P1030187 Around this time last year, I spent about $30 on a small sack of locally grown, heirloom garlic. I purchased this locally grown, heirloom garlic not to eat, but to break down into its separate cloves and plant in my own garden, with the idea that, ten or so months hence, I would pull in a bumper crop of even more locally grown, heirloom garlic that we would use all year, all the while marvelling in the bounty of the earth and the joy of eating real garlic THAT WE GREW OURSELVES and not the papery, milquetoast version one gets at the grocery store in February.

Things didn’t go quite as planned, mostly because my garlic bed happens to be situated directly behind a certain nearly-nine-year-old’s soccer net, with the result that much of my crop got unceremoniously trampled over the course of the summer. I’m not sure just how many times this summer I called out — like the crazy garlic lady I am — into the backyard, “Don’t step on the gaaaaaaaaaarlic!” Clearly, I did not call it out enough. And so, for this and other reasons beyond my control, I have ended up with just slightly less garlic than I started with.

Which, of course, isn’t really logical. This is not how a successful homestead is run, people.

But. It is beautiful garlic. And right now, beauty trumps logic. Much of my garlic yield will end up back in the ground, although this time I am building protective garden boxes around my little plots (total cost of lumber and wood screws purchased this weekend with which to build said plots: $45, not including labour) to mitigate the trampling. Which means that I have now shelled out $75 in the name of my obsession with the Stinking Rose. As obsessions go, I suppose that’s fairly inexpensive, but really … well, this is all slightly ridiculous when you think about it.

And, clearly, I am thinking about it.

But hey — pesto!



Made with our own basil and, yes, some of the morbidly expensive garlic. I’ll serve some of this green gold up on pizza tonight, and everything will be exactly right with the world.