By Ashley Fears
In the Ozark Mountains where I grew up, we grow rocks. I’m not talking your run-of-the-mill pebble, but more like sharp miniature boulders that always seem to find your bare feet on a morning stroll. This is a result of relatively shallow soil on top of layers of limestone and dolomite that is broken up; and in order for plants to successfully grow in those areas, the rocks must be removed. As a child, I remember dreading Saturday mornings in the early spring every year, because it meant that my mornings would not be spent hanging out with friends or watching cartoons, but instead in the yard or in the fields with my brother picking up rocks. As the first step of a larger growing process, it goes without saying that this wasn’t our favorite part. “It builds character,” was the common reply from my father when I was feeling a bit obstinate. I can assure you, after 26 years, I have plenty of character.
For generations, both large-scale farming and smaller scale gardening has run in my family, ranging from acres of soybeans in Arkansas down to my own Boston windowsill filled with herbs and houseplants. The importance of growing things, not only for practical use, but also just to look at and enjoy, was always emphasized and the tradition has been carried on over the years in each of our own ways.
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Gastronomes Garden 