I really did think they were sunflowers. The seedlings had the same broad, happy green leaves. And I had planted sunflowers there. I think I planted sunflowers there?
This is my problem with gardening. I start with enthusiasm and good intentions, and then somewhere I lose my drawings that I’ve made of what seeds went where. I forget to water, or I water too much. The weeds overwhelm me. I remember that no matter what I grow, I can always find more beautiful versions at the farmers market. I need to take a nap. I start to think, are they weeds, really, or is that me being controlling?
These ones weren’t weeds. But they also weren’t sunflowers.
Volunteer plants are ones that appear unexpectedly in the midst of organized gardens. They might spring from the fallen seeds of last year’s crops, or from the compost that we layered on to the garden beds last winter. Even saying that sounds more organized than it actually was, like I know what I’m doing with compost. I sprinkle it randomly, like pixie dust, and hope that it works its magic.
This time, the magic took the form of tomatillos.
I know I need to be more ruthless. Researchers from the Washington State University Cooperative Extension advise that volunteer plants—even if they are crops themselves—are weeds. They crowd out planted crops, they steal their moisture and their sun, they can host disease and pests that prey on the desired plants. To get rid of them, they write, everything from early weeding to crop rotation and selective herbicides might be warranted.
Except I can’t. It is probably a good thing I am not a farmer, because I love that the volunteers appear each year with the potential to surprise me. (If I were a farmer, I would probably be able to identify them sooner, so it would be less of a surprise.) What if that small sprout is the watermelon we’ve been trying to grow for years, or a lupine that appears with purple ease on the side of the road but never in my garden? I can’t let go of the possibility that instead of a weed, this plant will grow into something amazing, like a beanstalk to the clouds or the perfect Berkeley Tie-Dye tomato.
Each spring, hope springs eternal, and it springs eternal weeds. Anyone want some salsa verde?