Now that we are past a weekend, let me fill you in on what happened the weekend before that.  Then maybe next Monday, I will write a post about what we did this last weekend. That way you will always be approximately 8 days behind on my life.  I’m pretty sure is how this blogging thing works, right?

Anyway.  The past weekend before this last weekend (must work on that descriptive, I think), we harvested one of our potato boxes.  This is the second year that we’ve done potato boxes, which, theoretically, are a method of growing many, many potatoes in a small space.  Last year, we filled the boxes with straw, which didn’t work at all.  We got potatoes in the first layer, but all those other boards just disguised really tall potato plants and a lot of damp straw.  This year we decided to fill the boxes with dirt and try again. And, so, the past weekend before the last weekend, we decided to dig out one of the boxes.

First, you remove the boards from the box:

Does that build enough suspense? Are we all properly invested in this drama?

Good, because that’s the only picture I took of the process.

That’s fine, though, because the process goes something like this: remove boards, dig potatoes.

I like digging potatoes.  I like digging potatoes so much that after taking that picture I put down the camera, shoved everybody out of the way, and plunged my hands down in there to see what I could find. I came to my senses about 20 minutes later as I was examining the dirt wedged under my fingernails and remembering: oh, yes. I own garden gloves.

This type of thing is why I don’t bother with manicures.

But it was worth it, because  I found this:

It had some friends.  This many friends:

Can you see my feet in the background there? That’s about when I was frowning down at the potato box and thinking: that’s it?

Annabel’s asking the same question.  We are usually of one mind about this sort of thing.

It’s not a bad haul, I suppose, and if I remember correctly it’s better than we did last year.  But I look at this and I think: one meal.  We’re a family of four. That’s one meal.  If we take our time eating it, that’s 45 minutes of food.  If we average 45 minutes to eat a meal, three times a day, 365 days a year, that’s 49,275 minutes of eating I need to somehow fill.  And I just spent two months growing 45 teensy little minutes of that.

If we were dependent on me actually gardening to feed my family, that’s 45 minutes of food and 49,230 minutes of not-food.  I’m pretty sure this is not a successful food to not-food ratio.

I don’t know how pioneer folk did it.  I don’t know how my ancestors did it.  I’d like to pretend that, if push came to shove, I’d have the ability to keep my family alive via my wits and hard work.

And I could. For 45 minutes.

Well, we’ve got that other potato box.  And a few pumpkins growing out on the vines.  Some beans.  Green tomatoes ready to ripen if the blight doesn’t get us.

Maybe 225 minutes of food.

And 49,050 minutes of starvation. If it’s not a Leap Year.

It’s a start, I suppose.

Note to self: next year, three potato boxes is clearly the way to go.

Also, maybe I’ll try to shoot a moose. Or two.

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