Up From the Bottom

I broke a dozen eggs this morning, and immediately commenced swearing at myself.  It was such a rookie mistake, setting the basket on the edge of the sink like that.  Something I know enough not to do, and yet…  There I was, feelings of inadequacy and general unfarmerliness welling up inside me.  I quickly shifted to being angry at myself for experiencing a minor setback as much bigger deal than it is, and added a little “jeez, when am I going to stop being so crazy all the time?” just for good measure.  It was a typical feeling-sorry-for-myself kind of morning.  Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it) my 7 year old was in the next room, and came rushing in to console me.  There is nothing like your child’s sweet face, mirroring his mother’s patented narrowing-of-eyes look of concern, to nudge you toward the roll-with-the-punches mentality.  A simple, crustless quiche would surely remedy this situation.  And the giggles we had over rescuing the ooey gooey mess from the sink didn’t hurt, either.
But we surely needed more than just eggs and the various dairy items to be found in the fridge.  We needed produce.  RunAmok produce, to be exact.  Armed with scissors and an empty bowl, we strapped on those rose-colored glasses and marched down to the garden.

Munching on radishes (crunchy and refreshingly peppery, yes- but not exactly quiche material), I scoured the garden for ingredients, and was amazed by what I saw.  For weeks, it was just earth and compost and raking and seeds.  Then tiny plants began to emerge and it was just frustrating.  Is this a strawberry plant or a weed?  Lettuce or weed?  And now…  there are real, flowering, thriving plants, growing before my eyes.  But, still not a lot of food.  This was an exercise in flexibility and creativity, however, and by this point I was determined. 

Oregano and chives were my starting point, of course.  I often overlook these old standbys after the more glamorous annuals come into season, but I love them for their reliability.  And their greenness amidst all the hills and rows of brown.  Brian wouldn’t let me touch the basil plants yet, as they each had maybe four leaves on them, but my mother in law’s slightly more mature plants were able to withstand a bit of pruning.  Then I struck gold: spinach!  A bounty of adorable baby spinach ready for the picking.  Alright, so what I was able to scrounge up more closely resembled a handful than a bounty.  But still.  What sounds more appetizing, and less like a meal that started out as a big, fat mistake, than Spinach and Herb Quiche?  Well, maybe Asparagus Quiche, but we’ve already discussed my shortcomings in the asparagus-growing department.  And we’d greedily devoured not only what Cousin Simon had bestowed upon us, but the additional bunches his brother, Dan, brought over the following week.

Back in the house, I whipped up the broken eggs, a feeling of accomplishment spreading with the heat from the oven.  So, the food wasn’t all ours, the milk and cheese and garlic came from my friendly neighborhood grocer.  But what we had planned for, and worked for, and waited for, was finally coming to be.  It happens every year, and every year I am amazed, as if I didn’t trust that something so wonderful could happen again.  And again and again.

As I chopped the herbs and tossed the sautee pan, my fingers smelling of garlic and basil and optimism, I was almost embarrassed by my initial reaction to the egg debacle. 
Suddenly, it seemed downright silly that I had ever thought of a basketful of broken eggs as anything other than a delicious opportunity to reconnect with my family in the middle of a sunny Saturday.