There is a particular satisfaction in walking into the garden and picking what you will eat for dinner. The lettuce, still wet with dew. The tomatoes, warm from the sun. The herbs, fragrant and fresh. It is not just about the food. It is about the connection, the sense that the meal has come from the earth, that you have participated in its growth, that you are part of a cycle that is both ancient and immediate.
I did not always garden. I used to buy my vegetables from the supermarket, wrapped in plastic, transported from somewhere else. They were convenient, but they tasted of nothing. It was only when I started growing my own that I understood what I had been missing. The flavour of a tomato that has been picked at its peak, a bean that has been harvested just before cooking, a herb that has been cut moments before it is used. These are not just ingredients. They are a different kind of food, a food that has a history, a food that has a connection to the earth.
