I went out to the kitchen garden today to raise the hoops on the winter-over greens and water the beds. We are having warmish weather but very dry and there was some talk of rain today or tomorrow.
I got the hoops rolled back and picked corn mache, spinach, arugula and chard, pulled a half dozen onions and hauled the watering can to the rain barrel. A couple of cans later, the beds were well-watered and I tucked up the ends of the hoops.
Stopping to consider another row or two of spinach and to wonder if Southern States has onion sets in yet, I took a deep relaxing breath.
That was a mistake. The damp and warming soil was intoxicating. It triggered that primitive farmer instinct that lies dormant in the genetic structure of every mountain person I know.
It smelled like spring. My head all woozy, I contemplated the possibility of planting the upper bed of the Italian garden. Onions, carrots, kale.
Stop this madness! I spoke quite sternly to myself. Too early. Much too soon.
As I walked around to the front of the house, I noticed there were daffodils forming their fat buds and snowdrops getting ready to bloom for Imbolc. The forsythia is blooming, the quince has buds.