“Once you have three leaves, cull the mound to only three.”
I’ve been a helicopter gardener, hovering over the little shoots, watching them shove the soil aside. Now, I am to decide who stays and who goes? Am I God?
Must I invite Mother Nature’s minions to march up and down my meager rows, brandishing thumbnail-sized placards, singing “Let It Grow” in their squeaky helium voices.
If I want pickles, I’ve got to bend down for the cull. I pulled the palest shoot up, and up and up and up. The little cuke’s root was well on its way to China. I couldn’t toss it aside so I stuck the little sucker into the corner of the pot. It’s still there.