Morning Harvest

Morning Harvest

I don’t have a lot to say today. This post is more about bragging. (“Really, you’re going to brag, Leite? Is that how Momma Leite raised you?” I can hear you all thinking.) [Editor’s Note: I hate to be the one to tell you this, but this is not the first time David’s been a braggart.] Come on people, cut me some slack. I just harvested our first cucumber from our garden this morning—the first cucumber I’ve ever planted. Plus I pulled our very first beets ever out of the earth. What an extremely satisfying experience. They practically popped out themselves.

When I worked on Mr. Silvia’s farm when I was a kid, he never planted beets, so I never understood how they grew. In fact, this morning, my heart sank when I saw the tops of them cresting the soil. “Damn it,” I thought. “I screwed up again.” But before I did what I wanted to do, which was to yank each and every one of those suckers out of the ground and hurl them into the woods, I read up on them. They’re supposed to crest. It’s called “bulbing up.” I left the other 60 or so plants in the ground, right next to the carrots I’m desperate to pull out and take a peek at. Read more »

Ode to Summer Squash

Summer Squash

There is no pleasure like picking the first vegetables of the season.
This morning wet, muddy.
Summer squash, it was.
Prickly leaves, like floppy summer hats, pushed out of the way. Read more »

The Garden of Him

Papa Leite

My father is a good man. Just ask my mother. Actually, if you spend enough time with her, she’ll tell you anyway, blurting it out while watching TV or holding out a bag of mini Milky Way bars to you. “Manny Leite’s a good man,” she’ll say.

The measure of a good man is calculated by many yardsticks. For my father, it was being a provider. It began with a home. First with a floor, eventually covered in the lightest of oak—“Only three-quarter-inch will do,” he’d say—that supported us, two-by-fours that became walls that surrounded us, and, finally, a roof that protected us—all built with his own hands.

Then there was sustenance. He cut a garden from what has to be God’s rockiest half-acre, situated behind our house. A grape arbor appeared first. Beneath it we lingered over many long, lazy meals, just we three. Plump bunches of grapes hung heavily, and my father would pluck some and feed them to my mother. The shaded table grew crowded with our expanding family my father brought over from the Azores. First my grandfather, then my uncle, my aunt, another aunt, and finally my grandmother and the youngest aunt of all. And, in time, their spouses and later their kids gathered round. It was understood back then that this half-acre was on loan: It was meant for me, my wife, and my children—a family that would never come to be. Read more »

Daily Subscription

Enter your email address and get all of our updates sent to your inbox the moment they're posted. Be the first on your block to be in the know.

Preview daily e-mail

Weekly Subscription

Hate tons of emails? Do you prefer info delivered in a neat, easy-to-digest (pun intended) form? Then enter your email address for our weekly newsletter.

Preview weekly e-mail

The David Blahg Subscription

Enter your email address and get all of the The David Blahg updates sent to your inbox the moment they're posted. Be the envy of knowledgeable, savvy cooks everywhere. Sassy!

Preview

Top