My victory gardens By Joe George The first time that I planted a vegetable garden was sort of an experiment. I had no gardening knowledge, and still don’t for that matter. Often, by the end of the season my gardens turn into what I’ve termed “savage gardens,” overrun from too-close planting and lack of weeding. My first attempt was in the spring 1990 and I had just moved into a house on the lower West Side. I was surprised and inspired to see little shoots of garlic and onion pushing through the soil, undoubtedly planted by the previous homeowner of more than forty years. I remember my mother talking about the victory gardens during wartime when she was a child, and also the vegetable garden that my grandmother, who was from the “old country,” grew every summer. So I tilled a little patch of soil, bought a few plants and seeds, pushed them in the ground, and watered them. Much to my amazement they grew, and grew well. Most of the property surrounding that house was covered in asphalt, so I had only a small patch of earth to work with. But the sheer volume that the tiny garden yielded was amazing. The first tomato is what hooked me. It reminded me of the tomatoes I ate in my youth, sprinkled with salt and eaten like an apple. I’ve come to realize that there is nothing quite like plucking a perfectly ripe tomato from its vine still warm from the sun and biting into it while standing adjacent to the very spot it grew. At the house where I currently live, I’ve expanded my gardens a little more each summer; they now occupy most of my teeny Allentown yard. My first summer here I noticed the front yard received the best direct sunlight, so it was only a matter of time before I dug up the little patch of grass and planted vegetables, making my front yard a garden, too. I’m sure that my neighbors initially thought I was a little nuts (they probably still do), but I’ve really come to appreciate that it is much more fun to grow vegetables than it is to cut grass. From July to October my little patch of earth produces more than I can consume. A couple of summers ago while having coffee before work at dawn’s first light, I happened to catch a glimpse of a seemingly homeless man pushing a cart of bottles down the street. This, unfortunately for our society, is not an uncommon sight in Allentown, so I thought little of it. But when he stopped in front of my house and started to look around suspiciously I took notice. Unaware that he was being watched, he quickly looked over both shoulders and hopped the knee-high garden fence. He had spied a perfectly ripe tomato the size of a baseball and went straight for it. Gently plucking it from its vine he put it to his nose and closed his eyes briefly, then hopped the fence again, gently nestled the tomato in the cart, and pushed away. My first impulse was to run out the door after him, but then I remembered how I feel when I pluck a tomato from its vine and smell while my eyes are shut. Taste and smell are said to trigger some of the strongest memory sensations, and as he pushed his cart away I wondered what memories that tomato welled up in him. My victory garden served its purpose, I thought, as I stood there sipping coffee and listening to the squeaky wheels of his shopping cart. Joe George is a longtime professional chef and frequent contributor to food publications and websites. He owns three ukuleles and five bicycles. To read more on his inept attempts at urban simplicity visit his blog at citysimplicity.blogspot.com. Back to the Table of Contents Back to Top