by Sara Barry | Jun 5, 2014 | garden, kids in the garden, kids in the kitchen, spring, what's for dinner
It was a simple salad, but so satisfying.
There isn’t a whole lot going on in the garden, aside from the weeds that are ready to take over. A look at my garden journals suggests I’m always hopeful and waiting impatiently this time of year. I’m eager for anything to pick; my kids are too.
“What that red round thing?” my big girl asked, bending to show me. It was a radish—and there were more. We picked them, red, pink, and white. I looked around and realized that we had plenty of greens for a salad.
“And what about these?” K asked pointing to the purple chive flowers.
“Yes, we can eat those. And some johnny-jump-ups too.”
She picked flowers and some chives. Both girls helped spin the salad (a favorite kitchen helping job). E tore the lettuce, spinach, and mustard greens. And K asked to cut the radishes. I looked at the sharp knife. I looked at her. I handed her the knife, showed her how to place her hands, and watched. She sliced carefully, if not neatly. She tried a piece, and I was surprised she liked it. Maybe it will be a salad summer.
We tossed the greed, red, white, yellow, purple together in a wooden bowl—and served it with grilled steak, potatoes & onions, and asparagus (planting asparagus is still on my long-term garden to do list). I opened a bottle of wine from a friend, and the girls put johnny-jump-ups in their water. It was a lovely spring spread.
We’re on the verge of summer—a few more weeks before the official start, another week and a half before the end of school. I lose track of time around dinner, and bed time creeps later. We sat out at the picnic table last night in the late light. In my mind it was a glorious evening, though thinking back, it was kind of gray and the mosquitoes were starting to come out. Still we’re on the verge of summer, we were outside, and we were finally eating something from the garden.
by Sara Barry | May 29, 2014 | garden
My garden isn’t as far along I’d like it to be. Memorial Day is our traditional last frost date, and I usually try to get everything planted by then. Right now I have peppers and squash sitting in tiny pots waiting to get into the ground. I still need more peppers and some eggplant from the farmers market. And then there are seeds: corn, pumpkins, beans. I’m late on the broccoli and kale and chard.
But today, those starts and seeds waited. The peas and greens I have planted went unweeded. Instead, I spent my day here:
I weeded and loosened soil. I tucked in some lily-of-the-valley and pulmonaria and a new lavender. I moved the mums that were lost under the lilies and found a spot for the rosemary.
I worked with my big girl chattering away beside me, taking my weeds away in her wheelbarrow, asking me again, “What’s that called?”
“Bleeding heart.”
Usually I do this job alone, but I having her with me made me smile. She understood that I needed to work this space today, and I love that she wanted to help.
Working in Henry’s garden has become a tradition for his birthday. Nothing is reall
y right on this day, but working this space comes as close as anything I’ve tried. Some years, I revisit the story in my own head of his birth, of his life, of his death. More often though, my mind wanders as I work. What matters is the act of being out here, clearing space, tending life.
I didn’t get everything done. I left plants that needed to be divided. I wanted to mulch with compost and put back all the heart shaped rocks I moved out. There are still, of course, more weeds. I didn’t have enough time in the garden today. We didn’t have nearly enough time.
by Sara Barry | May 20, 2014 | canning, garden, parenting, writing
“So what do you do?” was a common question last weekend at my college reunion.
I answered, like most of us do, by describing my job:
I’m a freelance writer and editor. I’ve been working on textbooks and technical materials for years, but recently I’ve been writing more about parenting and gardening and food. I’m also a writing coach.
I could have answered like this too:
I’m pulling together a lot of things that I love and starting a blog about writi
ng and gardening and food. I’m planning online and in-person writing retreats.
I spend my spring, summer, and fall days in the garden as much as possible—planting, weeding, picking, dreaming.
I stand in steamy kitchens, filling jar after jar with jam or pickles or salsa or relish. I start with strawberries and work my way right through apples. I smile every time a hot jar seals with a ping and every time I open one to spoon some apple sauce or canned peaches out for my kids.
I scramble to figure out what’s for dinner most nights, trying to find some intersection between the food on hand, the time available, what my kids will eat, and what I want. I dream about leisurely meals with friends, catching up over a bottle of wine while
we chop and stir.
I help with fairy houses and set up forts. I grumble over load after load of laundry. I read stories over and over and over again. I hold the two-wheeler so my big girl can start pedaling and find blankie for my little girl. I wake up too early to “Mama, is it snuggle time?” and go to bed too late so I can read a little, write a little, relax a little (play Scrabble on Facebook a little).
What do I do? I write and help others tell their stories. I garden and cook and can. I love and take care of my kids (and if I’m good, myself too).
So what do you do?
by Sara Barry | May 9, 2014 | garden, spring
“Are your peas up yet?” a friend asked a couple of weeks ago, lamenting that hers weren’t after a month.
“Not yet, but the lettuce and spinach have started, just barely.” When I went home that day, the rain had stopped, and I took a peek at the garden. There among the maple seedlings that are determined to turn
my garden into a forest, I saw uncurling leaves that looked different, crinkly.
Peas. A start.
I’ll keep waiting and watching, watering if it doesn’t rain. I’ll pull the maple seedlings and keep loosening soil, pulling weeds, and adding compost to get the rest of the garden ready. While I’m waiting, the rhubarb is growing so fast you can almost see it; the kids come running up to me with onion breath from eating chives, one of the few things actually ready; and I pull the occasional scallion from last year to chop over dinner because we’re all eager for something fresh and new.
This space is something fresh and new for me too, a space to write about growing and food and family and the connections of all those things. Spring energy is bubbling up through me just like it is through the plants. Things are ready to start popping and blooming and growing. I’m tending my seeds, working and waiting to see leaves and dreams begin to unfurl.
