What I always forget about starting seeds in early spring is the anguish of thinning.
I expect that this unremembered pain is something mildly akin to what allows moms to forget the bad parts of childbirth in the joy of having created someone new.
But every spring it happens. Hundreds of tiny starts must be sacrificed for the good of the garden community.
Last weekend it was time to repot the giant pumpkins and squash, and divide the tomatoes and peppers. I was OK with the small sacrifices — a few puny sprouts that didn’t have a chance anyway — until it came time to take scissors to the basil fuzzing up under the grow lights.
By the time I was done mowing 60 cells of Thai, spicy globe and plain old basil, I was left with a tantalizing pile of fragrant leaves. It seemed obscene to consider tossing it into the compost pile, but would it upset the garden-to-table continuum to fast- forward right to pesto?
I took a chance.
Twenty minutes later, I was smearing a thick paste of basil, pine nuts, garlic and olive oil on a bahn mi-style sandwich made from crusty bread, roasted chicken and Vietnamese carrot and radish slaw, and all was right in the kitchen and in the garden. Dana Coffield
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