It was called The Cultivator, and it was an instrument of torture. A creaky, curmudgeonly metal wheel in front of four plow blades that we would muscle through reluctant spring soil, blisters blooming on our hands as we heaved and hoed the damn thing along. It was a fantastic tool – for hanging on a barn wall as a quaint reminder of the way things were done in days long gone by. But at our house it was still very much in use, a purgatorial precursor to the actual planting of the vegetable garden.
The preparation was holy hell, but when the soft moist soil was ready to receive the rows of green beans, the hills of summer squash and cucumbers, the tomatoes and peppers and Silver Queen corn, the Brussels sprouts and cabbages, I was right there with my family, taking part in the beginnings of a metamorphosis that…
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Honey, I'm lost with the kids! 