“This summer I will grow crops and we shall feast,” he states.
FYI: The backyard is 1/2 the size of a tennis court.
Crops? Did he mean a garden?
“Yes, yes,” I agree, wondering if he just watched a movie about medieval times. “And I shall quit my toil as scribe to peasant apprentices to weave the cloth.”
“I’m serious!” He wanders about the yard.
“Have you ever planted a garden before?”
“It’s in the blood of my people.” Manly chest thump.
“You told me ‘your people’ descended from Spanish royalty.”
“We were great landowners.”
So what does a helpful and supportive wife do? I purchase a few gardening books—big ones—with lots of pretty color photos. Very comprehensive. The happy farmer on the book cover holds a beautiful basket brimming with organic vegetables.
The books sit on the coffee table and collect dust.
“It’s March,” I inform hubby one fine sunny day. “When were you going to till the soil? Or for that matter, buy some top soil?”
“There’s plenty of dirt in the back yard.”
Yeah, hard-packed dirt—not soil suitable for growing vegetables.
Therein ensues an argument about the benefits of building a raised bed or digging up the rocky dirt.
The next step? Planting—except Hubby comes back from the store with SEEDS!
“Are you crazy?” I ask. (Actually, I believe I use a more colorful choice of words.)
Flash forward again after only a few seeds have sprouted…Hubby returns to store for plants.
“Get plants with vegetables already on them!” I shout as he drives away.
tomatoes ( a lot)
zucchini ( a zillion)
4 tiny strawberries (we believe the dog enjoyed most of them)
a few wee eggplants
lettuce for about 3 salads
I veritable feast!
Hubby’s a carnivore. I really hope he doesn’t decide to raise cattle.
Note: Top photo is NOT our garden, but the backyard of my son’s grandfather-in-law. Now, he’s got CROPS!