Earlier this week, the potting soil in the planter box outside our kitchen window began to bulge, relentlessly expanding upward in uneven swells, until one day, it erupted with the broccoli raab seeds I’d planted last Saturday.
I’d seeded the planter thickly, to the point of ridiculousness. I wasn’t a novice gardener being overly cautious. I wasn’t sloppy with my hand. I wasn’t in a rush. Furthermore, I understand the concept of thinning. And, I understand that one is not to waste seed. But, when I planted this box, I didn’t have food production in mind. This planting was about artistic expression and about testing the laws of nature. I wanted to see if I could grow raab like one might grow grass. And if I could, what would it look like? I wanted to sip tea in the morning while gazing out our kitchen window (which has a terrible view) at a lush carpet of rich green raab. I imagined myself putting down my tea just long enough to take a couple of careful snips of the raab-shag, tossing the tender shoots onto a plate of warm breakfast potatoes.
When I did this, I understood (theoretically) that there are laws governing natural systems. Who questions nature’s requirements of at least six hours of sunlight, good soil and adequate room for roots to grow? Last week, I did. Next week, I’ll very likely be posting a picture of a mass of pale, undernourished, dying raab—and those of you who are especially sympathetic to all living creatures, will curse me—but, for now, I’m enjoying my experiment, like any good third-grader would.
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