In praise of delayed gratification

The plants are sitting happily in loamy topsoil, surrounded by nests of half-decaying rice straw.  A protective perimeter of organic slug killer outlines each raised bed.  They've been fed healthy meals of rotting fish juice. The irrigation drips for 12 minutes every midnight.  The tomatoes and tomatillos have been staked and caged to tame them upwards.  The peppers lean against their bamboo teepees.  The Roman beans are starting to find their way to their poles.  The marigolds stand ready to attract the good bugs and drive the bunnies away.  So now the waiting begins.

The advantage of my hybrid city:country lifestyle is that once a week I say good bye to my garden and allow the unwatched pot to boil into abundance.  The rest of the week I am like a child during Advent.  In my waking dreams I wonder if the eggplant is going to shake off the earwig infestation and establish itself, when the fist padrone peppers will appear, whether the zucchini will start to blossom.  By the time I arrive back home I am bursting with curiosity.  I park the car, release the hounds, and rush down to the garden to witness the week's progress.

Satisfaction comes. The pumpkins and squash have started to shoot out tendrils.  The tomatoes need to have their suckers pinched off (non-fruiting green growth that starts in the elbows of the primary leaves).  The Armenian cucumber plant has doubled its circumference.  The basil has doubled its height.

And, a little disappointment comes.  That one tomato in the corner by the fig tree is still stunted.  The french beans have a failure to thrive.  One of the eggplant starts has disappeared, victim to a slug who somehow managed to navigate the sluggo mine field successfully.  The Tuscan kale looks like it is about to bolt.  The artichokes are nearly done.

In the next couple of weeks, the weekly rush to the garden will reveal cherries, a spring crop of mission figs, and the first raspberries.  There will be a lull filled by squash blossoms, rainbow chard, a few purple potatoes, and the first zucchini, tender and small.  Then, the thrill ride begins.  I'll find the first tomato, a flash of red in a forest of green.  I might bring it to the kitchen to share.  Or, I'll give in to impulse and pop it into my mouth right there, a burst of gratification well worth the wait.