I know I’m not a real gardener because I wasn’t checking the weather enough to know that it might frost overnight and kill my zucchinis. My poor zucchinis.
If I were a real gardener, I would have been keeping an eye on the overnight temperatures for weeks prior, like my mother-in-law does every year around this time. If I were a real gardener I’d have harvested most of my zucchinis by then anyways. If I were a real gardener, when I heard mention of flurries in the forecast over the radio alarm that morning, I’d have jumped out of bed and went to check on them immediately, regardless of what I could have done at that point. I realize now that I’m not a real gardener. Damnit.
We had hit snooze so many times we lost count, so by the time I heard the weather we were both already late and had to get to work. All day, I was concerned not only for the zucchinis but the tomatoes and cucumbers and beans and herbs sitting outside, even though the snow wasn’t really accumulating at all. (I also didn’t know how much bad weather beets and carrots can handle, but I assumed that being root veggies they’d be okay.) I had a class to go to right after work too, but luckily Tavis went straight home and worked so hard to clear the garden of all the at-risk veggies that evening before I got home. He really is amazing. He rescued a few cucumbers and some beans, and got boxes and boxes of tomatoes. He also saved our summer squashes which I had completely forgotten about, and picked all the herbs and set them to drying in the garage. But, sadly, he couldn’t salvage the zucchinis.
Tavis had just picked some zucchinis so the sting is slightly less because we have some sitting on our counters even now. Still, those will only last so long and I’m frustrated at myself for letting the rest just die out there in the cold. And every time I see those lovely green and yellow veggies I’m reminded of the ones I couldn’t save because I was too busy or too lazy or whatever the reason to check the damn weather.
To top it all off, I don’t know where we’ll be living next year. We might move, and then we won’t have this lovely garden patch anymore and I won’t be able to try again. I might not be able to make up for my mistakes by growing some new lovely green and yellow veggies for stir fries and chocolate cake and zucchini boats. I might not have the chance next year to prove to myself that I can be a real gardener. Such is the unpleasant sting of regret. And frost.