I had such a wonderful dialogue about gardening with a dear friend this week. As our ideas blossomed, so did my ardor for growing my own food. How nuts is it that we think of growing our own food as revolutionary? I mean, have you ever grown a plant with flowers that could sustain you? It’s so magical and such a privilege now, but in my grandmother’s time was a complete necessity. If they didn’t produce enough food to harvest and can for the cold months, they wouldn’t eat. My grandmother first tried beef when she was 18 because our family did not raise cows. That was such a foreign idea to me when she first told me that. Why, you can walk down almost any block in today’s town to order a limp frozen hamburger topped with mushy onions and pickles.
With all this in mind, I came home from the gardening coffee chat to find an onion that I thought I purchased last week sprouting. Maybe I bought it old, maybe it’s been there longer than I remember, but usually that would trigger my brain to throw out the waste. By throw out I mean compost, of course. I’m not a barbarian. But this time, I’m going to plant it. I use onions in EVERYTHING. Wouldn’t it be nice to skip throwing a bruised, half rotted onion in my shopping cart while perusing the aisles of a too cold market? I want to pick a fresh onion that makes me gush tears when cutting. What a simple delight to know that life will find a way, even on my sunless kitchen counter. I did nothing to help the little guy sprout, yet there it is, existing in all its alive glory. Maybe if we could let things be more often we would find beautiful fresh starts.
I’ll report back on this babe of a bulb.