In the past, my husband has not been very appreciative of my efforts to provide the family with fresh produce and vegetables grown by my two loving hands.
His comments generally run along the lines of, "So how much did this tomato cost me?" And, "Did you have a plan for these nine beans, or do I just divide them up between the four of us?"
It's a lot of effort for little gratitudinal return. Which is why I don't cook. But that's another issue.
Lately though, I've had an urge to give vegetables another go. It's been a couple of years since I tried and, apparently, that's exactly how long it takes to recover from monumental disappointment. At the moment, the thrill of seeds sprouting in trays along the east-facing glass doors is enough to make me sans souci about the blossom end rot, spring drought and thieving squirrels my future holds.
It's that same irrepressible hopefulness that makes people continue to have babies when they know very well what'll happen when those kids turn 15. Nature usually gets its way.
This weekend, I'm pulling all the weeds out of the vegetable bed and covering it with clear plastic to bake till mid-March. I'm moving the tomato sprouts to a bigger pot and starting some garlic and Asian salad blend seeds to go along with the cilantro, parsley and green beans already germinating.
I've chosen a lot of plants I haven't grown before. Never having tried them, I've never failed them, so I can happily toil away with naively high hopes. That's important, and a strategy I recommend.
And while I'm out there, blissfully tilling the dirt and starting seeds, I can completely ignore the big job. The one I'm avoiding.
I'm sure I'll feel much more ready for post-freeze cleanup once I've got something new started.