"A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!" Thomas Edward Brown wrote it (though I learned of it from Dorothy Sayers, in A Busman's Honeymoon, and if you haven't read the Lord Peter Wimsey mysteries, what are you waiting for?), and on a sunny day in my back yard I can believe it (on other kinds of days I can get a bit dubious). But the most wonderful thing about my garden is. . . growing things to eat.
Right now, I am harvesting a handful of strawberries every few days. Not enough, really, but. . .yum. Every one tastes like a strawberry, a bite or two of succulent goodness.
Snow peas are beginning to come in, too. I don't get to eat many of those, as my youngest son likes them, and I hate to diminish the supply of any vegetable either of my kids will actually eat.
And later this summer, weather gods permitting, I'll have homegrown tomatoes. Inside my primitive greenhouse the plants are flourishing, and a few of the blossoms have set into tiny round green tomatoes. A couple are even starting to turn color, though they remain tiny. Things seem to be moving a bit slowly, though, so I'm still crossing my fingers about the tomato harvest. Likewise my zucchini. The ones I tried to start from seed failed, to a one, to germinate. The ones I've bought and put in are doing better, and one tiny squash has started to grow (though I'm not sure the blossom got pollinated, which means it will probably rot and drop off at a tender age).
I have mixed memories of the large garden we tended every summer when I was growing up. Weeding long rows wasn't my favorite thing, but I loved the feeling of the freshly tilled earth on my bare feet on a hot day, and I dearly loved going into the garden, pulling a carrot, wiping the dirt off on my shorts, and eating it right there, as fresh as is humanly possible. My little fog-city garden is but a tiny echo of that one, but it does give me a bit of that satisfaction that comes from growing yourself what you intend to eat. Of course, no matter what I do, my adult garden will never match the memories of the childhood garden. I can forget the hard work and remember only the warm, soft dirt between my young toes, but today's garden needs weeding.
Which isn't a bad thing, on a sunny morning.