The gang’s all here. Two and a half months since I transplanted forty-some skinny vegetable plants with a hope and a prayer, our garden of fledglings is now something more akin to a rec room full of teenagers, gangly, rambunctious, fecund.

The petit gris de rennes orange-fleshed melons have commandeered the green bean trellises, vining back and forth, heaving with fruit.

The quartet of poblanos is bushy and already producing its hunter green jewels, hanging like tree ornaments. The aji dulces, key to sofrito, dangle like earrings as they ripen from lime green to fire engine red. And the tomatoes — oh the tomatoes. Two rows of four, standing at least four feet, tamed by their galvanized cages but undeterred, winding and bending their way into someone else’s spot. Always in need of a haircut. Always needing a talking to. But so hard working.

The smooth, egg-like Granadero, growing in clusters of five, have already delivered five pounds of fruit, and they are just getting started. They are an eager bunch and I expect the yield will end up being close to fifty pounds — a great choice for food pantry donations.

The four heirlooms, which I grow for my own kitchen, are more slow going and considered, as if they’re reading a good book while they mature. Each has its own personality and time table.

The German Johnson (GJ), one of the first to ripen, makes stout fruit with red-pink flesh and skin. The flesh is meaty and reminds me of watermelon. They can weigh as much as a pound or more; it’s equally good slapped between two slices of toast as it is wedged, salted, and drizzled with olive oil.

The Andrew Rahart, clocking in right after GJ, is as husky, or maybe even more so, sometimes weighing up to two pounds. Its skin and flesh has more orange/brick red undertones. Important to let it fully ripen on the window to curtail unpleasant fibrous innards. A good slicer.

The Jerusalem Red is the only oxheart in the bunch, as in fruit shaped like a human (or ox, so it’s been said) heart. Although it can be slow to fruit and produce unpredictable yields and sizes, it is one of my most favorite varieties for its flavor-flesh combo. Fewer seeds make way for dense flesh, delivering an exquisite balance of tart and sweet. Because of its non-circular shape, they’re best cut into wedges (or eaten like an apple).

Another late bloomer, the Paul Robeson is what happens when black and red and dark green pigments come together, both on the inside and outside. It’s a real looker. Beguiling. Juicy flesh, best wedged than sliced. Rarely weighing more than six ounces, this is a salad tomato, and really shows off its gorgeous coat when paired with other tomatoes.

From the not-so-great department, the tomatillos are barely hanging on, only one of the four actually making fruit, the others felled by disgusting yellow larvae that I’ve spent way too much time squishing. First time in several years of growing them that they failed to launch. Ah well.

But the zinnias are inching their way to the sky and flirting with anything and everything and give me a reason to believe that everything will be okay. That love will prevail. The bees pile on and have a big ole orgy and sometimes spend the night. The flowers sway in the wind and beam at me, their multicolored frocks a wink wink. Nothing to do but smile.

Thank goodness, she says, there is still half a summer to go.

xokod

P.S. What’s growing (or dying) in your yard? Please share in comments if you so please!

We had cleaned up the joint real nice — yanked the weeds, raked the soil, and spread the compost. Then we waited for the weather to change its chilly attitude. This season’s residents would have to stay in transitional housing until we got the go-ahead from Mission Control. And just like that, the weather had finally perked up and was friendly, hospitable even, making this weekend Move-In Weekend for the thirty-some vegetable starts that had been parked on our dining room table for the past four weeks.

Before the plants got their room assignments, I laid down black garden fabric and staked the edges with metal clamps. I sat in the middle as if it were carpet and I studied the 10 x 12-ish space on all sides. I made notes on where everyone should go and who would make good roommates for each other. I fetched a pair of scissors and a trowel. One by one, I cut circles, stencil style, into the fabric. In each exposed circle, I dug until the hole was deep and wide and welcoming. Then I tilted each plant on its side and shimmied its way upright, back filling the hole.

On Day One, I got twenty-five plant-lings settled into their new digs, and the next morning, finished up with the remaining eager batch of six.

It’s an assortment of species, and mostly heat loving, given the sun explosure on all four sides. From front to back, left to right, they include:

Tomatoes: Granadero, Jerusalem Red, German Johnson

More tomatoes: Paul Robeson, Andrew Rahart’s Jumbo Red, followed by Tomatillos

Poblano peppers, Green Beans, Gandules (pigeon peas), Sugar Baby watermelon, Jamaican calabaza

Rosa Bianca and Listada di Gandia eggplant, Aji dulce pepper

Rosa, Aji twice more, zinnias from seed, dill, basil.

We watered and we fed and one of us may have said, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

From this moment, anything was possible — ninety-five degrees in the third week of May followed by predicted sixties over the upcoming holiday weekend; varmints; drought, aphids. Or maybe the conditions would be perfect, the plants would be happy and productive, and I would donate hundreds of pounds of produce to the food pantry down the road.

But really, the medicine had already taken effect: The affirming act of planting hope, the accompanying faith in plants to bear fruit; using our hands instead of devices to make something beautiful; the joy of hearing birdsong; the magic of botany; the resistance to oppression so that others may eat.

Off to water. More + soon. xokod

P.S. Do let me know if you want to know more about the plant varieties listed. Or share a tale from your own garden, pretty please.

This is our half of a garden plot at the county park. (And this is what happens when you’ve been away from your garden plot for six months.) Yesterday was our first day back in the dirt since late October.

Two feet. That’s how much the weeds grew. Russ took the shovel and I grabbed a trowel, and we just got going. The ground, thankfully, was soft from the soaking rain from the day before.

It’s my seventh growing season in Amish country. Hard to believe, but here we (still) are. Seven years in our backyard that I first found as an overgrown jungle of weeds and transformed into four raised and two in-ground beds. It was a dream come true to grow this much food — arugula, rapini, radishes, and lettuce in the spring, making way for cucumbers, herbs, tomatoes, okra, chile peppers, and tomatillos in the summer. Potatoes, too! Kale and chard in the fall. And still it feels like magic to witness the transformation of seeds.

Some folks have two televisions, two cars, two ovens. Russ and I have two gardens: One for us and the other for local food pantries. A certain kind of serendipity paved the way to our second garden last spring: Our friends had a giant plot that they wanted to share, and I had just learned about a local program coordinating home gardeners with food pantries.

A few years in, Adopt-a-Pantry is a partnership between the Master Gardeners of Lancaster County and the Central Pennsylvania Food Bank. The idea: Donate what you grow. Last year, the program donated more than 15,000 pounds of produce; this year, the goal is 25,000 pounds.

I did little documentation in my first year as a participating gardener. I was getting to know the soil at the new plot and getting into the groove of managing two gardens. But this year, I’m determined. The Adopt-a-Pantry peeps have partnered with the Fresh Food Connect app which should help home growers like me keep track of their produce donations. (And it’s free and open to anyone.) I’ve got new friends who know more about growing vegetables than I do, and I just scored a bunch of seedlings at a plant giveaway over the weekend.

And in this space, I’m going to document the highs and lows of our pantry garden. For me, for you, for inspiration, for conversations about food access.

This dirt girl is excited. More + very soon.

xokod