I guess there are entire publishing companies built on the back of garden pictures (not to mention babies) so I can’t be completely off wanting to share images of my urban veggie patch.
The truth is, I’m inordinately proud of my little garden. I think of the branches I’ve twisted into teepee shapes to act as support for tomatoes and cukes and zucchinis as my art installation. And despite what my neighbourhood garden guru says, I think they’ll hold up just fine—not to mention look nicer than a row of upright stakes like soldiers at attention. And the guru did acknowledge recently that my (organic) soil is much better than his after years of pesticide and fertilizer application (he told me if you put a match too close to his garden it might go up in flames…).
In any case, our garden is growing like, uh, wildfire—providing us with lots of salads and early greens. This year I planted four chicory plants, a leafy green I discovered in Italy that is part of the dandelion family. It’s bitter, like a cross between kale and spinach and delicious sautéed with olive oil, garlic, salt and pepper. I could (and do) eat it every day.