On Sunday night, after an early supper of beef bourguignon (mmmm-fall-food), we went out to the back garden to gather the last of the late harvest. Sam, Tracey and I flocked around the apple tree, for starters, with Anabel looking on in starfish contentment (she was rendered doubly immobile, tucked straight-armed into her pink suede winter coat and strapped into a bouncy chair). We harvesters formed a tag team: me up on the ladder passing apples down to Trace, who handed them off to Sammy for inspection and then storage or tossing. To our surprise, we filled a bushel basket with the crisp, deep-red fruit. We've got the makings of oodles more jam and muffins. Yum!
Then we checked out the overgrown zucchini patch, with its broad leafs as big as pup tents hiding surprising numbers of puppy-sized specimens. We must have pulled a dozen huge zucchinis out from their hiding places. I planted that crop so late that I didn’t expect a harvest at all. Now I have some grating ahead of me. After all, the only thing a gardener can do with a boatload of zucchini flesh is make zucchini bread. Tracey, for one, is pretty excited. And so was Sam that night. In high spirits, he ferried the veggies one at a time up to the deck (note: I didn’t pay the ferryman; I didn’t even fix a price). He even got right in there to help pick a few, wowing at the force it took to separate the (sas)squash from their mega-vines.
Then we checked out the overgrown zucchini patch, with its broad leafs as big as pup tents hiding surprising numbers of puppy-sized specimens. We must have pulled a dozen huge zucchinis out from their hiding places. I planted that crop so late that I didn’t expect a harvest at all. Now I have some grating ahead of me. After all, the only thing a gardener can do with a boatload of zucchini flesh is make zucchini bread. Tracey, for one, is pretty excited. And so was Sam that night. In high spirits, he ferried the veggies one at a time up to the deck (note: I didn’t pay the ferryman; I didn’t even fix a price). He even got right in there to help pick a few, wowing at the force it took to separate the (sas)squash from their mega-vines.
We did it, though. The garden was laid bare as the last blush of sunset left the sky on a nippy October evening. Just then, a flock of Canada Geese passed overhead, due south. We all looked up at the sound of their plaintive departure and Trace laughed, “Now this is a fall moment.” Standing there rosy-cheeked, with the smell of wood-smoke in the air and two big baskets of freshly-picked fruits and vegetables at our feet, we felt like reaper figures from some Charles G.D. Roberts poem.
Sam may not have fully appreciated the quiet thrill of that moment for me—for as long as I can remember, I’ve imagined myself working this garden—but he certainly seems to love the cycle of it all: the planting and the harvesting, the baking and the eating. He’s looking forward to taking his place up on the counter and helping to turn the Hudson harvest into loads of treats to share.
Myself, I’m already thinking about what to plant next year. High time, I think, for a pumpkin patch. Fall harvest is good times.
Sam may not have fully appreciated the quiet thrill of that moment for me—for as long as I can remember, I’ve imagined myself working this garden—but he certainly seems to love the cycle of it all: the planting and the harvesting, the baking and the eating. He’s looking forward to taking his place up on the counter and helping to turn the Hudson harvest into loads of treats to share.
Myself, I’m already thinking about what to plant next year. High time, I think, for a pumpkin patch. Fall harvest is good times.
1 comment:
Okay, that "ferryman" comment was too funny. Should we call you Angie DeBurgh from now on? :o)
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