Do you ever wish you were a normal person? I do, all the time, and I tell myself I’m not alone. Everybody else wants to be normal too, right? This morning, for example, I was panting over my pitchfork and my 7-month-old belly, wondering why I can’t garden like a normal person. You know, the till-the-soil-with-a-machine, make-tidy-rows, plant-your-garden-in-a-day, weed-with-a-hoe, kind of normal. Every year I fully intend to do this, to be a normal gardener, but then I get down on hands and knees and start ripping out quack grass. Following the stringy, white roots snaking through the soil I shudder to think how a tiller would extend the weedy web even further (chopped up roots can colonize freshly cultivated soil with vigor). Then, the quack grass leads me to a bed of lettuce I planted last fall. It’s coming up nicely and getting a head start on all the slugs so I certainly can’t till it under either…
What happens next is my version of If You Give A Mouse A Cookie, titled, If You Give Me a Pair of Gardening Gloves. The lettuce surrounds some oregano, which needs to be trimmed of old growth. I take the carbon-rich trimmings to my compost pile and, on the way, stop to look for the garlic cloves I planted last September. The pungent greens, ready to burst through the dirt, are next to a saskatoon berry bush that needs watering. While soaking the shrub I notice a pile of dead leaves to be raked away from nearby chamomile seedlings speckling the soil. As I take the rake back to the garage I know I’m starting to slip. The normal garden is eluding me faster than quack grass spreads. Still, I rack my brain to figure out how I could skirt around the calendula and cilantro I scattered in October, the perennial herbs anchoring almost every bed, the 100+ garlic plants, and the self-seeding flowers that will attract pollinators, to make something orderly. Something I could plot out on graph paper. But it’s impossible.
Just when I’m dreading my wild and weedy gardening future, I notice the feathery green top of a parsnip coming back to life. Then another, and another. I’d forgotten I’d left them in the soil to sweeten up over the winter! Soon I’m harvesting a bucket full of roots, ones existing only because I’d let them grow where they’d blown in. Parsnip takes two years to produce seed. If you don’t harvest the root the first season it will grow into a tall plant and produce a magnificent amount of seeds that will wind up all over your garden. Upon discovering my self-seeded treasure I soften a bit. I may not be normal but I’m not a failure; I’ve got parsnips to prove it.
After digging out the parsnips I realize I can’t let my heavy clay soil sit for long; I’ve done this before and working with it afterward is like trying to massage concrete. Fortunately I have some snap pea seeds on hand and I plant a little patch to fill the vacancy created by tonight’s supper. I suppose I won’t be tilling through this either…
Roasted Parsnips to Boost Morale
- Chop up parsnips and toss with olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and salt (I use my rosemary salt).
- Place on a baking sheet and roast until golden brown and soft. If you’re in a hurry it should only take about a half hour at 415 F. If you have time, roast them slower with less heat.
- Serve with a dollop of plain yogurt and fresh green onions. If you harvest the parsnips in spring (like I did today) the green onions will be the only other thing in the garden ready to eat, which makes for a fortunate pairing.
PS. There are many areas of my life where I’d like to be more normal. I was going to address another in this post, but I’ve got to get to school. Check back later.
*This post shared at RealFoodWednesday