When to give up, is the question. We know, after all, how it ends. There are no surprises. But at what point should we conclude that the end has arrived, or is so close that whatever life remains is not worth having?
I am talking about zucchini and, to a lesser extent, tomatoes.
The deterioration of zucchini bushes is one of the characteristic signs of autumn. Mine are in wicking boxes on the back verandah. They have had a very good season. My pantry is full of zucchini pickle, the freezer of ratatouille, and still my fridge contains more zucchini than I can eat. I can’t give them away, because everyone I know is tired of zucchini.
This summer, I discovered a new way of cooking them. Slice thinly, fry in a good quality olive oil until they start to brown. Put in a bit of salt and more pepper than you think you need, and then some more. Then some more. Add handfuls of chopped mint, stir it in and finish with a couple of tablespoons of red wine vinegar.
Trust me, this is wonderful. Nevertheless, I am sick of this dish.
I am also sick of chilled zucchini soup. And of stuffed zucchini (the big ones that got away from me). I have never stuffed a zucchini flower because my life is too short.
So, when to give up? When to accept the end of the peak season of the year?
Four weeks ago, I employed my regular trick for the end of the season and pruned away all the sad bits of the zucchini bushes – the yellowing leaves and those with powdery mildew, the stems that had grown pulpy and weak.
That provoked a last flush of growth, a defiant emergence of young leaves and flowers, and now there are a few more finger-sized zucchini on the bushes.
But how the plants flop. They look so old, so pathetic. They cascade over the edge of the wicking box like dirty sheets falling off a bed. I have to tread on the leaves to reach the back stairs.
Forgive me. These are the way my thoughts wander when I am in the garden. Conversations with myself, or with that constant companion I discover in myself, or in the ether and the beams of sun, when I am quiet enough to listen.
Given that I don’t need any more zucchini, why don’t I ignore those tiny fingers of fruit and rip out the plants?
The tomato plants, on the other hand, clearly have a way to go. After waves of spectacular sweet fruit earlier in the season, now I have only green. The plants still have vigour, though. They still stand upright. I can’t kill them yet, even if the end is green tomato pickle and fried green tomatoes. (You can look up that recipe. Don’t forget the hollandaise sauce).
In gardening, as in life, there is no clear answer to end-of-life questions. As I was contemplating my geriatric zucchini, I heard that the pope was ill.
First a polymicrobial respiratory tract infection, whatever that is. Then pneumonia, then a “prolonged respiratory crisis”, then blood transfusions, then kidney failure. The pope is 88 years old, and of course speeding the end – which is what I would want for myself – is unthinkable for him. Poor old man.
Only a few weeks ago he told Donald Trump, at the time of president’s inauguration, to reject “hatred, discrimination and exclusion”. Perhaps by the time you read this, the pope will have gained his release.
We know how it ends. There are no surprises. Trump is 10 years younger, but his time will come as well.
Forgive me. These are the way my thoughts wander when I am in the garden. Conversations with myself, or with that constant companion I discover in myself, or in the ether and the beams of sun, when I am quiet enough to listen.
In those moments, everything is to do with everything else. Bits of dialogue from what I watched on Netflix, and I extend the story in my head, or import it into my own life. Memories of the person I saw on the train, and before I know it I have made up a story about them. Yellowing zucchini leaves and yellow presidents. Sadness and fear. Hope and courage.
Soon, perhaps on the day you are reading this, I will be pulling out those zucchini bushes and exposing the bare earth beneath.
What will I plant in their place?
Probably carrots. They follow well after the gross feeders of summer, sopping up the remaining nutrition. If you put fresh fertiliser in the soil before you plant carrots, they will fork into many unpeelable legs – useless for anything but scrubbing and grating. So you plant them after a heavily fertilised crop, without adding anything extra. Usually it works.
Beetroot. They are a nuisance to grow because the seed is in fact a capsule, containing many seeds. That means too many plants emerge and you have to thin them out ruthlessly, never thinking about wasted potential. I always find that hard to do, which means my beetroot crops are often disappointing.
Then certainly, in the same bed, a few lettuce, because they grow so well between rows of root crops – taking up airspace, rather than root space. Good companions.
It will be time, then, to give up on the tomatoes, and clear them from the front yard. Brassicas – cabbage, cauliflower and Asian greens – will go in instead. Before the last of the warmth is gone from the soil, I will also plant broad beans, which will not crop until spring. Broad beans are a statement of faith. That spring will come.
The ripped-out zucchini bushes will be shredded for the worm farm. At some point, they will be fully digested and the worm farm will be full of sludge. I will put on gloves to ream it all out. I will grow impatient with the gloves and how they get in the way, and take them off and do the job with my bare hands.
Out it will come that rich muck. With a few worms mixed in. I will spread the worm castings and the worms on whatever it is I have growing.
And then a bath, a good soak, a nail brush applied until my fingers are once again acceptable in polite company, if always slightly tainted in the callouses.
This is my yearly routine. The occasional new variety. Sometimes an unexpected success or failure – but for the most part no surprises. Life and death. We know both how it ends and, perhaps more miraculous, how it continues.
This article was first published in the print edition of The Saturday Paper on
March 1, 2025 as “Lest we courgette”.
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