In a season where tropical storms are sending long, slow, drenching rains to my corner of the world, Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle seems particularly relevant. In the first chapter, she describes two very different attitudes toward rain: one, a cashier in the city who says it better not rain on the day she wants to wash her car, and another, a waitress in the country who hopes the rain will last a "good long" time. All of us have cursed the weather at some point, Kingsolver acknowledges, but if you're in touch with the land, you shrug off the inconvenience and bless the water that nourishes the soil where your food grows.

This is not exactly a gardening book, but it is a book almost entirely about gardens. It chronicles a year of transition for the Kingsolver family, who moves from Tucson to southern Appalachia as a result of a crisis of conscience. They were uneasy about the amount of resources and time spent trying to coax life out of the desert soil, and they wanted to see if they could live year-round on their summer property in the more fertile mid-Atlantic region. Between gathering wild morels, hosting a party with a triple-digit guest list, and pawning off bags of zucchini on unsuspecting neighbors, their adventures are hilarious and poignant. A spring of hard work and anticipation is followed by a summer of staggering plenty, a fall of bustling preparation and a winter of cozy comfort and a stocked larder.

Readers can learn from Kingsolver's mistakes and successes through her gorgeous, meaty prose, though she doesn't offer very specific how-to advice in terms of planning and execution; more than anything, however, this is a book that will inspire you to take joy in the daily drudgery of chores like weeding and watering, reconnected with your final goal of eating the healthy, wholesome food you helped raise.

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle was a family effort: there are numerous lengthy sidebars written by Kingsolver's husband, Steven Hopp, a professor of environmental studies. They tend to concentrate on the political and economic ramifications of eating locally-grown food, so I found them an unwelcome interruption to Kingsolver's lush narrative, but after I had read the whole book, I returned to the sidebars and found them very informative. Each chapter ends with a few seasonal recipes, a sample weekly meal plan, and some thoughts by Camille Kingsolver, Barbara's daughter, who writes in a similarly engaging manner to her mother's. And it's Lily, Camille's little sister, whose hands are featured on the front cover; the beginnings of her lucrative chicken-egg business provide a sizable chunk of the story, too.

The book's title has the distinction of being both creative and fitting. The family's adventures with livestock and produce are well-detailed, certainly, but it is Kingsolver's clear belief that life itself is miraculous that makes for an uplifting reading experience. Cold is the heart that fails to leap when, in the final chapter, her efforts to breed turkeys the natural way (99.9% of turkeys are artificially inseminated) are rewarded with the sound of faint, high-pitched peeping from inside of a warm, trembling egg.

As the school year begins its long, slow assault on my freedom, it is a dangerous escape to picture the south of France: sun-drenched days among fields of fragrant lavender, and the azure waters of the Mediterranean beckoning, throwing their undulating reflections on the scorched pavement. Thoughts of the Maine coastline, three and a half hours northeast of Portland, are not nearly so tempting: lobster rolls, sure, but not the whirling winds and stinging salt spray that characterize the climate there.

Of all the fascinating facts I absorbed reading Eliot Coleman's book, Four-Season Gardening, this was the most surprising: these two very different places have virtually the same latitude, lying on the 44th parallel. The very foods for which French kitchen gardens are renowned -- tender, pale endives; delicate mache; sugary, crisp radishes and beets -- grow just as easily in the rocky Maine soil in the dead of winter, with the help of a few age-old gardeners' tricks.

Well, if they can grow all that in Maine, I thought, what in the world am I complaining about? Drawing a line almost due east from my home in Baltimore, I passed through Lisbon, Palermo and Athens. The latter, the only city of the three which I've had the pleasure of visiting, was upwards of 110 degrees in August, but come to think of it, everyone said that winter there was awful, especially on the coast. Somehow, their equally-chilly winters produce food that sustains their inhabitants long after all the vacationers have gone home.

So why is it that virtually all of the most common garden crops in America -- tomatoes, peppers, beans, zucchini -- are grown during the summer, and gardens are abandoned after the first frost? It may be because, as a French gardener says in the book, "It is not our tradition." But after reading this book and studying the pleasingly hand-drawn illustrations, I think there are a few traditions about to begin in my house. Here are some of the highlights:

Compost. After a conversational and very persuasive introduction (think of brushing aside snow to harvest bright green mesclun mix in January!), Coleman exhorts his audience to start a compost pile. His words, like most advice in this book, are simple but effective:

Generations of gardeners have consistently come up with the same chain of logic: a fertile soil is the key to growing garden vegetables; compost is the key to a fertile soil. The first step in the four-season harvest is learning to make good compost. It's not difficult. Compost wants to happen.

Rob and I started a compost pile about 9 months ago, and though we have yet to harvest any, we are amazed at how quickly things disappear -- food scraps, weeds (harvested before going to seed, of course) and trimmings of our plants. We added a couple of pounds of redworms to the mix in the late spring, just to get things going, but we've never turned or aired the heap, knowing that this means it will take much longer to break down into usable particles. After reading Coleman's theories on straw, however, I'm considering amending that policy. The idea is that hollow straw stems allow more air into the heap than hay or leaves, which are the most common "brown" materials. If layered with "green" materials (anything that's rich in carbon, such as plants and food scraps), straw will make your compost richer, faster. There's also a primer of suitable containers, from low-maintenance (straw bales stacked into walls) to advanced (wooden crates with air slats all around), and a section about additives such as manure and minerals, which can help correct imbalances and create optimal conditions for decomposition.

Planning. Nothing substitutes for a good plan, especially for gardeners, who must always be thinking ahead; to harvest baby carrots in November, you have to remember to plant them in June. There is a brief explanation of planting zones and microclimates and suggestions for bed plans. Coleman and his wife use organic techniques, so he explains the wisdom behind crop rotation, chemical-free insect control, cover crops (also called "green manure") and heirloom seeds. The chapter on seeds could have been lifted straight from one of Peter Mayle's books; the French characters are as colorful and vibrant as the meals they produce from the fruits of their gardens. The book also contains detailed, precise charts that will help you decide what to grow and when to plant it where you live, should you decide to give his methods a try. At his house, they eschew canning and preserving in favor of a root cellar, and he explores the construction and use of several possible types of cold storage.

Protection. Here is the real meat of the book: techniques for keeping snow and ice from killing your carefully reared plants. The easiest way to do this is with a cold frame, which in its simplest form is composed of four shallow wooden walls and a hinged glass roof that can be propped open to allow air circulation. As the days grow shorter, the roof remains closed for more of the day, holding precious warmth inside. Growth slows to a crawl and finally stops altogether, but if the plants have been well-established (again, planning) by that time, they can be continually harvested until the growth cycle begins again in the early spring. There are other protective measures that can be taken, too; greenhouses and high tunnels are explored in great detail, again with helpful diagrams and instructions that, while not foolproof, are certainly good enough for a determined do-it-yourselfer.

Tools. Coleman describes methods for making his most invaluable tools, either by modifying bought tools or creating his own from scratch. Hoes, spades and broadforks figure prominently in his own garden. But perhaps the most endearing and amusing chapter in the book is about a completely different kind of garden helper: the duck. He claims ducks are more companionable and productive, and less noisy and destructive, than chickens; and there is no better tool for eradicating slugs, cutworms and other pests from your plants. There is even a section on building a duck tractor, charmingly named "Duckingham Palace." Rob really, really wishes I had not read this chapter; I have already contacted a couple of friends who built chicken tractors, figuring that a duck is much more like a pet than a chicken, and my neighbors are less likely to report me on this count. (Keeping fowl is illegal in my county, as is composting and consuming raw dairy products, which we also do. Joel Salatin, I feel your pain!)

Reference. Roughly the last third of the book is dedicated to a thorough guide to home garden crops. There are planting and spacing instructions, maintenance and storage tips, and informative stories about Coleman's experience with that particular species.

Besides all of these wonderful features, the book is fun to read; I began intending to skim it, but read just about every word, drawn in by his breezy style and humorous vignettes about his quest to eat fresh, homegrown produce all year long. And I think it's that element that makes the book so inspiring: he makes it quite clear that this way of life is a process, and he has a cheerful, can-do attitude about everything, while acknowledging that failures are an important and necessary part of growth -- both personally and in the garden.