This year I’m planting chard, golden beet, leek, red peppers, kale, yellow and red tomatoes, potatoes, spinach, and a variety of herbs. There is no assurance that any of them will grow well, though last year the chard was particularly good — crisp and tall and delicate green — but the chanterey carrots were misshapen, so I imagine they needed sandier soil than they found in my plot. The had legs and looked like little dolls. But it’s all miraculous anyhow. Already this year’s vegetables are firm seedlings, some larger than others. I always feel so lucky when I arrive home from work and have fresh vegetables to pick and chop and cook, the infant on my back, and the rest of the family getting hungrier as the ginger and garlic sizzles in toasted sesame oil. We have had such a long winter here in New England that the spring has felt more like resurrection than ever. The earliest signs of buds opening made you breathe a sigh of relief.
Every day now becomes a thanksgiving, and our prayers are always offered for those who go hungry, because, to translate my mother’s phrase into a secular, perhaps pantheistic, insight, ‘there but for the grace of Mother Earth, go we all.’