While Visions of Marinara Danced in My Head

On the occasion of our first anniversary, Lori and I returned to Vermont where we had honeymooned the year before.  We didn't retrace exactly the same ground, but we did return to the small community of Waitsfield where we had met Elisabeth von Trapp and her husband.  Waitsfield is one of the quintessential Vermont villages that had aesthetically insisted that we park and walk around as we were driving through the year before.  On this second trip we stopped again into Kenyon's Store, one of those general purpose variety/farm/ranch/hardware/etc. stores that are so hypnotic.  One of the souvenirs I couldn't resist was a black and red checked wool jacket.  OK, and yes I also bought the matching cap with ear flaps.  For the record, I am the only one in the family who holds them special.

Today was a day that cried out for the Vermont wool.  During the night temperatures had fallen to 16-degrees, holding in place the dusting of snow that had fallen earlier in the afternoon.  On this day forecasted to reach 40-degrees, morning broke full of brisk sunshine...and frost.  Since tomorrow is supposed to enjoy steady rains, followed by snow through the night, today of course was the day necessary for planting the garlic.

Last week, after clearing the Thanksgiving table, brother-in-law Steve filled a bag of cloves from his own supply for us to use in our first garden season.  Unlike me, Steve knows what he is doing -- planting and actually harvesting an ample supply each year to extend through the winter.  So when he assured me it wasn't too late to get them in the ground, I gratefully accepted the gift with good intentions.  Now a week later and very possibly too late, I ran up against the calendar wall.  It was now or never, never mind the temperatures in the teens and snow on the ground and my general ignorance on the subject (beyond Steve's cursory coaching).

Pulling on my thermal underwear, the fleece lined corduroy shirt, the Carhartt bib overalls given to me as a parting gift by the church, and my beloved Vermont wool jacket, I headed with Tir, a shovel and the garlic out to the garden.  I chose an area just inside the intended inclosure, just beyond the beaten path worn by the movement of deer.  Taking a deep breath and preparing for a fight, I heaved my energies into the shovel.  The truth is I received better than I deserved.  The ground, despite the icy temperatures, was actually quite willing and receptive, turning over with little effort.  The wriggling earthworms whose hiding had been so violently shoveled give me some optimism that the bulbs and subsequent seeds that will be joining them in this soil will find a habitable space.

I dug the trench to what I hope is an appropriate depth, lodged the cloves along the bottom evenly spaced, retrieved the ones that Tir had pirated and sampled, and replaced the soil.  Mulching matter from my autumn efforts completed the covering, and now -- as with virtually everything related to this project -- we wait.  And pray -- that the garlic will come up, and that Tir's breath will return to normal.  For the moment, he is smelling more Italian than Welsh.