Cucumber Coterie

When I saw the season’s first cucumber forming beneath a thick mass of leaves and vines (which I haven’t succeeded in attaching to a trellis), I thought it would take a long time for that finger-sized object to get big enough to pick. In just a few days, however, the cucumber grew to blimp-like proportions. When I cut it in half, its seeds were almost the size of cantaloupe seeds, slick and fat. No matter—I enjoyed eating it anyway. I sheared off the thickening skin, scooped out the seeds, and sliced the flesh lengthwise. I inserted the slices in a roast beef sandwich and took a big bite. The cucumber flesh, still warm from the garden, was as tender and rich as butter, and had a creamy, rich sensation wholly unexpected in a vegetable.

Since that day, some two weeks ago, I’ve harvested perhaps fifteen more cucumbers. They are all lovely, but I’ve begun to wonder if I should learn how to pickle. Not that these are pickling cucumbers, exactly; they’re the burpless variety, which means they’re valued for their thin, chewable, not-so-bitter flesh and their supposedly smaller-than-average seeds (and for their supposed digestive properties, including the quality of producing less burping in the burp-susceptible eater), rather than for their keeping properties. Conventional wisdom holds that “slicing” varieties of cucumbers, unlike traditional pickle cucumber like Gherkins, are liable to lose their crispness in the pickling process. So the best thing to do is to enjoy them as much as possible, and to spread the wealth by giving away what remains.

The good thing is that cucumbers, with their mild flavor and soft flesh, are among the most versatile of fresh veggies. I’ve used them in salads and sandwiches, sliced in rounds, squares, and slivers. A few nights ago, I made a cucumber salsa with diced cucumber, some hot peppers (the Aurora variety, from my garden), garlic, cilantro, salt, and lemon juice. I’ve also had them on their own, either with a homemade vinaigrette dressing or as fresh pickles, softened with salt.

My mother used to make fresh pickles by slicing the cucumbers as thin as potato chips, salting them down, mixing them with pieces of lemon rind, and placing the mixture in a big bowl. She then covered the whole with a small plate weighed down by a pitcher full of ice. I used to enjoy the citrusy, salty, slightly crisp slices that emerged from this process, several hours later, but I haven’t had the patience to try making them myself.

This has been my first experience, as an independent gardener (that is, in managing my own garden rather than helping out with the family’s plot), of taking a bountiful cucumber crop. Last year’s cucumbers were rather disappointing: stunted by the lack of nutrients in the soil, the few fruits that appeared were small and thick-skinned. Two of them were ball-shaped—rather pretty and comical to look at, but also sad reminders of the general failure to produce. I wonder when the cucumbers will stop producing as much. My great hope is that the cucumbers will continue to yield for a good while after the tomatoes start turning red. A garden cucumber alone is magnificent, but a home-grown cucumber with a real, honest-to-goodness, juicy, fresh tomato is a slice of paradise.

Motivations

On the radio tonight, I heard an NPR story about the singer Adrienne Young, who is determined to spread the gospel about local and organic foods and about community gardening. That’s all well and good, but she doesn’t exactly look like a farm girl (in her photograph, at least)—her hands are too well manicured, her fingernails too long, perfect, and immaculate to ever spend much time actually touching the soil. I’m not saying she’s a hypocrite—far from it. She obviously cares about gardens and the condition of the earth, and by bringing them to the attention of her admirers and supporting the cause of seed saving, she is opening the way for many more people to come into contact with the idea of growing something on their own.

I find it strange, though, that gardens have become trendy, the latest thing to be hyped by singers. Dirt is so—well, dirty. And gardens are so full of weeds and bugs. But the weird thing about gardening, for me, is that although I have some fellow-feeling for these motives of growing food locally and not poisoning the earth, that’s not quite why I do it. Nor does it necessarily give me a peaceful feeling to be out there, looking at my plants. I’m always thinking about the next step, the next shovelful of dirt, the next foe. I do have pride in the results of my work, now that the squash and cucumbers have leaves approaching dinner-plate size, but last summer I went on caring for my plants even after they languished in the inhospitable mulch and unremitting heat.

The food, too, sometimes seems beside the point, even though some of my plants have grown to a size at which food can be harvested from them. The point is to grow and cultivate and selectively determine what plants thrive on a given space. In part, it’s a control game, and because my plants are thriving, I’m winning, for now, at least. That sounds somewhat twisted, I know, but it’s true. I like to dictate to the dirt, to tell it to push up a bean here or nurture a tomato there.

Would I recommend that everyone else grow a garden? As the Man with the Perfect Lawn says, if it were easy, everyone would do it. Gardening takes time, persistence, attention, and strength. Certainly, for those who are interested, it’s a marvelous ride. You get a new perspective on the summer itself, and you are drawn into closer proximity to the surrounding world, though not always in the most comfortable way. Spinach and peas like the cold; squash and melons love the heat. Humidity brings life-giving rain and death-dealing fungal diseases. The birds eat harmful insects, but they also snap up seeds and fruit.

So, yes, take that packet of seeds that comes with your Adrienne Young album and see if you can do something with them. Find a place to grow them. If it makes you frustrated to cater to their needs and discover their idiosyncrasies, then perhaps you’re not the gardening type. If you’re fascinated by failures as well as successes, you might get hooked on this venture, which (for good reason) was formerly the province of confirmed putterers and curmudgeons, people who mix a willingness to wait (which some might mistake for laziness) with incorrigible stubbornness.

Gardens defy the natural order, even while they affirm our position within it. Success, when it comes, is marvelous (and necessary), but the attempt itself, the ability to wring a certain strain of fertile beauty from chaos, has its own grandeur. The squash flower opens with a pomp greater than the sounding of trumpets in the imperial procession, and its issue is far more important to our continued existence.