Getting dirty

“Alright, let’s have a look at this patch,” the gardening guru chuckled.

A cascade of ropy tresses tumbled off her head and over the thick hemp fabric covering her shoulders as she walked through my yard. Dirty fingernails and calloused elbows hinted at the passage of many hours of digging in the dirt. Not surprisingly, she left a strong, earthy smell in her wake and exuded an air of fertility.

That visiting friend of a friend took in a deep breath as she approached our large garden. Our test had officially begun. “Well, it looks like you’ve got a banner purslane crop this year,” the house guest scoffed, referring to the abundance of the noxious, but edible weed.

Now thoroughly amused, she bent down, pushed a sprawling tigerella tomato plant aside and grabbed a small handful of our soil. With scientific precision she balled it up in her fingers and casually moved it through her hand. The woman then sniffed the dirt’s odor, pinched off a fingerful and popped it straight into her mouth.

I gasped, stumbled and moved to stop her, but it was too late.

“Ptuhh,” she grimaced as she literally spit out the mouthful in disgust. “Pyuck.”

She briefly flashed an air of disappointment my way before stepping on one of my prized pickling cucumbers, forcing it (and several other pieces of my gardening manhood) to wilt in response.

“Umm, sorry,” I answered, red with embarrassment, and pointed toward a loamier section of the garden. “The soil’s actually better down in that corner.”

The guru approached a Big Jim chile plant, squatted and then repeated the ritual. This time when the dirt went into her hatch, she held it there for a bit. “Hmm,” she said before shaking her head. The visitor returned to her feet, took a few swaggering steps and muttered, “You won’t be insulted if we go to town for dinner, will you?”

I’m happy to report that uncomfortable encounter is now six years in my past. But I also can’t really blame the gardening guru. You see, the Sands family’s a1,200-square-foot farmette had pretty humble beginnings – our food field was once a tennis court sized plot of high-grade Kentucky green. After about a month of mowing, watering and struggling to keep that bluegrass alive, we gave up. In virtually no time, (that is, a winter’s worth of sheet mulching, six truckloads of free horse manure and countless hours of rock wall building) we had a garden. Not long after, that friend of a friend had those mouthfuls. In hindsight, I realize she

But our dirt’s come a long way in the last half-decade, thanks to even more man and woman hours (an endless regimen of cover cropping, composting and organic soil building). The truth is, Rachael and I are fairly proud of our soil – half ton of horse poop and all. And while I won’t make any outlandish claims of possessing black gold, I will say that nearly any green thumb would be happy to have some of our brown under its nail. Best of all, our little dirt patch puts some pretty precious cargo on the Sands family table.

Just like every growing season, this year we’ve watched in a state of awe as plants like tomatillos, spaghetti squash and cilantro have sprung from the soil and stretched their delicate leaves skyward. Española chiles, Serrano peppers and Big Jim himself are all now bushed out and heavy with spicy fruit. In spite of a cold spring, the sweet corn has grown head high, and zucchinis the size of my forearm are nearly everywhere. Even some small watermelons and honeydew are surviving our radical husbandry.

The experiment is never without tragedy, however. Barely 3 inches tall, a few of our cucumber and squash starts were hammered by a fungus that eventually destroyed them. Much earlier, a rogue frost hit and wiped out nearly all of our apricot blooms. Not long after, our cherry trees and 2009’s lone pear were blighted by insect larva.

But this “second job” of mine has always given far more than it’s taken, and the garden goes well beyond the menu. It has provided me, my wife and my daughter a connection that’s missing in the City Market produce aisle and put us a big step closer to self sufficiency. It’s also taught us that there’s no such thing as the mythic green thumb. The fact is that anyone and everyone can and should grow their own. And on the subject of the menu, we’ve managed to produce some of the finest greens, reds and yellows that have ever passed my lips.

I daresay that the gardening guru might even approve and would gladly take her life in her hands should she return to our patch. I suspect she’d happily sample one of our heirloom slicers, snap into to some buttercrunch and ruminate over our green chile. But if she’d rather suck dirt, so be it. These days there’s also plenty of that to go around.

– Will Sands