A cool wind "burnt" all my remaining basil to a brown yucky crisp one recent evening, which was frustrating and sad to see. The edges of the pumpkin runners were tinged with yellow and curley. The end of the season is upon us- this means the night winds are dancing on the 32 degree border.


Zucchini bread, here I come!

Therefore, I'm harvesting like mad. Tomatoes need to all come in off the vines before they are destroyed, the remaining zuchini and yellow crook-neck all got pulled inside, and the pumpkins are done. The potatoes could wait, but if the above-ground plants get too withered and crisped, sometimes the dog will knock them off and then we can't recall where we planted them, which makes harvesting them a nightmare. So better to get them out of the ground, too, instead of digging 27 random holes to find 8 potato plants.


The hanging pumpkin's final moment of glory.

But these last weeks of summer, I realize, are not about me. They are about the local farmers at the market. They are desperate to sell their produce, and it is beautiful like nothing I could ever grow. Flawlessly smooth organically grown eggplants, hundreds of pounds of heirloom tomatoes, bushels of basil, crates and crates of unbelievably beautiful bell peppers. I want to cry as I walk through the market. This is what I could grow if I was smarter, had more time, better educated in the ways of vegetables. Mere mortals, surely, but they are like food superheroes to me.


Someday I will be reincarnated as a successful eggplant and pepper grower. Until then, I have the farmer's market.

One unusual thing in Missoula is that a large portion (possibly a majority) of the small-scale farmers are either first or second generation Mung refugees. This is an ethic group displaced in part by the Vietnam War, as I understand it, and resettled in small cities around the US. Now, I can't be sure of this, but I really doubt that the highlands of Laos bear any horticultural resemblance to Western Montana. So not only are the farmers unapologetically brilliant at growing amazing produce, they are also self-taught! They aren't even benefiting from generations of living with our fickle climate, rocky soils, and hordes of pocket gophers. They are just geniuses of the soil. It isn't fair. I want to be them.


I should stick with pumpkins. I'm a New Englander by birth - my people can do pumpkins.

This was underlined in a moment of self-pity as I picked up a huge rubber-banded bouquet of basil. I stared at it in awe. My basil was dead, shriveled, and depressing to think about. A petite man with a thick accent told me it was $2. I asked, "How can you grow such a nice basil plant at this time of year? Mine all died!" He smiled widely and seemed to laugh at me. "Can't grow basil here. Need a greenhouse."

I guess know I need a greenhouse. Why did he have to rub it in? But he doesn't know that after buying 12 basil starts that were killed by a late frost, and then 12 more to replace those, I failed to harvest enough to make a single batch of pesto. He doesn't know that instead, I ended up buying all the basil that he had to offer in a fit of envy. He shouldn't care about my basil sob story, anyway. He's just glad to make a living, and I understand that.

I hereby resolve to not plant any of the following next year, because it will be too depressing when I go to the market. I will leave these things to the professionals. No bell peppers! No hot peppers! No eggplant! And for god's sake, Leigh, don't get your hopes up with the basil!