Half-hearted harvest

No need to check your eyes – that calendar is right, alright. September, and thus fall, is a mere week away. I know, I know – summer doesn’t officially end for another few weeks. But come on, kids are back in school, the nights are cooler and you can actually find a parking space downtown. Besides, I like to keep it simple. In my mind, when that calendar page turns, so does the season.

For some, this change in seasons comes as a major downer – but only if you let it. After all, look at all the good things fall has to offer, including but not limited to: German beer drinking, cooler weather, fabulous fall colors, and, um, more German beer drinking.

Now also is a time to step back and assess the fruits of one’s summer labors. No, I’m not talking about whether or not you’re able to clean the top of Telegraph without the use of profanities or supplemental oxygen. I’m referring to the bounty of the land. That time of the year when we reap the benefits of all our toil under the hot sun; when we come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves, and all that stuff.

Unfortunately, my rejoicing this year is limited to a small smattering of applause; more of a courtesy golf clap than and all-out “hallelujah.” Six tomato plants, 14 pepper plants, three squash plants, a bed of greens and four basil plants have yielded (drum roll please): five ripe cherry tomatoes (one of which was promptly spit onto the ground by a disapproving toddler) and 1½ green chilies. As a consolation prize, there also are several small, hard green tomatoes that might make good door stops or paper weights.

Not exactly the horn of plenty.

And the floral side of the picture is not much prettier. Two penstemons and a columbine were mercilessly uprooted, courtesy of the family canine, and an echinacea and four cosmos (you know, those hardy pink and white flowers that could survive nuclear winter) immediately turned black, dried up and blew away like tumbleweeds. In fact, I got so desperate that I planted marigolds – which I hate – just so there would be some sign of life. They died, too.

“Sounds like a soil problem,” a friend offered as he stood knee deep in green chili and more fresh produce that an entire Whole Foods market. “Here, have a zucchini.”

Seeing as how I appear to be the only person in the Four Corners, let alone North America, incapable of growing the overly prolific scourge, I gladly accepted the offer.

Of course, those who read this column with any regularity probably already know that failure in the garden is nothing new for me. But what is new this time is the swiftness with which it occurred. I believe I set a new world record this summer for the destruction of perfectly good basil plants, which lasted approximately 2.3 seconds before being devoured, limb from limb, by a swarm of locusts. Biblical plagues aside, I will hand them this much – they have good taste; they left the dandelions alone. Then there was my lettuce, which bolted faster than a petty thief at an all-night mini mart, and my arugula, which, unbeknownst to me when I planted it, surely must be some sort of super midget variety.

But as much as I would like to blame it all on pests, soil chemistry, bad seeds or anything else that doesn’t directly implicate my ineptitude, I have come to realize that some people just aren’t cut out for gardening – myself included. Hell, I can’t even pay attention long enough to read the directions on a frozen pizza box, let alone fawn over a dainty heirloom tomato.

Of course, I realize there are people starving in the world, who would salivate over the mere thought of one of those pitiful, rock-hard, green tomatoes. So instead of sitting here and complaining – and wasting the world’s precious resources at the same time – I have solemnly vowed, from this day forward, to give up the act of gardening – at least until next spring. I like to think of it as the first step in my recovery program.

Fortunately, there is a wonderful support system right here in town for us failed farmers who are not quite ready to go cold turkey – sort of a “Gardener’s Anonymous.” I’m talking about the weekly farmers market.

OK, so it may sound like a shameless plug. But rest assured, I am not accepting veggie payola on the sly (although I wouldn’t be opposed). The fact is, if you haven’t been to the weekly gastronomical gathering in a while, time’s a wasting, because things are going off. For a mere pittance, you can reap the rewards of someone else’s months of hard work – they’ve even pre-rinsed the baby greens for you. There’s everything from the staples (tomatoes, carrots, lettuce) to the sublime (basil, roasted green chiles, mesclun.) Then there’s the stuff I can only dream about growing: corn, garlic, peaches and eggplant.

In fact, the variety is so good, it may cure me of my compulsion to lift another watering can or trowel ever again.

– Missy Votel