The stinking rose

My 12 (foot) x 12 vegetable plot at the back of our garden has at last yielded decent garlic. I planted eight rows, total, late last fall. Two short rows each of four kinds of garlic. The garlic above was planted from organic New York state bulbs, bought at the greenmarket (farmers market, for non New Yorkers) last fall. I pulled it earlier than I should have, but I needed the space for some bush beans and it was hogging a sunny spot. Key word: sunny.

The little garlics on the table above, left, are big enough to pickle. So they have been pickled. They are delicious to scrunch up on their own, with some toast, maybe, to add to curries, or drop into Gibsons.

There are the pretty ones, again. I'm afraid we have eaten half, already. The rest are in a petite braid, curing in a window.

What remains? Four more rows, including some elephant garlic, above, which has produced fatly beautiful scapes. These are finding their way into bright green spring minestrones, pestos and crunchy bruschetta.

Otherwise? After a quick dash around the garden with a cup of coffee it's mostly recipe writing and testing at my desk. Which is also the dining table, in winter. When I get worried about how well I am doing I remind myself that here are worse jobs. It's a little like playing, professionally, with occasional glimpses of glory (ramp leaf dumplings, tonight, for example, preceded by a ground elder cocktail that would have knocked my socks off, if I had been wearing any...).

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June 11 Forage Walk