Sunday we planted three beds of vegetables for our winter garden. Everything from broccoli to kale to lettuce and carrots. I have high hopes for this planting for a couple of reasons. The first is that with the help of Chris, Megan, and Jonathan we dug two completely new veggie beds that are no longer under the looming shade of the large Chilean mesquite tree in my backyard (which incidentally is fabulous for the summer beds). Last year the veggies definitely suffered from too much shade and not enough warmth, so hopefully this will be the solution. Also, I was able to add some lush, dark beautiful compost to all these beds. Between the large amounts of food scraps, weeds, shredded documents from the office, and the occasional load of food scraps from the local co-op, not to mention the chickens own special fertilizer and their help digging around in the compost, this was by far the best concoction of natural, home-made compost I have ever been a part of.
Supposedly the seeds I planted on Sunday will grow into food that one day this fall and winter we will cook, fry, steam, and eat. I have seen this work before. I have been a part of it and even responsible for it, but I never cease to be awed at the magic that takes place under that dark warm soil, only to poke its head out and eventually make its way to my mouth. There is always a bit of a question mark hanging in the air after such acts of believing. And really in the end, there is so much that has nothing to do with me. Very strange indeed. But satisfying. Really damn satisfying. Especially when it works.
Rainy sunset from the porch last week.