It’s never too early to plant a little something.
In my daughter’s preschool two weeks ago, they planted wheat berries in potting soil. I’d bought them for the teacher from our health food store, Ruby Peak, and I doubted those bone-dry seeds would ever sprout just plunked in some dirt.
At the same time, I found a sprouting mix of clover, radish, alfalfa and green lentils. Yes, they looked just like the other bulk lentils that I’d normally simmer into soup, and I wondered: Could I really turn them into sprouts in a jar?
I realize now that my doubtfulness was something akin to losing hope that the sun will ever shine again. At this time of year in the mountains, every morning is a surprise. Will there be snow on the ground when we awake? Will the grass grow green and the soil warm up enough to ever plant our smattering of seeds in our funky raised beds?
About the time Cece came home from preschool triumphant with her own sprouting seeds, my own were also showing signs of life. I’d soaked them in filtered water in a quart canning jar and put them in the kitchen windowsill. I monitored them every day with the wonder of a child witnessing the miracle of small things growing toward the light.
On a day when the sun beamed through bulky gray clouds and a clutch of does and fawns nibbled the new grasses in our yard, we all sampled what we’d grown.
The girls snipped the lime-green wheat grass, taking nibbles and pronouncing it “Delicioso” (thanks, Dora). And I made a quick late lunch by stirring some pesto into already cooked quinoa, topped it with a sliced avocado half and a fistful of my first crop of sprouts. As I slipped back to my office to work, I felt nearly all my faith restored.
Time to order seeds.