This was my first summer having a garden and it coincided with the summer I hatched a new human and the themes of both keep blurring together: The goofy pride in growing things from seed. The occasionally overwhelming feeling that there are so many things and they’re all very hungry and counting on you to fix this. The twinge of sadness as they look less sprout-y and more robust. The urgency to not squander any of this.
With that in mind, there’s the fact that a very warm fall has meant that instead of this garden looking near collapse, it’s going strong and the four billowing pots of herbs that remain are pressuring me to do something great with them before they meet their imminent frosty demise. Fried sage leaves on everything! Crisp rosemary flatbread all the time! Minced chives on every dish! Parsley… I mean, I like tabbouleh and all, but there’s no way I’m going to get through this. Let’s not pretend this made a huge dent, but 5 sprigs down is a respectable effort, right?