It’s Saturday morning, and I’ve just returned from the Farmer’s Market. While I bought the requisite grape tomatoes (even though it’s not nearly close to tomato season yet), yellow peppers (same season-wise), blueberries (from North Carolina, so not “Jersey Fresh!” as the market signs proclaim), and red-skin potatoes (don’t care when it’s available, just get it in mah mouf), we also bought the definitely not farm-related whole-grain bread and breakfast empanadas.
And because of this visit, I have come to the conclusion that my brain loves to visit fantasy land. Earlier in the blog I did go into detail about how we’d do a garden this year, and how I would have the luxury of time to plan it properly and get the soil prepped and order plants ahead of time instead of the last-minute desperate rush to Home Depot. Every Monday or Tuesday we’d plan to “get the stuff and get started this weekend” and every weekend we realized there were a myriad of reasons why we couldn’t: it was raining; it was graduation weekend and we’d be tremendously busy; Hubby would be out all day Saturday (which, as the whole universe knows, is the Mandated Do Things in the Backyard Day) at a meeting; guests were coming for Memorial Day and we couldn’t have naked lumber just laying about.
Which brings us to this morning. It’s a beautiful day, perfect for finally getting stuff started and we chattered a bit as we pulled into the Farmer’s Market. (Well, Hubby did most of the chattering; I have a miserable cold and cough so my end of the conversation was a lot of waving hands and inscrutable face-making.) Before we got out, I stopped him so I could croak at him.
“Why are we going to make a huge garden when we have a garden literally down the street every Saturday?”
Hubby got that look of resigned patience.
“I mean, I really want to support these local farmers with our business, so doesn’t it make sense to just come here for our needs?”
Hubby explained that growing our own is cheaper.
“Is it really, though? After buying the materials for the raised beds, having dirt delivered, buying mulch and fertilizer and then the plants, and watering and weeding, are we really saving money? To mention nothing of the doctor’s bills for our sprained backs and deconstructed knees.”
I thought I saw a small smile.
“But, I mean, if you want the garden, I don’t want to stop you…” Then I coughed, a little more pitifully than I intended.
Hubby opened the car door and said cheerfully, “Right. No garden this year.”
Next year, however, I am going to make some big plans and get started much earlier. I even made a new bookmark tab labeled “gardening” so I have to mean business, right?