After a summer of benign neglect and nearly a month’s total absense, our garden is unkempt and wild. I like it this way. I imagine hunter gatherers placing a few seeds here and there and returning later to see what has grown.
A quick tally:
Juicy bruised tomatoes.
Camomile. Bitter, but edible.
Lettuces grown larger than their grocery store counterparts. Spicy. Bitter. The stems stretch across the dirt, rooting into the ground to suck up more water.
Small creatures chewing their way across the mache and kale.
A pile of long dried weeds laying among ones newly grown.
Ah, there are the carrot stems! From the jumble, Beluga pulls carrot after baby carrot from the ground.
And what is that? Growing among the lettuces, across the garden from the official “tomato bed” a wild plant surreptitiously grows. Just as flowers attract butterflies, a bright tomato catches Beluga’s eye.
Without hesitation, he plucks it.
As the juices flow over his fingers, Beluga looks around. “Wash,” he says. I feel a moment of concern that he has turned into a city kid. Then he spots a puddle, runs to it, and thrusts his hands down into the water. A few moments later, he looks up at me, tugs and his shirt and pleads, “Take off!” I oblige.