A bit of broccoli

In mid-February we were blessed with a lovely spring day. The kind which makes you forget that some of Alabama’s worst cold snaps have been well into March or even April.

That Saturday morning, I dropped my step-daughter at the barn for her riding lesson. Now, for anyone pre-disposed to a case of spring fever, the barn is the last place to seek a remedy. There is nothing like the smell of hay and the sweet, quite whinny of a horse to make you want to chunk it all, drag out your shorts and flip-flops and dance around in the breeze. I decided to make a stop on the way home at the plant nursery.

I left with herbs (mint, thyme, rosemary, lavender, chives and Italian parsley) lettuce, broccoli, cauliflower, sweet peas and an array of terra cotta pots – and I wondered why the sales people looked at me like I was crazy when I asked about basil. I spent the rest of the morning digging in bags of organic soil and potting away.

Of course, the weather has gone from 28 degrees to almost 80 degrees and back again, several times since my planting expedition. My sweet husband and I have carried the herbs back and forth off of the front steps. The vegetable pots have been lugged back and forth in and out of the garage in my daughter’s little red wagon more times than I want to count. Note to self – February is a little early to start planting.

However, we must doing something right. This weekend I looked down to see the tiniest head of broccoli I’ve ever seen. It was really no more than a bite, but I was thrilled. I carefully cut it and showed it to my little girl, explaining that it was just like the broccoli we had out of the steam bag the other night (which she ate quite well, if I do say so). As I offered it to her, she took the littlest nibble and quickly spit it out (all over me).

That’s okay…I think I saw a little speck of white between the cauliflower leaves.

It begins

I grew up two miles down a dirty road. My parents chose our 22 acre piece of the planet for its location nestled in the Alabama foothills against the base of a long ridge. My father’s dream was to build an underground house and he found the perfect location. The lack of bankers with imagination and a growing family came between dad and the dream, but the land sprouted other dreams. I have vivid memories of gardens, rabbits, geese and a few unlucky ducks. I remember friends coming to tend the garden and help us can, freeze or cook its bounty.

As I entered my teen years, the country became seriously un-cool. All I wanted was to live in town close to friends and my all-important social life. I was so excited when we sold our land and moved into town.

While my early teen years were blissfully urban, as I matured the seeds of my early childhood began to emerge. On long car trips through Alabama and neighboring states I would gaze out the window at the fields. College photography classes found me in search of barns, rural fairs and farmers markets.

My adult life brought me the excitement of the advertising world with its fast pace and ever changing trends. I became a working mother (half the time) when I married my husband and his two children. This is the time when the seeds of my childhood began to grow. I fussed and fretted over their nutrition. My step-son once announce to his mother that, “Keelie curses us with weg-e-ta-bles.” He was right. It’s only gotten worse after the birth of my daughter two years ago.

I began to read more and more. The more I read, the more the plant of curiosity grows and I long for a food system that makes sense to me. I am drawn back to the wholesome food from our simple garden. But, I now have a full time job, 3 kids, an average American home with average American dogs tearing up my back yard and a gas guzzling SUV. How did I get here? How do I get back? How far do I want to go? How far can I go before my family plans a full scale revolt? We’ll see…..