Out, out you go; out out with you.

The race is over: all the seeds I coddled by stating them indoors have finally been transplanted to the seedling box next to the garden.  It’s been two months and I’ve chased the sun around the house with four boxes of seeds in hopes to get them to grow.  Unfortunately, it’s been an overcast spring, so there hasn’t been much sunshine.  Despite my best efforts, the seedlings stayed small and are stunted in comparison to the seedlings of previous years.  I wasn’t able to transplant them outside until recently because it’s been too cold, so they haven’t been able to profit from the momentary breaks in the clouds.  This clearly hasn’t been typical “Southern France weather”.

Disappointed as I might be about their dwarf-like size, the plants have another month before being transplanted into the garden so there might be hope for them yet.  In addition to tomatoes and hot peppers I also seeded potimarron and butternut squash.  Potimarron is an heirloom squash and butternut, while quite common in the United States, is just starting to grow in popularity in France.  Christophe discovered it for the first time a few years ago and found it to be a worthy addition to the garden, which, if you knew how he defended space for the tomatoes, you would know it made quite an impact on him.

Until the big plantation – the tomatoes, eggplants, green peppers, and pumpkin, plus everything in the seedling box - the work in the garden is minimal, except for some watering and weeding.   I’ll take the break; I’m tired of chasing the sun from window to window and having to walk around the living room like it’s a game of Twister in order not to step on the trays of seeds I’ve started.  It’s time for the plants to grow – and chase after their own sun for a while.

Seedlings

Spring is arriving, albeit, slowly, and it has gotten me in the spirit of thinking about the garden.  Every year, I get excited about the potential of what can be, and get lost a little bit in fantasy of a super lush garden with overflowing bounty.  I start out strong, but often lose steam somewhere in the process of weeding and vow to myself the next year will be different.  So, here I am, the next year, and I’m looking at my seedlings to give me a jolt of enthusiasm.

Last night I seeded 40 pots of tomatoes and hot peppers.  This is the most I’ve done; we get most of our garden from a neighbor who has such a green thumb she can make plants live just by willing it.  She seeds everything and has moved from numerous hot boxes on the ground to a full blown greenhouse.  It is her passion and her air of making it look so easy that has encouraged me to seed what I can. 

So, here I am, without a greenhouse and weather that is too cold to use my single hot box, and I have 40 pots of dirt sitting on trays in my living room.  I wish I could say I’ve got a set up in the basement with growing light, but I don’t.  I don’t even have a permanently unoccupied sunny table top to let them grow in peace.  Instead, now starts the 2 month run of me chasing sunlight around the house with trays of dirt in hopes some plants will appear.  I know, this is an idea that seems absolutely ridiculous when sitting in a bright sunny house build to maximize sun exposure, the problem is, I’m not in that house.  I’m in an old Catalan house in Southern France.  These houses were build centuries ago when windows were small and scarce.  The fewer openings there are to the exterior means less heat loose and exposure to the howling winds.  Our house has had some renovations, but not enough to remove the challenge from this task.

Just like previous years, I take the trays from room to room following the sun.  If it’s warm enough, I even bring them out to the terrace in the afternoon, I just make they’re back inside before the sun dips behind some clouds.  Don’t get me wrong, I willingly participate in this sunlight marathon, but am happy when the day comes that the seedlings can be permanently transferred outside as they wait to be transplanted into the garden.

Pleasure of the Season: The First Tomato

“Pleasures of the Season” is a series of posts which appear from time to time.  They focus on something special that occurs only seasonally, often fleeting, and something we anticipate.  They highlight moments of what I’ve learned about living with the seasons since moving to Southern France.

It started in early April with a handful of seeds that we saved from the year before.  I planted each one individually, packed them all in a crate, and chased the sunlight around the house with them until they had finally broken through the soil.  We watched and watered them, occasionally bringing them outside when the weather was warm enough.  Slowly, they inched their way upwards and small foliage appeared.  Most of the seeds produced a plant, and we were happy with our overall success rate, for we knew we would lose more along the way before the plants had reached full maturity.

June arrived, along with the construction of a small green house.  The six inch plants were transferred outside and were deeply planted in the rich composted dirt so stronger roots would form.  They suddenly looked dwarfed, but we knew it for the better.  Each morning, we would descend to the garden to open the green house, and inspect the night’s progress.  Weeds would be removed, the plants would be watered, and then left to soak in the sun and grow.  The process would be repeated before the sun had set to close the green house so the small plants wouldn’t be exposed to the cool, mountain night air.  Most continue to thrive, but we also dealt with a few causalities along the way.

Late June brought some summer days.  It was time to transfer the plants to the garden.  One by one the seedlings were removed from their protective enclosure and planted into the ground in rows.  By week’s end, all had survived.  A few weeks passed, stakes are added, and the growing plants are gently pruned and tied up.  Daily watering became a must, even though the summer has not been as blistering hot as previous ones.  Eventually, flowers appeared which formed into small, green fruit.  We watched again, and mark their growth with daily conversations on their progress.  Then, one started to ripen.  Slow at first, but its color changed with each passing day until finally, the day arrived: the first tomato from the garden.