There has been a long-standing joke between Stewart and I that we cannot grow carrots. In Michigan we did a very few in a back corner of the garden but they were sort of forgotten by the time we moved to Texas. One fall here I planted carrots, but then the temperatures climbed near the triple digits again and they never even germinated.
Looking back, I guess there was one year we did grow a very small patch here. It was literally only one bunch of carrots but they grew, and it was Abram (probably five at the time) who sowed those seeds. But man, that one year I dug and shoveled and mixed in compost and planted a big ‘ol area with carrots and… nothing.
This year Abram decided he wanted to try carrots again, this time in his garden.
With his diligent care and all of the rain this spring, those carrot tops were soon growing beautifully. He then started to thin the carrots out and we threw baby carrots into salads and the snack repertoire. And then, one day when I was in the kitchen taking photos of something else, he ran in and I took this one blurry photo of him right after he said “Look, Ma, it’s a real carrot!“. I think I squealed.
That was about six weeks ago. We ate halfway through that bed of carrots with salads and then the heat started to come. We were worried they might rot with as wet as the soil was so Abram decided to harvest the remaining carrots all at once. He washed them and fed the tops to the goats and placed them on the table for Mama to use.
I had big plans for those carrots. But like that pan of cookies you leave out on the table, it’s hard to walk by without grabbing one to munch on. These truly are the best carrots I’ve ever had – sweet, crisp, and so full of flavor! And yes, I’m sure I am biased.
But I wasn’t the only one grateful for the harvest, and certainly not the only muncher in the house.
Eventually I did put up two quarts of everyone’s favorite fermented carrots, which was just a quart shy of what the original plan was. And Abram has big plans, Lord willing, to expand the carrot operation next year.
I’m more than okay with the fact that my seven-year-old can out-garden me.