As the snow melts away, you look. Intensely. At the openings. Find snowdrops already blossoming. And then all the rest that’s been active.
For more on the book and others, click here.
You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
As the snow melts away, you look. Intensely. At the openings. Find snowdrops already blossoming. And then all the rest that’s been active.
For more on the book and others, click here.
Yes, we know all about the catalogs and the pondering that happens each January, along with the flurry of ordering. If you’re a gardener, you’ve wrapped all that up and have the seed packets in hand.
So where are your favorite sources? And why?
And if you need inspiration or simply want company or comfort, consider the experiences in these poems:
For more on my poetry collection and others, click here.
This set of poems celebrates ways food draws us together as family and friends.
We do more at the table, of course, than simply eat.
Sometimes we read. Or roll out dough, when the counter’s full. Or wrap presents.
It’s the heart of the room that’s the heart of the home.
Shall we gather?
For your own copy, click here.
Now that the Christmas season’s over, we’re getting out the seed catalogs. Gardeners know what this means. Traditionally, they start coming in the mail about now, although some seed companies have tried to jump the gun, just like the Christmas decorations and music that now proliferate around Halloween rather than Thanksgiving. No, don’t rush us. This is to be taken thoughtfully, leisurely. Now, in the depth of winter — especially when it’s bitterly cold and snowy in places like the one where we live — our imaginations fly off to springtime and high summer. We evaluate the new varieties we ordered last year to decide whether we’ll get more (if we used up all of last year’s packet) or we’ll try something different.
Some of the catalogs are simply gorgeous. Others, including our favorite, are black-and-white and photo-free. The descriptions are fun to read and have led us to delightful harvests.
One thing I know: we’ll be ordering a certain chard we tried last year. The one that doesn’t taste like beets. No, it’s much more like spinach and so much more reliable where we live. Just don’t ask me to reveal its name. We want to make sure the supplier doesn’t run out. It’s something that happens, you know. As I recall, last year it was a kind of early pea. And before that?
It’s all part of the ritual, I suppose. Along with the intricate maps of our garden my wife draws to determine just how to fit it all in.

At a week-long conference last summer, the caffeine addicts made rounds through the campus bookstore, where coffee was available all day, unlike the cafeteria between meals.
So the first morning I poured a cup from the carafe and prepared to pay, I was told, “It’s free.” Eh? The sign says one dollar. “Somebody already paid for you.”
So I smiled at getting a free cup … and threw a buck into the jar for the next person to come along.
Let’s say simply, I had free coffee all week. Really felt good about it, too.
Keep thinking that was the secret of the loaves and fishes when the thousands gathered to hear Jesus. What happens when we simply open up a bit rather than hoard.
We’ve tried growing them in barrels, but that’s a long story. Sometimes we’ve just harvested them from rows in the garden.
Either way is always an experience.
~*~
dig up the last of the potatoes
fill a large basket
roasted with garlic
the marble-sized ones quite tasty
along with the softest skin
another year
I empty two of our five potato barrels
amid spitting snow
poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
Having voiced my theory about adults-only food, let me now counter it with kids-only tastes. Things you loved to eat as a kid but would rather avoid now.
(Dirt doesn’t count. I’m serious.)
Velveeta would be on my list, now that I’ve discovered real cheese in all varieties.
Angel food cake would be another.
We were even given slices of raw potato sprinkled with salt as a treat while dinner was cooking.
You get the picture. Now it’s your turn to add to that list.
So there they were, well after dark, telling of the gluten-free boxed brownie brand they’d selected to make the pot-laced squares they were munching as they sipped their third bottle of beer.
Wait. Isn’t beer full of gluten?
As she said later, “They’re so dumb.”