and added actual fertilizer as the plants matured. (Having written the previous sentence, I am only too aware of the possibilities for some people who read this comment regularly to respond with variations of: “Man, she slings it every week in print. You’d think she could spread a little in her garden, too.”) Fire away, my friends.

Two vegetable beds have been a total success. I’ve been adding thin slices of fresh fennel and Italian basil, grown from seed, to salads this summer, and will soon have home-grown celery. In the same bed are three zucchini plants, which have been pumping out gourds as fast as I can give them away. (Note to self: Next year, plant one zucchini seed. If it doesn’t germinate, say a fervent thank-you to the Garden Goddess.)

The other rockin’ bed is planted with carrots and a small, late-season crop of sugar snap peas. The carrots are not yet ready for picking, but their fern-like tops wave to me every day when I walk by and encourage them. (Recently, I have been getting Facebook messages, asking about the carrots’ estimated maturity date. The sender’s screen name is Petercot N. Tail. I have no plans to “friend” him.)

My lettuce patch is less productive than I’d planned, thanks in part to a cute, long-eared bandit who hops away after sampling the greens. But there is still time to do a second planting. After I sowed the first lettuce seeds in June, my original schedule called for successive plantings in July and August. Instead, I spent most of that time getting our downstairs apartment ready for the arrival of our daughter, son-in-law, and two grandsons – and then playing with the little boys, ages five and three, when they moved in.

Although I’m occasionally buying lettuce at the farmer’s market or grocery store, instead of picking my own every night, I would not trade one minute of grandma time for the finest garden in Idaho. It’s an excellent trade-off, one I’m sure impetuous gardeners (and loving grandparents) would approve. This is another lesson, I think. If we reach the point where we start placing our gardens, or any other avocation, before the relationships in our lives, maybe it’s time to step away from the bag of fertilizer and go read a story to, have tea with, or send a card to someone we care about.