There is perhaps no greater gift than a plant for your home or garden—especially garden. Nearly a decade ago a coworker who has since retired gave me a few garlic bulbs and counseled me on how to grow them, and though I’ve since moved twice, I’ve kept that garlic in the ground every year at each new location. Today, I’m still growing it.
Three years ago I moved to a new home, the third location at which the garlic would be grown. I’m not scientific about my gardening (I consider it more magic than science, possibly because I choose to remain uninformed about the science), but I understand dirt has different qualities, from density to pH, not to mention each yard’s unique shade and sunlight profiles. So, results may vary.
At my new place, I haven’t had great luck with garlic—the bulbs have remained small, but even in slow years it has put out enough cloves to store and plant for the next season, keeping the strain alive. But the other day I harvested a dozen bulbs or so of varying sizes, including some respectable ones (likely because I mixed in some compost early in the season and loosened the dirt). I’ve used this gifted garlic in dozens and dozens of meals over the years, from stir frys and burritos to brussels sprouts and what I like to call tomato soup season/autumn, which is around the time I stick a dozen or so of the best looking cloves back into the ground for next season.
A garlic bulb, of course, is comprised of perhaps 6 to 12 cloves depending on the varietal. All you have to do is pull off a good looking clove, store it in a cool, dry, dark place like the interior of my beating heart, and then about two weeks before the first expected frost (mid-October in Minneapolis), you plant it about four inches deep. Each clove becomes a bulb, which is like a 1,000% interest rate if it were a savings account. The cloves may start to germinate, but ideally before they send up shoots the weather turns cold and they go dormant. In the spring, it’s the first thing up (at least in my yard), along with tulips and other fall-planted bulb originators.
I love when things pop up out of the garden. I still remember helping my mom garden when I was little, and how amazing it seemed then that things so brightly colored and varied in shape, not to mention taste, could grow from the ground. For a short time I recall being obsessed with growing corn, so mom designated a little area where I could plant half-a-dozen stalks and watch them grow, though I think the bugs got them before they ever became edible.
It’s a sad truth that I actually don’t eat many vegetables—not nearly enough (except peppers, which are a primary food group for me)—but that hasn’t lessened my amazement at the magic a little water and earth can produce. From this black stuff that you can sift through your fingers comes every color imaginable, with nearly infinite flavors and smells—and that’s before you even factor in flowers.
This often feels so powerful to me, it’s hard to express it. As simply as I can put it, I don’t believe in a god, but the times when I feel closest to conceding it might be possible are when a pepper ripens, or a garlic bulb is pulled, ready to provide a little mouth joy without having hardly ever asked anything of me in return. That is such a gift.
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