This year, I found a kindred spirit in that dedicated farmer.
Back in March, I nestled tiny cabbage seeds into carefully crafted newspaper starter pots. Setting them gently in our sunniest window, I watched anxiously for days for a little green spark. I was rewarded by two tiny, circular leaves atop a strangely stem. One by one my cabbage seedlings sprang into life, leaves growing into twin butterflies, springing up ambitiously tall in their snug pots.
Soon I was convinced they were smothered in their childhood homes. The sun had begun to shine consistently, and these little babies were ready for the real world. Visions of rows of strong cabbages danced in my head as I tucked them one by one into the freshly weeded dirt. Grow strong, my young friends, I whispered as I watered them gently.
It froze that night. My heart wept for my seedlings as I saw their shriveled white bodies, frozen and forlorn.
So I started over, this time planting the seeds directly in the garden where they could battle the elements from their youth, growing strong and tough in the wind and rain. The results were pitiful. Only two scrappy seedlings managed to grow, only one of which looked remotely promising. My hopes for a cabbage crop dwindling, I watched with hesitant glee as that one strong sprout's leaves grew and multiplied, nested among themselves, and a formed a tight pack of leaves.
There's a reason Beatrix Potter gave Peter and Farmer McGregor such an affection for cabbages. They're truly beautiful plants, sprawling across the ground like a giant green flower—a commanding presence in any garden.
Today I decided harvest time had arrived. Jared will be home in two days, and when he walks through or door, he'll find a head of our home-grown cabbage ready to be chopped into any sort of slaw he desires.
As it turns out, picking a cabbage is easier said the done. That bundle of leaves may look like it will lift gently from its nest, but it's secured by a thick and stubborn stem. I twisted. I bent. I tore. I cursed my lack of clippers.
As I finally resorted to yanking the whole thing out of the ground, roots and all, I felt a grudging respect for Peter Rabbit. Any creature who manages to steal a cabbage without a tool to his name deserves nothing but respect.
I walked out of my garden leaving behind a pile of ravaged leaves, battered and torn. Dirt cascaded from the roots onto my legs, but I didn't care. As I held my basket-ball sized prize, I knew I'd have made Farmer McGregor proud. Peter didn't stand a chance with my cabbage.
