And the last shall be first

The vegetable garden always has a few surprises for us each new season.  There are edibles that are expected -- the garlic bulbs planted last fall, the scallions we put in at the end of the season -- and they do show up on schedule.  But every so often, a crop that failed abysmally last season rises phoenix-like to say "Not dead yet!"

We tried a new variety of radicchio last year called radicchio di treviso, which looks like a cross between a head of romaine and a belgian endive, distinguished by it's classic deep radicchio plummy red color.  Ours, not so much.  Oh, they grew happily enough.  But all they did was send up long bitter green fronds which never headed and never lost their definitely-not-red deep green color.  We tried reading the description from the catalog to the plants, but they ignored us.  We returned the lack of attention and at the end of the season, simply left them alone to face their fate at the hands of old man winter.

To our delight, about half of the crop apparently read the instructions over the winter and had a change of heart, emerging from the just-barely-warm beds in tight heads, each leaf tinged with the radicchio-appropriate red hue.  So now we have about 6 heads sprinkled amidst the kale and kohlrabi seedlings we just transplanted, lending a happily contrasting burst of color to our early plantings.

Radicchio di treviso finally behaving!

There was also some spinach we had neglected at the end of last season that managed to winter over and was growing nicely in a bed we needed for another crop. These two holdovers became our first harvest of 2013 -- and between the spinach and radicchio, plus a sprinkling of chives -- we had our first salad of the year entirely from the garden.  With a light Dijon viniagrette and a slice of locatelli romano, it was indeed a spring treat!

Radicchio and spinach ready for the salad spinner

The first harvest is always a clear signal that spring has finally arrived, but I don't really relax and trust that it's here until I can get my herb garden in.  

There's nothing I dislike more about winter than the fact that I have to actually buy fresh herbs elsewhere.  I've tried growing them indoors over the winter, but one consequence of having created a Craftsman-inspired house is the deep roof overhang characteristic of that style.  While a 2' soffit creates enough shelter that we can leave windows open in all but the most driving rain, and helps keep the house cool throughout the summer, it also creates enough shade so that there are virtually no windowsills where plants can soak up sunlight.  There's plenty of light inside; just not the direct kind herbs like to bask in.

The soffit is great for energy efficiency, but not for indoor plants

I nurse my herb garden as late into the fall as I can, and then grudgingly fill in from the grocery store or market until that singular day in the spring when it's safe to start all over again, trying to remember the lessons learned from the previous season.  Such as, the nasturtiums were gorgeous, but way too rambunctious; I will plant them again, but not where they can smother the sage and tarragon as they did last year.  Or, there's no such thing as too much parsley. 

I'm happy to say that yesterday was that day.  It's not safe for everything yet, so no basil or bay leaf, but with parley (never enough), sage, rosemary, and thyme, at least I've got a enough for a song.  And with the return of perennials like oregano and chives -- the jury is out on whether the tarragon will return or I'll need to replant -- I can look forward to bypassing the herb aisle altogether in another week or two.

Herb garden in and mulched

About those nasturtiums.  I'm thinking that once the tulips are finished on the mound garden that they would look lovely there cascading over the stone wall.  And still easily accessible for culinary experimentation!  

Nasturtiums could work well once the tulips have faded

And finally, I continue to be fascinated by the progression of the tree peony blossoms.  Last week they were hiding shyly behind their fringy fingers.  This week, the buds have revealed themselves, and appear to have their necks wrapped in feathery boas. 

We're probably a week or two from full blossom. While that's an eagerly anticipated event, I'm thoroughly enjoying each stage of this transformation and the opportunity to simply marvel at the wonder of nature.