When I was a kid, I thought my parents were so uncool for wanting to plant things outside.
I remember them waking up early on Saturdays and working diligently in the garden… decorating with bricks, planting a variety of colored flowers, laying down mulch… They would work hard until the Texas heat kicked in and the sun mercilessly poured out its scorching rays. My sister and I were routinely called to deliver tall glasses of water, iced tea or lemonade – always with extra ice.
Now that I’m older, have children of my own and am passionately learning more and more about real food, I’ve grown to appreciate the art of having a garden. Except…
I did NOT inherit the green-thumb gene. In fact, I’m pretty sure I got a double dose of the black-thumb instead.
Still, I’ve been wanting, yearning, CRAVING a garden for over a year now. Last year my friends grew zucchini like there’s no tomorrow. My step-mom had four different varieties of tomatoes and my son liberally ate them right off the vine. Even our church flower bed is majestically producing potatoes that were planted there over a decade ago!
My lettuce growing in a cup wasn’t cutting it out anymore. I wanted the real deal. Outside. With dirt.
But first, we had to clear up just a few teeny tiny little issues.
- My soil. Or rather, the lack thereof. The backyard of our rented townhouse is sand and reedy weeds.
- The neighbor’s cats and their community litter box, a.k.a. our backyard.
- Inconsistent sunshine.
- Funds (since we’ll have to create a work-around for issue #1 and a solution to issues #2 & 3.)