I used to think I was supposed to plant everything at the same time. Right after Mother’s Day, time to plant. I planted rows and rows of garlic. They came up with their green hands waving and never really became anything.
I planted in one fall. We moved the next March, so I never did see what the garlic became.
Last fall I planted rows and rows of garlic. I kept them covered with straw for their long winter’s nap. This time we would have garlic! I looked for their awakening in the spring. Indeed they shot out of the ground with promises of Italian food and garlic rubbed French bread. They dissipated a bit, so I planted potatoes where the empty spaces were. Yet, still a few stood strong. Three small cloves were brought out of the bed last month (and I mean small, one clove). Thinking more were behind them, I sold two of them. I dug through the bed like a Blood hound searching out my long lost promised garlic. Alas, it is gone. Simply vanished. Not a green stem, not a clove, not a husk to bid good bye. Vanished. No sign of vandalism, of raccoon or squirrel robbery. No culinary savvy birds have been by. So, where, pray, is the garlic?