The Latin name for spaghetti squash is Cucurbita pepo. Which I interpret as koo-kurr-BEE-tah PEE-poh. I find them so pleasingly strange. Clearly part of the squash family in taste and shape, its insides appear run-of-the-mill. But they aren't. They are somehow literally and conceptually one of the most delightfully comforting eats around. Spaghetti. Freakin' spaghetti. Ok, let me emphasize. They are a squash, a vegetable, filled with spaghetti. Which is a pasta, people. A pasta. Crazy? Crazy.
The main reason why I am so excited about spaghetti squash right now is because I just grew one. Well, sorta. It has yet to reach its teenage years, or even its first day of kindergarten. But its infant leaves are big and turgid and lovely. Several weeks ago, Grassfed and I tilled and mulched and tilled and fertilized and tilled and furrowed. We pushed seed after seed into fresh soil, glancing at each other with clueless hope.
I recorded all of our planting in a journal. When I have no idea what I'm doing, it helps me to keep a log of all of my actions so I can then attempt to identify how I screwed up when things go horribly wrong. But thus far, things have not gone horribly wrong. Yes, the parsley and the carrots were slightly developmentally delayed, but they've caught up and poked their heads out. They almost seem to say 'Ok, ok, we're coming, dude. Take a Valium.' And yes, I have recorded the conversation that was had with them in the journal. They have my easygoing personality and Grassfed's strapping good looks.
So far, the coolest thing about having a vegetable garden is not the fact that we can consume the freshest produce around. It's putting your hands in the soil next to someone who has farming in their blood. You figure, Something has to grow. Didn't your father make a living from this? You must have learned something. It also helps that this person who is tamping down the rows next to me is tall and gives good bear hugs.
No comments:
Post a Comment