The Garden of Low Expectations

When the alleged Plant Killer puts seeds in the ground

Matt and I have this ongoing argument. He calls me The Plant Killer. He says I buy healthy plants just to murder them heartlessly with slow neglect. He claims that when we are in the plant section of hardware stores, if you’re very quiet, you can hear plants warning each other about me. 

“Do you hear that?” he’ll ask, then whisper very softly, “‘Pretend you’re dead so she won’t want to take you home!’” 

“Lies!” I insist. “I do take care of plants!” The only time in the past seven years that plants have died from neglect were during the summer when I went back to California from Korea for weeks at a time and asked Matt to water them for me… and he did not. Who is the real Plant Killer, hmmm?? I was framed!!! 

Furthermore, if ever I failed in my Plant Whisperer duties, it was a long time ago, when all my kids were younger and needed my attention to, say, prevent them from lighting the house on fire or sticking their fingers into sockets. I’ve kept plants alive and flourishing, thank you very much. A year ago, I didn’t even know an aloe plant could bloom, but I have proof now that they do. Plant Killer?!?! Absolutely not.

//

When I was little and we still lived in Bangladesh, my mom had some random seeds leftover from seed packets someone brought from America. Ants carried most of the seeds away, but she thought what remained were carrots, others were cabbages, and others still were tomatoes. Farm life intrigued me, so we planted the seeds. Unfortunately, most of them didn’t grow. But there was this one carrot plant. It was a fountain of enormous, feathery green leaves, and we were sure it would be the best and biggest carrot the world had ever seen. 

One day, Mom gathered my sisters and I around so that we could all be present for the dramatic Pulling Up the Carrot. We held our breath. She gave a tug. Then we squinted. Under all that glorious, verdant plumage, there was, in fact, the saddest carrot the world had ever seen. It was, somehow, about a two-inch cube instead of a normal, carrot shape, and instead of being a vibrant orange, it was pale and sickly, a jaundiced attempt at the correct hue. Mom tried to slice it so we could at least sample what we had grown, and it tasted like wood chips. 

“Oh well!” we all said, laughing. You can’t really be disappointed when you don’t know what you’ve planted. 

But there were also the cabbages I planted by our gate. There the soil was thick and almost black. Leaves sprouted up almost immediately. But instead of growing outward into a round, cabbage shape, they grew vertically. 

“Hmmm…” Mom looked thoughtful when I pointed out the problem, and her eyebrows pulled close together. “Well, there are different kinds of cabbage, you know.” I nodded in understanding. That had to be it–this was just special cabbage. 

Long, thin stalks grew with soft purplish tones as they stretched upward. One day, buds appeared that opened into lavender star-shaped blossoms.

“Do special cabbages grow flowers?” I asked Mom after making my discovery. 

“What?” She was confused. I pulled her into the front yard, where we bent over the plants, studying them close as she murmured, “How strange…”

We decided to enlist the help of Gedu Mia, our cook. (In Bangladesh, it is customary to have household help. But he was so much more than “our cook;” he was truly a part of our family.) Gedu Mia knew everything about the world, even the most mysterious and enigmatic parts of it. 

Sure enough, after one quick glance at my special cabbage, he burst out laughing. “That’s not cabbage!” he told us. “That’s eggplant!!” 

When the flowers turned into little eggplants, and the eggplants grew into large, purple globes, Gedu Mia sliced them, dipping the rounds into a mix of flour, salt, and curry spices, and fried them in a hot pan of oil–one of my favorite dishes.

//

When we moved into our house here in Germany, my youngest kids immediately started asking if and when we could start growing things. They share my fascination with all things agrarian, maybe because of how poorly it works with our actual lifestyle. Three of the past seven years have been lived in apartments, buried in the middle of huge cities full of millions of people. Farming remains this mysterious, exotic idea. Though we had the opportunity to live in an actual farmhouse here, we decided against it (distance to schools and work, meat hooks and saws in the barn, possibility of ghosts). But I consoled the kids by pointing to the huge yard in the house we chose, and its ample space to grow a garden.

While I was up to my elbows in unpacking and finding my way around, they kept begging for plants. 

“Yes, yes, we’ll get some, just as soon as I’m done with this,” I assured them. “Don’t worry.” 

I took too long. While shopping with Matt one day, they turned their persuasive powers on him and came home with several seed packets and a huge bag of potting soil. It was already late June by then, and as I examined the recommended planting times for our region, I had to toss several of the options aside. “We’ll plant those next spring,” I explained. 

We were left with basil, cilantro, eggplant, pumpkins, cucumbers, and California poppies. I tried hard to organize the planting, but the kids got ahead of me, pouring too many of the seeds into one place, or pushing them too deep into the soil, or planting them too close together. Though I tried to rectify as much as I could, I finally gave up all expectations and declared the whole thing “an experiment.” Whatever didn’t grow–and let’s face it, most of it probably wouldn’t–would be a science lesson as we researched the reasons why. 

The basil and cilantro grew extremely well, seasoning caprese salads and guacamoles even now at the end of September. The California poppies bloomed, gracing us with their version of gold. The eggplant is growing, though we haven’t seen any eggplants or even blossoms yet. The cucumber, which was definitely too crowded, even grew blossoms and some very interesting looking cucumbers.

“Are these the tiny kind of cucumbers?” Annalee asked me the other day. 

Honestly, I don’t remember because I threw away the packet. So it wasn’t exactly a lie when I replied, “Yeah, probably.” 

But I’m not sure any cucumber is supposed to grow in a J-shape. Are these special “Alphabet Soup Cucumbers?” Perhaps. Who can tell me otherwise? 

Looking at them, though, with no expectations, I can simply enjoy the surprise. Will they straighten out with time? Will they be edible? Who knows? Does it matter? Really, the only cost was the seed packet and the soil and a little water during the few weeks when it didn’t rain. 

Wyatt’s pumpkins went a little crazy. He put both seeds in the packet into one planter before I could stop him. I had heard pumpkins take a lot of nutrients from the soil, so I was sure this wouldn’t go well. But both plants grew so fast, especially at first, that we could almost watch the leaves growing and unfurling. That alone felt like a miracle, even if no pumpkins ever grow to an impressive, jack-o-lantern size.

//

Wyatt started middle school this year, and with that came the choice of electives. He pondered the options for several days before landing on Beginning Band as one of them. 

“Are you sure about that?” Matt and I both asked him separately, with good reason. Wyatt has some neurodivergence that makes loud and chaotic situations challenging. Even the drums in church services can be overwhelming. But he was resolute. He wanted to join Beginning Band. 

“Maybe there won’t be room,” I told Matt privately. “Maybe they’ll put him in another elective.” We crossed our fingers. It would be easier, we told ourselves, to just not have him do it at all than have him try and struggle because of his issues. You can’t find a middle school class louder or more chaotic than Beginning Band.   

But to our amazement, he not only got into the class, he seemed to enjoy it. A few weeks in, he chose his instrument. This also made us nervous. Our daughters all played “nice” instruments like piano, ukulele, and guitar–things that don’t squawk or screech when played wrong, even if they don’t sound particularly “good.” Wyatt, though, had some different ideas.

Tuba was one of them. I fell to my knees in fervent prayer when he told me this. I’m thankful for the relationship we have with our neighbors now, and I don’t want to jeopardize it. Bassoon was another idea, and having heard that played by a beginner, I could almost feel our bleeding ears.

“How about the flute?” I suggested. “I played the flute in Band.” 

“Really?” Wyatt was intrigued–but not intrigued enough. Decision Day came, and I held my breath.

Wyatt stepped off the bus that afternoon carrying a case for… the French Horn. I whispered a prayer of thanks that it wasn’t a tuba, but still. French Horn?? I suggested he practice in the laundry room in our basement, with the doors and windows closed so that our neighbors would still like us a little. Even so, the sounds reverberate through the house and into the street. They can’t exactly be called “notes” yet, for the most part. There’s “Flatulent Teenage Boy,” “Old Man Blowing His Nose,” “Sick Donkey,” and “Angry Elephant.” But every now and then, a beautiful, pure note will emerge, as warm and golden as the instrument itself, filling the house and my soul with hope that maybe this will turn out lovely someday. 

//

I wondered why Beginning Band seems to work for Wyatt despite all the reasons it shouldn’t until I settled on the word “Beginning.” No one expects greatness yet. Everyone in the class is–how do I say this nicely?–terrible. Everyone is Level 0! How freeing when nothing more is required! And in our garden, I, the alleged Plant Killer, helped grow something when I thought nothing would grow. It’s all just a happy surprise, an experiment in fascination. Failures are jotted down only as ideas for what to do differently next time.

Of course I’m dreaming of beautiful music and gardens where we can actually harvest meals. But in the meantime, I’ll bask in the glow of our California poppies and wonder about those cucumbers. I’ll applaud the random perfect notes and say, “That’s it! Great job! Try that again!”