All of Us, Somewhere Along the Way

Standing over a weed-infested row, nudging along the blade of a hoe, I pause to consider the progress -- my own with the weeds, and also that of the vegetable starts I'm tending.  I naively and ambitiously agreed to furnish vegetables for a restaurant dinner later in the summer, but I have so far resisted providing a tentative inventory of what the chef might reasonably expect from our garden.  I know what we have planted, and I observe what seems to be thriving.  But I'm still a horticultural neophyte.  I have yet to evolve that intuitive inner calendar that simply knows when things are due.  Moreover,  I have so far procrastinated on developing the good and helpful habit of maintaining annual garden notes, which means I don't have the benefit of our prior years' experience beyond simple anecdotal memory; and that doesn't feel like much to bank on.  Never strong enough to lean on, my recollections are only getting fuzzier.  And while, yes, I can read the seed packets for their statistical predictions and norms, that, too, has its limitations.

Growth, after all, is a mysteriously mercurial thing.  The copywriter who added those cultivation notes to the catalog and seed packet -- presumably drawing on rich and deep expertise -- nonetheless doesn't live on our property, doesn't dig in our soil, and may or may not water at the same rate as I do.  And even if I had kept growing notes from previous seasons, I have learned the hard way that seasons rarely Xerox themselves for later use.  Each one is its own work of art with its own brush strokes and hues.  What lagged behind last year may well sprint ahead in this present season.  The bugs that haunted last season may be absent altogether this year...or simply late.  There are, in other words, variables.

All that, plus the fact that plants are living things with their own strengths and idiosyncrasies.  Standing over an adolescent vine prognosticating about its progeny feels about as predictive as speculating on the future career of an 8th grader.  Or, for that matter, a 55-year-old.  We change, after all.  Or flame out.  Or catch a different spark.  Or...  Who knows in advance exactly what will grow?  Or when it might mature?

I'm liking the looks of the radicchio, but having never grown it before I have no clear guess about any harvest.  The garlic and the wheat are soon to come out, but the cabbages are a long way off.  I see blossoms on the squashes and green beans, but whose to say how many and by what date?  The braising greens we can count on, but a meal requires more than kale and collards and chard; and there is little hope that the peppers and tomatoes will be there to play a supporting role.  Cucumbers?  Probably, but we'll see.  Even if I'm not quite sure what it will be, something good will show up in the kitchen in ample time to serve.

It's all a work in progress.  Just like the rest of us.