Grieving Gardener

Last weekend, we hosted a backyard bonfire party on the hottest day of the year. With desert temperatures soaring over 100 degrees well into the evening, it may not have been textbook bonfire weather… but somehow, it turned into one of the most memorable nights of the summer.

There’s nothing like sharing an evening around a fire pit with ten of your favorite people. Summer evenings are the best time for BBQs and Friday night parties. So, after such a wonderful engagement party for The Lovebirds just two weeks prior, we had a great idea to host a Friday Night Fire, inviting friends who wanted to join us. It seemed the perfect idea when the desert temps were still in the high 80s.

Living here in the desert for over five years now, this is the hottest summer yet. Monday, we topped 108. Of course, native desert dwellers like HHH will tell you it’s quite okay, as it’s a dry heat. Dry as the inside of my oven, you can cook an egg on the cement.

After announcing the idea on Sunday morning at church, many accepted the invitation, offering to help in any way they could. That’s normal for our beautiful church family. Everyone was excited to come and share time with us at Winterpast.

No matter how often we host parties, there is always a list of things to do. We went to work, preparing the backyard for another gathering. After replacing the solar lights around the lawn, and the lighting on each tree needed adjustment. Roses waited patiently for grooming while everything needed a heavy dose of water. Before we knew it, it was Friday.

In the afternoon, I pulled out the ice cream maker I bought during my first days as a desert gal in 2020. I made two batches of vanilla, one regular and one sugar-free using Splenda. Both recipes called for heavy whipping cream, sweetener, milk and vanilla extract and were delicious.

Despite the heat, Winterpast was filled with laughter, good conversation, and the delicious smell of roasting marshmallows and s’mores. Gathering around the fire pit after sunset, we enjoyed s’mores, fresh fruit, and, homemade ice cream, (saving us all from spontaneous combustion).

One of the highlights of the night was seeing Miss Buffy, HHH’s octogenarian mom, holding court from a shady corner of the patio. Thrilled to meet so many from our church community, she was charmed by their stories and quick wit.

As the sun finally dipped below the horizon, the air cooled just enough for us to pretend sitting around a fire was a good idea. Despite the heat, Winterpast was filled with laughter, good conversation, and the delicious smell of roasting marshmallows and s’mores. Guests gathered around in lawn chairs and folding camp stools, swapping stories, sharing snacks, and soaking in the fellowship. There were sticky fingers, full bellies, and lots of laughter which was exactly the kind of night we all needed.

One of our trees has been a mystery to me. Covered with small, bitter, seeded berries, our chokecherry tree has been great bird food. One guest saw them and immediately asked about our plans for the abundant crop. Plans??? We had none. Soon, he’ll be turning the berries into jelly. Expect a report back on the results.

In the end, despite the heat, everyone had a wonderful time. The fire was hot, the treats were cool, and the company couldn’t have been better.

Next time, we might wait for a forecast below “broil”, but until then, we’re grateful for the memories made, the friendships strengthened, and the joy of gathering under the hot desert sky on these high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada.

More tomorrow.

Certain days etch themselves into our souls becoming moments that time could never erase. July 14, 1979 my oldest son was born, bringing love, wonder, and excitement into my life. God blessed me with the perfect child.

July 13th, the morning was heavy with summer and the air felt thick, as if even the sky was holding its breath. We’d spent the day driving through the Sierra Nevada Mountains while singing “Blood on the Saddle” to lighten the mood. Every good country girl knows a bumpy ride in a pickup truck is a great way to start labor. As kids ourselves, we were terrified about the hours ahead that would turn us into parents.

When labor started late in the afternoon, we’d chosen to stay close to the hospital at the local Holiday Inn. In the middle of a very restless night, it was finally time to meet our new baby.

Checking into the hospital, things quickly became all too real. No longer just a class about labor and delivery, we were experiencing THE EVENT of our lives in real time. The sterile scent of the hospital, antiseptic and cold, mingled with something warmer. The faint aroma of coffee from a distant breakroom mixed with the fragrance of the bouquet of fresh flowers at the nurse’s station. Everything felt surreal while life was suspended in a kind of golden haze.

Time slowed in that room. The morning light filtered through the blinds in pale slats, tracing lines across the hospital walls and my hands. Every sound felt amplified. The rhythmic beep of monitors. The soft shuffle of nurses’ shoes. My own heartbeat pounding in my ears. Increased interest in Room 2 and the young woman about to give birth.

After more work than I knew was humanly possible, I finally heard that first raw, wild, and sacred screamy cry, ripping through the quiet like a thunderous gospel hymn. The sound of life itself announced his arrival. He was here. My son. My love. My little.

When they placed him in my arms, I felt the weight, not just his tiny body, swaddled tightly, but the magnitude of what had just happened. His skin was impossibly soft, like warm velvet, and he smelled like newness, clean cotton, powder, and something else I can only call innocence. A baby’s scent can’t be bottled or named. It’s the unique smell of beginnings.

His fingers curled in tight fists and his face was scrunched like he was still uncertain about this new world. I remember brushing the downy fuzz of his head, marveling at how something so small could make everything else disappear. I didn’t want to speak. I didn’t want to move. I only wanted to memorize him, imprinting every tiny sound and sensation.

There was a hush around us, even though the world carried on. A nurse said something, gently, but I didn’t really hear. The only voice that mattered was the one in my heart whispering, “He’s finally here. He’s everything”.

Hours later, when the room had quieted, we cuddled, he and I. Outside, life moved forward. Cars passed, people talked, but for me, the world shifted. That very day, I became a mom.

July 14, 1979, will forever be a sacred bookmark in the story of my life. Even decades later, if I close my eyes, I can feel the soft weight of him in my arms. I can hear that first cry, smell that indescribable baby scent, and feel the warmth of the sun dipping through the blinds.

Some memories don’t fade—they grow brighter with time.

Thank you, Jason, for becoming the man I dreamed you would 46 years ago as you grew next to my heart. I hope your day is beautiful.

Remember…. I love you forever, my baby you’ll be.

Happy Birthday! Love, Mom

Something about July demands a pause. Maybe it’s the heat that makes everything move a little slower, or the long days that beg to be filled with something other than gardening. Either way, by the time the calendar flips to July 4, it’s not only about independence but about stepping back, soaking it in, and finally letting summer begin.

If you’re lucky enough to live in (or visit) a small town, there’s no better way to hit the reset button than a classic Fourth of July celebration. Ours starts early with the scent of syrup and sizzling sausage in the air as the Masons flip flapjacks at the 7:00 AM Pancake Breakfast. Don’t dare leave without a second helping.

Then, by 10:00, it’s time to head downtown for the Main Street parade. Not the fancy, big-city kind with floats sponsored by corporations, but a homegrown lineup of fire trucks, 4-H kids, big rigs polished to a shine, and a high school marching band playing “Stars and Stripes Forever” just a little off-key. You’ll see kids scrambling for candy, neighbors chatting from lawn chairs, and maybe even the street department soaking everyone with their water truck.

The heart of the day? That’s at 4:00 PM, when the crowd gathers for the greased pig contest. It’s a messy, hilarious tradition that HHH and his four brothers have won many times while truly bringing home the bacon. There’s just something about watching kids chase a squealing piglet around a coral that makes you forget your worries, even if just for two minutes at a time. HHH retired some years ago, this being a younger man’s game.

Of course, no small-town celebration is complete without food, fun, and fireworks at sundown. We’re talking corn dogs, lemonade, watermelon slices, and the unmistakable smell of homemade food drifting through the air. As the sun dips below the mountains, families will spread blankets in the back of pickup beds while waiting for the big show.

Then, when the sky finally turns black and the first tracer whistles upward, there’s an overwhelming sense of peace, gratitude, and pride for our beautiful country. Something you didn’t realize you needed until you’re in the middle of it.

Immersed in all the hoopla, I’ll be stepping away for a bit of much-needed relaxation while soaking in all that summer has to offer. I’ll return refreshed and recharged on July 14th. Until then, I hope your days are filled with sunshine, slow mornings, and sweet moments that remind you why summer is so special.

Here’s to fireworks, freedom, and finding a little time to breathe.

When I used to think of serving in the church, I imagined leading a prayer, teaching Grief Share, or maybe sharing my testimony. But a whole world of behind-the-scenes service is just as important and sacred. Keeping a church running smoothly takes more than just spiritual leadership. It takes hands-on work from everyday people willing to show love through action. Whether you’ve got a green thumb, a mop in hand, or a willing heart, there’s always something to do to help around the church.

Let’s start with one of the simplest but most important tasks: mopping the floors. After a busy Sunday or midweek service, the floors can take quite a beating from heavy foot traffic. A clean and shiny floor looks good and shows respect for the space where people gather to worship. Whether tile, linoleum, or hardwood, taking the time to mop is a small task that makes a big difference.

Recently, the church hosted a large event. During the day, guests accidentally dropped crumbs and spilled drinks. My mother used to say it wasn’t dinner unless something got spilled. But, home spills are something different. At the end of a Sunday, there aren’t five daughters waiting to help clean up and the cleanup is often left to a tired pastor. Do you have a mop and an extra few minutes to help?

It may not be glamorous, but cleaning the church bathrooms is another ministry of hospitality. Imagine being a first-time visitor and walking into a spotless, fresh-smelling restroom. It communicates care, dignity, and attention to detail. Scrubbing toilets, refilling soap dispensers, and wiping down counters might not make headlines, but play a vital role in making people feel welcome and comfortable. Would this be beneath you?

Many churches have kitchens used for everything from coffee hour to full-scale community meals. A clean and organized kitchen ensures food safety. Washing dishes, wiping down counters, emptying the trash, and maintaining appliances may seem routine, but it supports everything from potlucks to outreach events. A clean kitchen helps feed both body and soul. Don’t you love a shiny kitchen?

The sanctuary is the heart of the church where we worship, pray, and encounter God. Keeping it clean and beautiful is a sacred responsibility. That might mean vacuuming carpets, dusting pews, arranging hymnals, or even watering plants and changing out seasonal decorations. Each small act of care prepares the way for others to enter into worship more fully. Vacuuming the sanctuary can become a time for personal reflection.

HHH and I have found pleasure in caring for the church grounds. With Winterpast in tip-top shape, we’ve set aside 45 minutes every Friday to mow and edge. But, as we looked around, we noticed the meditation garden needed some trimming. There were marigolds to plant and leaves to rake. After daily watering, the meditation garden started to bloom. From red and pink hollyhocks to bronze daylilies, old plants are coming back to life. People notice these things. Even the neighbors have commented on how nice the church looks.

At our church, painting projects await us. Things break and need repair before the following Sunday. The major holidays need the direction of someone with a flair for entertainment. And those with OCD can help keep the closets, supply rooms, and classrooms tidy and functional. Everyone has gifts to share where needed.

Each act of service may go unnoticed, but it is never wasted. With everyone doing their part, the church will shine in the glory of God. Every mop stroke, scrubbed toilet, and shiny window shows love and reverence for God’s house.

Here’s the deal. You only need a willing heart to make a difference in your church. Next Sunday, if you see a mess, a scuffed floor, or an overgrown flower bed, consider stepping in and offering to help out. It’s a wonderful place to make new friends while saving the pastor some time for his own life.

And who knows? That mop might just be your ministry.

One thing we can count on here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada is the wind. The day can be calm as can be, and then, as it happened just yesterday, trash cans can blow in every direction.

Winter, spring, summer, fall, Zephyr winds blow through all.

Currently, a young mother robin, is battling nature on our patio,fluttering against strong gusts. Bringing in twig after twig, she places them and they are blown to the ground, where she swoops down to pick them up and try again.

This isn’t only about nest-building, but about tenacity, fortitude, and the will to build a home, no matter the conditions. It’s all about persistence in the face of adversity while enduring extreme conditions. All those college words mean nothing to this little bird. She’s just preparing her nursery for her new family.

If there’s one thing HHH and I differ about, it’s the wind. He sees it as an ever-present force working against progress. This comes after years of working in outdoors in heavy construction, while the wind played havoc with the machinery and the work site. I must agree there’s nothing worse than working outside on a windy day. This is especially true when temperatures are pushing 100 and the wind feels like a blow-torch.

I love the wind. The windier the better. This comes from living in Central California, where there was very little wind, EVER. The skies never change from a greyish blue, while the stillness of a summer day is absolutely suffocating. Temperatures there soar well above 100 as the residents always assure newcomers that it’s a dry heat. Who cares???? It’s hot and still.

The wind is a force of nature that’s mysterious and unpredictable at times. It can flatten the fences in a neighborhood and then be gone for three months. It flutters the cottonwood leaves, producing the sweetest lullaby, or on really bad days, rattle the windows here at Winterpast. On the desert, you just never know.

Watching this young mother choose her site has been interesting. Although no perfect spots exist, the patio gives a little more protection than the trees on the property. She’s chosen flexible, strong materials such as grasses and leaves and slowly, they’ve taken the shape of a comfy nest. With repeated efforts, each failed attempt has taught her something new.

One thing is for certain. She isn’t giving up. Without one bit of hesitation, she’s kept going even when her efforts blew away in the beginning. The wind scattered her progress, but it didn’t stop the process. Very soon, she’ll sit quietly on a clutch of new eggs, while the cycle of life will begin again.

The next time I experience struggles and the winds of life are against me, I’ll remember this little bird. If you drop your twig, circle back, pick it up and try again. Even if strong gusts are blowing you off course at the moment, keep going. Soon, they’ll subside and things will return to normal.

This summer, take a moment to watch some birds. If you have a bird feeder and a source for water, you may be lucky enough to watch a nest of your own. Birds are a special gift of nature. Their quiet determination can teach us a lot about life.

Who says fairy tales are just for the young? When two hearts find each other later in life, it’s a beautiful reminder that love can blossom at any stage. This engagement party wasn’t just about rings and roses—it was a celebration of second chances, lifelong dreams, and the joy of saying ‘yes’ when you thought the best chapters had already been written.

Our friends, “The Love Birds”, have been spreading smiles and happiness throughout our dusty little town on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. Just a year ago, their lives were quite different. Both struggling through loss, something was missing. Happiness and the power of hope for the future have changed everything. Their wedding bells will ring in a mega-wedding at our megachurch two days before our own 2nd anniversary.

It’s hard to know what’s appropriate these days. The bottom line is that anything goes. Planning a wedding between two people in their 70s, the script is theirs to write. Our groom had definite feelings tied to traditions from the past. There would be no engagement party. How silly. At THEIR age? Not happening.

On the other hand, Miss Bridge-Girl had different ideas. After the chapter of her past lifetime of marriage ended years ago, she’s ready to start anew. And so, our two brains came together and decided to surprise Mr. Groom!

On Friday at Winterpast there was a flurry of non-stop activity. Every dead bloom was clipped. Paths were raked clean. Tables and chairs were set up on the lawn. The dogs knew something was up, but weren’t sure what. With each change, they sniffed everything to assure we were safe.

By 11:00 am, it was time to pick up the food platters at the local grocery store. HHH and I had combined last-minute errands to maximize efficiency. Along with the food, we needed ice and one bean burrito for a guest with life-threatening nutritional issues. Bean burritos are the perfect plant-based meal for her, and we were happy to comply.

Pulling up to the grocery store, we were so proud of our accomplishments. We’d be ready by 4 pm to enjoy an hour of peace and quiet before the guests arrived. Hand in hand, as we always are on shopping days, we entered the store and ran right into “The Love Birds”. No kidding.

The little lie we had told the groom was this. They were invited to a BBQ at 5:30. How would we explain the food trays we’d be purchasing????? After a full game of cat and mouse, we left the store with our food trays, our secret still safe.

Next, it was on to the nearest Taco Bell. After such a busy morning, a bean burrito sounded good to me, as well. Our order was complete. One burrito WITH cheese and one without for our friend. All went well until I realized, I’d taken a bite from the cheeseless burrito, which was the entire reason for our purchase.

Laughing so hard, HHH turned the car around to go through the line again. The associate was a little confused. Hadn’t we just been through? Through intense laughter, we shook our heads and got the heck out of there with our guest’s dinner.

With maximum secrecy, 28 guests (aged 4 – 92) managed to stay silent and create a major surprise! As the evening unfolded, Mr. Groom had to admit that engagement parties rule. Especially his! Surrounded by their favorite people, the couple led us all through the buffet line. They shared their love story to an adoring crowd. Presents were opened and a beautiful chocolate cake was enjoyed by all.

As the evening progressed, everyone agreed that Winterpast is a botanical delight. Guests picked the few apricots we have this year. By the time the evening ended, new friendships were formed. Everyone agreed that this love affair is sweet, beautiful, and perfect for these two at this time in their lives.

A few of the guests helped clean up the kitchen, while getting in the last little bit of visiting. And, just like that, it was like there had never been a party at all.

Celebrations are wonderful times to deepen friendships. With so many blessings in our lives, we all have reasons to host a party. Whether it’s a coffee date for three or an engagement party for 28, think about hosting a little summer shin-dig.

CHOOSE HAPPINESS!!!!

We all face mountains.

Sometimes they rise slowly in the distance, giving us time to prepare. Other times, they are massive, intimidating, and impossible to ignore. These mountains come in many forms, such as illness, death, heartbreak, loss, failure, uncertainty, and deep personal battles. They block our view, drain our strength, and whisper lies that we’re not strong enough, capable enough, or worthy enough to keep going.

But here’s a truth that often gets lost in the exhaustion. You can choose to be overwhelmed by the size of your mountain or energized by the climb.

That choice doesn’t erase the pain. It doesn’t flatten the slope or remove the storms. But it does awaken something inside, igniting faith and calling courage to the surface. The mountain isn’t an obstacle, but a holy place where something greater is unfolding.

On the other side of every mountain are wildflowers that celebrate moments of beauty, growth, healing, and grace. They only bloom in places where the struggle was real and perseverance was chosen. Watered by our tears, these wildflowers don’t grow in the valley, but on the sides of jagged cliffs where the journey was steepest. Their blooms tell of survival and resilience while reminding us that it was all worth it.

The most powerful truth of all is that you don’t climb alone. Somewhere along the path, when your legs shake and your heart is broken, the Savior will reveal Himself. It isn’t always with thunder or lightning, but with gentle comfort and a peace that makes no sense. His grace will hold you together when you feel like falling apart as HE climbs with you.

He’ll wipe the sweat from your brow and whisper, “I’m here. Keep going.” He knows the pain of the terrain. He’ll help you along and then wait for you at the summit.

So whatever mountain you’re facing right now, don’t stop climbing.
Pause if you must. Breathe. Weep. Rest. But, DO NOT give up.

The view is coming.
The wildflowers are waiting.
And the Savior is near.

You were made for this mountain.

Keep climbing. 🌿

More on Monday.

There’s something quietly breathtaking about an older bride. It has nothing to do with the dress or flowers, though those can be beautiful too. It’s all about the story etched in her eyes, the grace in her step, and the courage in her heart to choose love again.

She stands before the mirror, smoothing down her gown, not a girl, but a woman shaped by years of laughter, loss, and change. She’s known heartbreak and what it means to start over. And still, the sparkle in her eye is unmistakable as the light of someone who has rediscovered joy when she wasn’t sure she ever would.

When she speaks of the man she now calls hers, her voice softens, and a blush blooms gently in her cheeks. Not the fiery rush of first love, but something deeper and sweeter. It’s the blush of a woman who never thought she’d feel this way again, now marveling at the miracle that she does.

There is uncertainty, of course. Life has taught her to hold joy with open hands. She doesn’t pretend to know what the future will bring. Part of the beauty is that she chooses to love anyway, not out of naïveté, but from strength. Knowing how fragile life can be, she walks forward, eyes bright, heart full, ready to begin again.

Hope, at this age, is different. It’s not about perfect endings or fairy tales. It’s much quieter and wiser while holding someone’s hand through the ordinary. It’s about being seen, cherished, and known in spite of old scars, and because of them.

She laughs more now. Not because life is easier, but because love has returned to her doorstep when she least expected it. She dares to make plans with faith and hope that this chapter will be the sweetest yet.

The beauty of an older bride is not in the illusion of youth but in the radiance of realness. It’s in every silver strand that has weathered life’s storms. It’s in the steadiness of her step, and the wonder that she still feels nervous butterflies. It’s in the grace with which she chooses love again, knowing very well what love demands.

To witness her is see the quiet triumph of the heart.

When it finds you again, love doesn’t ask how old you are. but simply asks: Are you ready?

And she is.

Oh my, yes she is.

Grief has a way of dismantling time. Days blend, thoughts fragment, and even the simplest acts like getting out of bed, eating a meal, or answering a message, can feel like climbing a mountain with bare feet. When grieving, we often fall into survival mode, where self-care can feel indulgent or irrelevant, even when this is the time we need it most.

Self-care during grief isn’t about spa days or inspirational quotes. It’s about honoring your pain while tending to the small, essential things that allow you to keep going. It’s not about “getting better” or “moving on,” but gently creating space to coexist with your loss.

The first act of self-care is giving yourself permission to feel, rest, and not be “okay”. Grief doesn’t follow logic, and it certainly doesn’t follow a schedule. You may feel sadness, anger, guilt, or even moments of peace or laughter, all normal parts of loss.

While friends and family often want us to be “strong” or “resilient,” realize it takes real strength to fall apart necessary. There’s no “right” way to grieve and only you will find your way.

You may not feel like eating, or you may find yourself overeating for comfort. Try to aim for balance, not perfection. Simple, nourishing meals like toast, soup, or a smoothie can make a difference.

Sleep may be elusive or overwhelming because grief often disrupts our nervous system. A consistent nighttime routine, or even short naps when needed, can help stabilize your body’s rhythms. Most adults need 7 – 9 hours of sleep per night.

Rather than trying to suppress or avoid your grief, create gentle rituals that allow it to be expressed. Writing letters to the person you lost can help the healing process. If it feels good to talk to them, do it. Remember to make space for tears. Grief doesn’t demand to be fixed, it asks to be acknowledged.

Writing has been a lifeline for me. In the beginning, words pulled me out of bed at 4:30 am to blog. Life finally distilled down to a true love of writing, and I began. On September 24, 2020, my grief found a voice as it traveled out of my fingers, through the keyboard, and onto the screen. With each word, my outlook on life improved. It’s all there in the archives.

People around you want to help, but may not know how. Some will say the wrong things while others may disappear entirely. Focus on those who offer presence without pressure. Let others bring meals, run errands, or sit quietly beside you. You don’t need to explain your pain for it to be valid. Remember, it’s okay to protect your energy. Avoid conversations that feel too heavy. Let texts go unanswered. You’re allowed to guard your grief.

If experiencing widow’s fog of grief, small, grounding practices can be lifelines. Watch the sky change, take a daily walk, or just drink your coffee slowly, with intention. These simple moments are not a betrayal of your grief but signs that you’re still alive and tethered to the world.

Remember to be kind to yourself. Avoid thoughts like, “I should be further along,” “I shouldn’t feel this way,” “They would want me to be happy.” There is no schedule for healing nor prize for hiding your pain. Practice speaking to yourself like you would to a friend using patience, care, and tenderness.

At some point, many find themselves asking, “What now?” This doesn’t mean rushing to find a silver lining or a purpose in loss. Over time, new dimensions of love, empathy, and perspective will appear while living through grief

Grief changes you. You never asked for a broken heart, but over time, the mended scars will become sacred. They can become places where new growth will emerge over time.

Self-care while grieving is not a cure. It’s a soft, steady light and a reminder that you are still worthy of care and capable of healing, however long it takes. If you are grieving, be gentle. If someone you love is grieving, be present. That’s enough for now.

More tomorrow.

Ah, there’s nothing like the first zucchini of the season! HHH carefully plucked it from the vine with reverence, not disturbing the others. Cradled in his arms, he imagined the fresh veggie sautéed in melted butter. Pretty sure I even heard him tell it, “You’re the chosen one.” And for one fleeting, chlorophyll-scented moment, it was.

It was the first golden hour of zucchini ownership when we are still in control. With two vegetable gardens under our care, we’ll have twice the zucchini to peddle to any takers we can find. In the beginning, it’s always easy.

This zucchini, grown from a tiny little plant, was a delightful yellowish color. When sliced, the goodness oozed out in tiny beads of liquid. After melting butter, HHH worked his magic, cooking the squash until it was soft and translucent. It was the best zucchini we’ve ever eaten. But then, food fresh from the garden always is.

Leftovers here at Winterpast are something to behold. Saturday night, as we enjoyed our first garden produce, Philly Cheese steak sandwiches made with leftover filet mignon, a Parmesan-crusted pork chop split two ways, my famous Ziti, and HHH’s marvelous au gratin potatoes completed the menu. Each bite was awe-inspiring, but all that paled compared to the first zucchini of the season, which was perfect in every way.

With each bite, all the water poured into the garden box was worth it. Desert water doesn’t come cheap. After adding up the price of all the seedlings eaten by the squirrel and the price of each watering, I’d estimate the cost of this one small squash to be more than a night out on the town. But, THIS zuk was worth it.

As the fourth girl of five, my mother was done with growing zucchini during my childhood years. Although we grew everything we ate, from rabbit to artichokes, zucchini seeds never made it into the garden. Other than serving it fresh, squash is difficult to preserve. My mother must have put her foot down, refusing to find homes for the abundant harvest that would surely come in July and August.

In three short weeks, our porch will be covered with free zucchini. Anyone coming for a visit will be required to leave with at least two. Before sunrise, HHH will mutter sweet nothings to his garden plants while secreting a five-gallon bucket of oversized zucchinis to Ninja Neighbor’s porch. We’ll enjoy grilled, sautéed, pickled, and spiralized zuk’s, even disguising them in my favorite Ziti recipe.

But let’s not get too far into the summer. The first zucchini was still a miraculous, tender little promise from the garden gods that we can grow our food despite the crazy spring weather and one very hungry squirrel. Beaming with pride, we washed it under cool water while imagining our grandparents nodding with solemn approval.

Despite its inevitable descent into overabundance, the first zucchini is always special. It’s a sign that we’ve survived the frost, dodged the squash bugs, and remembered to water. It marks the true beginning of summer when dinners get simpler, gardens get wilder, and everything tastes crisp and fresh.

Honor that first zucchini. Slice it thin and lovingly sauté it in melted butter. Eat it as if it’s the only one you’ll ever have. Because next week, you’ll be Googling “Can zucchini be used as payment for our next vacation?”