This Is the Root of My Obsession

I just finished reading The Roots of My Obsession, a collection of essays by famous gardeners and decided to write my own short essay, as if it was included in the book.

My first memory of loving something green that grew is from elementary school where we put seeds in paper cups and when the seedlings were a few inches tall, we got to bring them home. I remember feeling quite proud that this plant was mine as we brought them home in the late Midwestern spring. My brother, who was 4 years younger than me, got upset at something on the day we were walking the plants home and threw his plant down on the ground and bam, it was gone. I was mortified and gave him a good lickin’ right there and then on the path home from school.

Was this the start of my love for growing things? I’m not sure but it sticks in my mind like yesterday and it was over 50 years ago. When I was a teen, I remember asking my parents if we could have a garden. They liked the idea and said we would have to turn the dirt all by ourselves with shovels. Thank goodness for that good Midwest soil as we (said brother included!) toiled with some resulting sore muscles and our first garden plot. We planted tomatoes, green peppers and mint. These were the staples for a special summer recipe I grew up eating – stuffed peppers and tomatoes.

As newlyweds, my husband and I first lived in a townhouse with no green space available so my girlfriend’s Italian father generously gave us some of his garden space to grow our own vegetables. We would faithfully make visits on the weekends to check on the progress of our little garden. I remember Mr. M had the biggest tomatoes I’d ever seen on homemade stakes and I dreamed that someday, mine were going to look like that too!

When we did move into our first home, we quickly tilled up a small garden and got to planting. Our inspiration came from my father-in-law who grew up on a farm and had a very large backyard garden. When I was in labor with our first child, my husband told me stories of the strawberries in "Grandpa's" garden to keep my focus during contractions. Five children, three houses and thirty-six years later, we are still “growing” strong.

Just like many of the essays in The Roots of My Obsession stated, when I garden, I am solely devoted to the weed I’m pulling, the seed I’m planting, the vegetable I’m harvesting, or the compost I’m spreading. The issues of the day are for later. This time is between me and nature. This is especially important to me because recently, I lost my gardening partner and my mind has many responsibilities, but not when I’m in the garden. I wonder how that magic comes about but I’ve not yet found an answer so it is a wonderful escape, if you will, that continues to feed my soul.

Sometimes a cardinal will perch closely and sing to me letting me know my husband agrees with what I have done to our garden. Sometimes I ask him for help that often comes in the form of a friend who does the tilling for me. Sometimes I travel around my yard, almost finished with one chore and then my attention goes elsewhere - trim the asparagus, transplant the strawberries, start the herb seeds, trim the hedges, dig out some compost - so the list grows longer and longer with many items completed but always many more to go.

I do not have a beautiful English garden to tend or know the botanical names of the flowers I grow; I cannot feed a village but cherish the wholesomeness of food I have grown. And I know that my health and wealth are a big part of that small plot of ground that produces goodness to feed my body and nourish my soul.

Using garden fresh ingredients in this dish enhances the value of the meal and is one of our comfort foods in the summer.

This recipe has been passed down through four generations of my family.