Garlic

Every fall, I plant garlic. I’ve been successful twice–maybe. Most years, some wild animal comes along and digs up the bed. Or it’s too dry and the bulbs don’t develop. Or–like this year–it’s too wet and the bulbs turn to mush in the ground.

But Samuel Johnson might well have written “the triumph of hope over experience” about gardening and marriage. And this year, hope won.

I was amazed that the garlic turned green in early March. The temperatures stayed firmly in the 30 to 40 degree Fahrenheit range. Way too cold for most of my garden. Nevertheless, the garlic persisted.

In April, the plants turned yellow. Uh-oh, mush alert ahead. But I left them through May despite my urge to rip them out of the ground. Right on schedule at the beginning of June, scapes formed. After clipping them, I crossed my fingers. The plants still didn’t look right.

But last Friday, the plants had just about died back. Again, right on schedule. I dug them up and hung them in the barn. They need to hang for about a month before they’re ready for cooking.

I ended up with six bunches of six or seven bulbs each–or about forty garlic bulbs. That’s a winter’s worth of cooking.

Father’s Day Sunday

Today is Father’s Day, and I thought it would be cool to use some photos of my forebears. But as always, I had technical problems. Without going into the boring details, I had to wait for my son to come and solve my Adobe to JPG problems. He also cleaned up these very old photos.

So here is Grandpa Harry Kreps at his wedding to Ida. My father’s parents, which seems appropriate for Father’s Day.

And here is my father, Saul, graduating from high school. Maybe. That would’ve been in 1935. Or thereabouts.

Happy Father’s Day, Harry and Saul. You’re missed.