In the spring when I am faced with the consequences of autumnal garden neglect, it's hard to feel good about my skills. Perennials droop with soft rotten stalks; sage pushes out green along uneven stems. Floppy fronds of mint criss-cross the patio. Seeds from the two Eastern hornbeams in back threaten to overtake every bed with an army of tiny trees. I find it best to start small, start manageably, and to start nearest the windows. So I tackle the herb garden first.
Raking reveals that sage, thyme, lavendar, mint, chives, and oregano have all made it through. Jury's out on the rosemary.
Roses and raspberries border the herbs, so I get to work on their thorny branches. Soon I can say, "Raspberries are caned, roses pruned," and feel my self-esteem start to regenerate like the red buds of the renegade peony that just showed up back there one spring.
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After reading Barbara Kingsolver's "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle," I knew it was my destiny to grow and preserve food that would sustain my family year-round. The catch: I live in the middle of a city, in a narrow lot consumed by buildings, bricks, and concrete. This is the story of how I will eventually become the steward of a tiny urban farm.
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