I’ve decided to grow blackberries. I’ve decided to grow blackberries because I went over to my mother’s house and she said, “Look at my blackberries. Aren’t they wonderful? Taste one. They’re delicious! I am God’s gift to gardening. Brag, brag, brag.”
And I hate to admit this. It absolutely pains me to admit this. Because I’ve never agreed with my mother about anything in my entire life. But they WERE delicious. And they did look wonderful. And I thought to myself: Even though I may never hear the end of it – “See? Aren’t you glad I’m such a great gardener and taught you everything you know!” — I should try to grow some myself.
Because they were that delicious.
I’ve always believed that your yard should produce things. It should have meaning and purpose. Where you can see – literally – the fruits of your labor.
It shouldn’t just be pretty. I don’t want a yard where I spend all my time toiling and sweating so I can point and say, “Look. I made … green!”
If I’m going to fight thorns and weeds and roots and insects and, worst of all, dirt, I want a yard that gives me something back: a fruit-filled, butterfly-flying, bee-embracing earthy wonderland. A giving garden.
That’s why I now have a rampant (translation: out-of-control) milkweed forest whose seed pods are bursting open so cotton-y parachutes can catch the wind and send offspring into the world. Last year’s seeds are starting to come up all around the yard, and the butterflies seem so grateful. I know because they send me thoughtful cards. The porter’s weed that the bees love is ramping up its bright blues, and the fire spike I’ve been cultivating for the hummingbirds is looking to have another great year. I am a sucker for hummingbirds!
And best of all: In the front, I have baby pineapples coming up. Oh, they are SOOOO cute!
Growing pineapples is such a rewarding experience. The best part is it only takes 2 years to get a full-grown pineapple. Two years! And even better, after two years you get only a single fruit. Not a whole flock of them. Not even one for each year you’ve been growing.
This, you might note, is an incredible investment in time. Because, sure, it only takes 20 minutes to drive to the grocery store and buy your own. They’ll even cut it up for you. But think of the pride and joy you’ll have, two years later, when you grow your own and it’s delicious. Unless, of course, the dog tramples it in one of her lunatic freakout sessions. (In which case, don’t worry: the next one will be ready in a brief 730 days.)
How do you grow a pineapple? It’s kind of strange really. If fruit made horror movies, this would be it. You chop the top off of a new pineapple. You know, decapitate it. Then you take the disembodied crown with the spiky green leaves sticking out and you jam it in the ground. Just leave it there. You know, like a warning to other pineapples that if they come around, they’ll get the same.
You spend two years wondering why you dedicated such a large and prominent section of your yard to what is essentially a pineapple graveyard when you could have gone to the grocery store and bought a new one. And then, just when you are about to give up on the lot and plant something more rewarding – like sod! – out from the top sprouts these adorable, precious baby pineapples, which also kind of look like little alien spores.
You go out each morning and make baby noises and tell them how cute they are, and that one day you’re going to chop their head off and plant them in the ground. That’s when the ravens start flying over and the thunderclouds roll in and the neighbors stop coming over. “Imagine what he does to mangos!”
I don’t want to brag, but people also marvel over my ponderosa lemon tree. They will stop and ask what my secret is. Because while it looks like a Charlie Brown Christmas tree – all scraggly and sagging – it produces fruit the size of watermelons. Its weak, frail little branches wilt under the weight of these giant lemons, but they are prolific.
“My secret?” I say. “Well, I suppose I am just God’s gift to gardening!” … then I shrink at the thought of sounding like my mother.
Which is why I couldn’t tell her about the blackberry. Why I had to snag a little one when she wasn’t looking. I will now try and grow it from the seeds. I don’t know how long it will take, but if the pineapples taught me anything, it’s that the fruits of your yard labors are always worth the wait. Even if it only produces one little berry, which the dog will inevitably trample.