In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt. ~Margaret Atwood
Every year, with a joyful, optimism that defies logic, reasoning and prior knowledge, I bound into the garden centre. Show me all the seeds, composts, possible pots, pails and buckets and I am won over!
I am gonna grow stuff!
We have planted approximately a gazillion pumpkin seeds, simply because it was so delicious to push your finger into the dirt, leaving a hole so the exact dimensions necessary for a pumpkin seed to plop in and snuggle down, that the action had to be repeated again and again!
I plan to plant them out along under the camellia and rose bushes, in a great long line, running down the garden. Can't you just imagine the sight? Seven or eight glowing orange pumpkins lining the lawn!
We are dreaming of a glade of sunflowers by a certain little girl's garden den. I yearn to be mini and run amongst them, hide in the circle of sunshiney faces and look at the sky.
Tomatoes and basil warm from the sunshine, straight to the plate with a glug of olive oil, a sprinkle of sea salt and a splash of balsamic. Green and yellow cougettes sliced in ribbons, doused in a lemony oil...
Growing something in a garden, on a patio, in a pot, is inextricably tied up with home. By planting something we say to ourselves, this is where I stay. You are growing summer dinners, summer play, summer dreams.