Jen's Column / Gardening

I just realized I never posted this one from two weeks ago. It's not going to take your breath away, but it may inspire you to send me some advice. Which I will take, happily. xo, Jen

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I wasn't born with a green thumb, but that doesn't keep me from trying.

We've had a small garden — probably about 4'-by-6' — in our backyard for the past few years. Just big enough for two short rows of corn and two rows of snow peas (year #1), two tomato plants and a handful of carrots (year #2), or a mix of radishes and onions — and a single green bean sprout my son brought home from preschool (year #3).

My gardens have never been huge successes. During The Year of the Corn, for instance, I nurtured those stalks all summer long — fanatically protecting them from running children, wayward soccer balls and peckish deer. I scattered dog hair and a concoction that smelled like a mix of rotten eggs and flatulence to deter rabbits. And what did I have to show for it at the end of the summer? Four ears of corn, which we finished off in a single meal.

The next year we tried tomatoes. You know how garden people are always trying to pass off their extra tomatoes? They leave baskets of tomatoes on their neighbors' front steps. They put them in the lunchroom at work with a sign that says, "Free! Take some." They leave them at the foot of the mailbox, hoping a passerby will relieve them of some of their bounty.

We had one (yes, o-n-e) tomato last year. A single, misshapen tomato hanging on its sad little stem. I picked it and put it on the kitchen counter where my husband and I waited for the other to eat it until it wrinkled and we threw it away.

With the warmer weather, I've been thinking about this year's garden.

I'm determined to reverse the trend. We're going to build a bigger garden this year — a raised garden. We really have no choice in this matter — the raising of the garden, I mean. Not only is our yard crisscrossed with all matter of wires and cords and cables that we'd prefer not to sever, but the earth under our sod appears to be an equal ratio of sand and household items. I'm not kidding. When we dug our existing garden, we found a scattered collection of broken PVC pipes, chunks of ceramic tile and a handful of nuts and bolts. (Apparently "fill quality" wasn't a priority when our house was built.)

In a show of optimism, we compiled a "Garden Wish List" over dinner a few weeks ago, my husband and sons offering their votes for what we'll grow this year. Tomatoes, carrots, and onions made the list, as did dill, chives, peas and green beans. I'd like to try some lettuce. And we'd love to have cucumbers and watermelon, except that they're such greedy little garden hogs.

I even started a few pots of herbs — dill and basil, chives and parsley — and set them on the kitchen windowsill. I thought it made me look very gardeny — and I figured I'd transplant them once the season officially arrived. But, in true Koski fashion, I've already killed them all.

So instead, I'm spending the pre-season daydreaming about planting and weeding and watering. About watching my future seedlings sprout. About feeding my family with food I've grown. I'm having little fantasies about learning to can and freeze vegetables. I've convinced myself that I'll be the kind of gardener who stores her herbs in ice cube trays and makes homemade salsa. And I don't even eat salsa.

But I'm probably getting ahead of myself. When it comes down to it, I'll be happy if I can just grow enough food to make one meal. Scratch that. I'll be happy, this year, to get more than one stinking tomato.