Late Season in the Garden

The rewards of tending a vegetable garden during spring and summer are legion. One crop follows another in a stream of bountiful harvests: crunchy radishes, tender salad greens, bright green peas, elegantly long haricots verts, plump tomatoes. There’s also the pleasure that comes from the physical labor of turning the soil or planting seeds or staking plants as they grow tall and heavy. Each day there’s some new miracle to behold.

With the pandemic, I’ve spent more time than ever in the garden and appreciated its various forms of sustenance. We usually uproot it around Labor Day, but not this year. We’re going to stretch the season as long as the weather permits. In New England, that’s not a whole lot longer.

I’m discovering that the rewards of late-season gardening are quieter and slower, but remarkably satisfying. Yesterday we pulled up the basil. It started as four spindly plants. Eventually they sprawled out as if drunk on their own fragrance and took over an entire bed. Recently they exhausted themselves, heaving final sighs in the form of pale leaves. I salvaged a few stems and wrapped them in a damp paper towel, which is now in the refrigerator. This skimpy handful feels precious, when only a couple of weeks ago I couldn’t keep up with production.

The tomatoes have dramatically slowed too. I trim the shriveled leaves to open up air circulation and paths of sunlight for the remaining tomatoes. Each morning I discover a few that have ripened a deep yellow, orange, or red. Like marathon runners who cross the finish line long after the others, it’s an achievement worth celebrating and perhaps even sweeter for the perseverance required.

Bees make their rounds, patrolling for nectar. I watch as they alight on flowers and drink quickly. There’s so much ground to cover, and so little time before dusk. It puts my own to-do list into perspective.

The cucumber crop has been excellent this year, resulting in many salads and a freezer full of soup. I’ve learned to pick them before they lengthen and swell into baseball bats. Cucumbers tend to cloister themselves behind drapes of leaves, making their discovery a game of hide and seek. As with the tomatoes, I trim the plant to let in more light and air for the young ones that just might make it.

Various herbs continue to thrive. Cilantro stands erect in straight rows like soldiers awaiting troop inspection. Leafy stems sway slightly as I pass scrutinizing them to identify which are ready to recruit into active culinary service.

I recently planted a new round of seeds for kale, arugula, romaine lettuce, and spinach. Earlier plantings didn’t do well this summer, which was by turns too wet, too hot, and too dry. Temperatures are now dipping and the soil holding moisture longer, so they might be happier.

Marigolds continue to enliven the beds with their perky orange heads but it won’t be long before they droop. Dahlias have hit their prime. Tight buds unfold into intricate patterns. A few hearty nasturtiums (a friend’s gift of seeds from Giverny) still cling to vines.

I’m grateful that I have the opportunity to garden and to tend it longer than usual this year. We can eke out a couple more weeks before the first frost. I intend to make the most of every late-blooming flower and vegetable. I’ll continue to snip the ragged leaves and collect the skeletal vines, heaping them into the compost pile to prepare for next year’s soil. Next year’s garden. Next year’s mercies and miracles.