Readers of this blog might remember the plight I was in early last December, when I was illegally living hand-to-mouth in an unheated building, cozied up to a wood fire in a bucket. My father rescued me and I lived with my folks for several months.
I needed some things from that building early last spring, so I borrowed my mother’s car and drove to Hannibal to fetch them. I was looking around the apartment and I noticed several bulbs of garlic sitting on the kitchen windowsill. They had been there all winter — surely they had died during the sub-zero periods. It was a cold winter.
I examined the bulbs and I was amazed to see that they were sprouting! Tiny green spears were emerging. They were still alive after being cruelly abandoned; I couldn’t believe it.
I slipped the bulbs into my coat pocket, gathered up what I needed, and headed back to my folks’ place in Quincy.
A week or too later my friend Jeff and I decided to collaborate on a garden. One April day I teased the garlic bulbs apart and planted the cloves in a square patch. It was the least I could do after what they had been through. I didn’t know how they would do, as garlic is best planted in the fall.
Last week I dug them up; the bulbs were small but they have a back-story which I will think of as I eat them this fall. Yesterday I washed them and set them out on the porch to dry and cure. Here’s a photo of these alliums: