Still willing to give peas a chance, but it's deadline time for the lazy legumes

April 9

Over the last few years, I've written about the humiliations and outright failures I've met in trying to grow vegetables. Unless a minor miracle occurs before my column's mid-week deadline, honor compels me to share a lollapalooza of a gardening blunder. Not even one of the sugar snap peas – three rows, planted two weeks ago in a 4x8-foot raised bed – has shown its little green head above ground. Peas like cool weather. They're hardy legumes. They take no special gardening skill: Hoe a straight-ish row, drop in the dried peas at two-inch intervals, cover with a mix of soil and peat moss, water, and, in a few days, as the British say, Bob's your uncle. Those peas are up and climbing.

I planted my peas, however, in late March, just before the Garden Goddess threw down snow, sunshine, wind, rain, snow, rain, graupel, and sun again. I think my peas got confused. (Graupel, by the way, is a weather term I'd never heard of, and surely not experienced, before we moved to Moscow nearly six years ago. Veterans of north Idaho know it's a soft hail – tiny ice balls that fall thickly enough to look like snow on the ground. Graupel is cool – except, apparently, if you're a pea.)

From the day I planted them, I've walked out to the garden bed every afternoon and encouraged them. At first, I didn't try too hard, just offered a confident assurance that I knew those peas would show themselves soon. By week two, they must have heard the desperate note in my voice: Listen, guys, I'm feeling extra pressure this year. We're hosting a reunion of my family here in early July, and most of my relatives are excellent Italian cooks and expert gardener. I'm fine with my cooking cred – planning to make about a thousand homemade ravioli for them – but maybe you've heard that my gardening skills are a little shaky. So I started easy, with you guys, to boost my confidence and make sure I had at least one thriving bed of vegetables when the family's here. So, c'mon, help me out here. Grow, dang it. Grow.

Somewhere under their peat moss blanket, an entire packet of peas was laughing. By late morning of my deadline day, those stubborn little legumes still refused to sprout. Maybe I'll have good news to repeat, pea-wise- next week. More likely, I'll be thankful to have another packet of the same peas in reserve for a second planting.

BadKitten for President update: I'm relieved to report that Benjamin BadKitten has received no further financial contributions to his campaign for the presidency. (Last week a deep-pocketed donor sent a dime and five pennies to the BBK political action committee. My theory is other readers think my black and brown, Maine Coon cat isn't worth two cents.) I've also reminded him about his less than stellar employment history. Fired multiple times as chief garden staffer. Even now, when he's in the public spotlight (a dim 25-watt bulb, but still), he can't be bothered to hoist his ample backside out of the chair and help me rally the peas in the garden. This is not the behavior of a winner.