Nothing stops the flutter and surge in my heart when seeds I've planted sprout. There's something so irrepressible about germination, and when I have planted the seeds myself, the process somehow means so much more.
Not that I am a guru of the greenhouse. On the contrary, my seed starting methods are a mish-mash of shortcuts and avoidances. I'm not fond of thinning seedlings, and I don't like to transplant such delicate creatures. So I pop two or three seeds in each of the compartments of the container I will use until the plants go in the ground. If extras sprout, I leave them to it more often than not. The flats bask under two flood lamps in the room over our garage.
This year's first sprouter was kale, quickly followed by onion, basil, and dahlia. Gorgeous!
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