Last fall, I moved into a Brooklyn apartment with a balcony and made a promise to myself that I’d learn how to garden. I pored over heirloom seeds online and set one reasonable-seeming goal: to hold a single vegetable in my hand that I’d grown from a seed.
Spring rolled around. When I opened the seed packets I’d confidently ordered months earlier, most of them were alarmingly tiny. Would a single extra drop of water kill this? I wondered. But after googling things like “overwatering vs under-watering” and reading a bunch of gardening tips that I immediately forgot, I planted my seeds in starter trays by my living room window. If everything went according to plan, they’d get big enough to go outside just as the evening temperatures stopped dipping low enough to kill them.
“I’m not sure this is going to work,” I told a friend who had a plot at a nearby community garden. “Seeds want to grow,” she replied. It was very reassuring, and sure enough, within days, little sprouts were shooting up.
From then on, the state of my seeds was the first thing I checked every morning. If I went away for the weekend, I’d drop my bag as soon as I returned and head straight for them with a pitcher of water. I was sitting on my apartment floor repotting when the April 5th earthquake hit New York City; I had to wipe the dirt off my hands before checking my phone to figure out what was going on.
By mid-April, however, things seemed a bit bleak. My plants had flatlined. They didn’t seem big enough to move outdoors, but I followed a planting schedule based on the last frost anyway. It was nice to have a reason to go outside so early, and gardening made me more attuned to the weather. Wind had been a minor inconvenience until plants with thin stalks that I very much wanted to survive were in its path. Temperature wasn’t something I accessed first through my phone’s weather app; instead, I felt it each morning when I opened the balcony door.
One day, carrying pitcher after pitcher of water from the kitchen sink, I also realized that I didn’t usually spend much time as a beginner. It felt good to experience the frustrations and delights of someone who’s just starting out. When I planted beans, I was reminded of how little I knew. I’d ordered Hidatsa Shield Beans mostly because they’re so beautiful. When it was time to sow them, I was confused: I plant a bean and it…multiplies into many beans? Grows into some sort of bean bush? But instead of turning to the internet for an instant answer, I decided to let myself be surprised.
Spring turned to summer. I picked a few dozen snap peas before the plants died of what I believe was heatstroke. I was on track to grow juicy heirloom tomatoes when they got some sort of brown rot that can be caused by over-watering, under-watering, too much fertilizer, not enough fertilizer, or maybe the pressure of being my most desired plant. The cucumbers that started out strong grew bulbous and tasted…off. I would not be 2024’s answer to a young Martha Stewart pulling up handfuls of vegetables in dirt-stained jeans and a cream cable-knit sweater, but I was still having a good time.
Despite some setbacks and a teeny yield, I met my goal and even surpassed it. I loved clipping fresh rosemary and chives from their pots. I made a few balcony-to-table kale salads. My favorite plant was the ground cherries grown from a seed that first arrived in North America with a Russian immigrant and had been passed down through generations of women. Once you peel off the papery husk, it tastes like sugary cereal from the nineties (in a good way). Plus, there were the non-plant gains, like watching bees buzzing around my balcony and chatting with neighbors about what we were trying to grow.
I recently texted a friend who has been gardening for years in California. “The beginner is shocked when a plant grows from a seed; the seasoned gardener expects it,” I wrote. He answered: “I think every gardener is delighted by what they grow.” It’s nice to know that excitement doesn’t diminish as you get more experience.
This first summer season, I made plenty of mistakes, but I didn’t let that get in the way of enjoying the process. Even though it was low stakes, every single thing that grew made me giddy. When something didn’t work out, I learned what I could or blamed the heat, which is easy when it’s August in Brooklyn. I’m still a bit heartbroken about those tomatoes, but overall, the whole gardening experience was a nice reminder that you don’t have to be particularly good at something to have fun doing it. I’m already making plans for next year. I also have a new goal: grow at least one big, juicy heirloom tomato.
Do you garden? What do you love growing? What tips do you have?
P.S. 14 readers share their gorgeous gardens, and a San Francisco home with a beautiful garden.
(Photos by the author.)
