One has to admire the sturdiness of a garlic clove. That it prefers to spend its winter wrapped in a shall of frozen soil is beyond my line of thinking. Why not hang out in the dark cool pantry for the winter months and bide yourself some time? I could plant you in the spring – on one of those glorious drippy late March days. But with the exception of only the smallest cloves, anything lingering past February is generally a sad shriveled site.
I’ve always considered myself a winter person. Sort of. I ski. I walk the dog. When the snow is right I populate the garden that I know is under there somewhere with snowmen. I do my best to get out. Some of the most spectacularly stunning days occur in winter. And the January sunsets off our western ridge typically set the sky aflame.
But to say I wrestle with the cold is putting it gently. I’m cursed with poor circulation. This past August I stood in front of an infrared camera on a 90 degree day and the large screen it was projecting onto turned a remarkable shade of blue. So on these fall mornings when my bare feet go numb after even the shortest of journeys outside, I literally cringe at the thought of the ensuing winter.
But these are also the days where the mid-day sun warms the soil up just enough to tease me back outside. I’ll just put in one more row, I reason. After all, if a 2 inch clove of garlic can bare the brunt of our Wisconsin winter, then so can I. “Bring it!” I say – as I march triumphantly inside to warm up by the wood stove.
Garlic Pig 