This is the time in the garden when many decisions must be made, but none can be executed. Highs near 80 demand my imagination’s attention, but the crust of ice that appears overnight on the hens’ water bowl snaps me out of the urge to press more than spinach — cut-and-come again New Zealand? Tyee? — into the dirt.
I’ve been busying myself by digging in last year’s rabbit poo into the shady beds where the peas will climb bamboo tripods. Will I plant Wando, for their ability to tolerate extreme temperature swings? Laxton’s Progress, because they are quick? Extra early Alaska, because I am hungry for sweet tender peas blanched and dressed with just a little butter and cream?
My gradeschool garden girlfriend Molly helps in the strawberry patch that has been overrun by quack grass. I ask what she would like us to grow this year. Basil, she suggests, not worried about choosing between bush and Genovese, and not making the leap to future berries tossed with aged balsamic vinegar and a few fragrant leaves of her crop sliced thin.
Those seeds will wait for warmth. But until then, we can ready the beds, and ourselves, for the day when the choices we’ve made begin to bear.
Dana Coffield: dcoffield@denverpost.com, 303-954-1954 or
