Cultivating generosity: share those spare seedlings
By Barbara Damrosch
At the end of spring planting season I often think of the poem by Louise Bogan titled "Women," which begins, "Women have no wilderness in them, /They are provident instead." This comes to mind because all the female gardeners in my neighborhood, myself included, have spent those final weeks frantically finding homes for all our leftover seedlings.
It seems intolerable to throw out even partial flats of perfectly healthy tomato plants or cosmos, even if they are a bit leggy and overgrown. Surely somebody out there needs them desperately to fill a gap in the garden.
My husband, the ever-practical farmer, can see no pathos in discarding his extra lettuce or broccoli, so onto the compost heap they go. He treats our compost operation as a family member, another mouth to feed. It needs its daily ration of orphan plants.
He's right, of course -- being over-provident is often not worth the energy spent. And it's not as if we were drowning surplus kittens.
Nevertheless, there's something inherently valuable in the feminine instinct to conserve, the conviction that nothing in the household should go for naught.
This kind of mentality, born of peasant frugality, leads Italians to create grappa out of grape must, after the juice has been pressed out. Or the French to coat cheeses with the grapes' seeds -- why waste them? It's part of a cook's genius to use byproducts creatively.
Besides, this little flurry of community swapping between spring and summer is a pleasurable exchange. Certain busy friends, perennially behind in their planting, eagerly await our handouts, and if all else fails my friend Siri will help me find homes for the remains. Even when forced to compost them, she carefully sets them on top of the heap in hopes that someone will come by and rescue them before they are buried.
Some composted plants, of course, refuse to die: I've often inadvertently raised tomatoes or squash from seedlings that were tossed out. A big, deep pile of organic wastes proves to be the perfect place for them to grow.
'Tis the season of serendipity. Yesterday when I was tossing the salad for our farm lunch and looking for the perfect seasoning, our helper Kennon walked in with a bowl of fennel plants just gleaned when she'd thinned the bed. They were tiny, just like spindly blades of grass, with a delightfully subtle fennel flavor, and all washed and ready to go.
A bit obsessive? Perhaps. And my kind of woman.
Text copyright of Barbara Damrosch, reprinted with permission.
Photo credit: Fujiapple
