Every tree is the color of matcha right now, an undulating sea of lattes on the commute home that will last but another week before they move onto the next shade of green in their collective unfolding. The freshly-tilled fields are a rolling ombre tribute to cocoa, from light milk to the deepest dark; if I were a young child in the back seat on a long road trip, I’d insist my parents tell me without hesitation that this is where chocolate comes from—one soil scoop at a time. Tired as I am from the day’s work, I’m in no hurry to get home. Can’t I just dawdle along in this arboreal cafe for a few more hours?

I made a glorious mess in the kitchen last weekend, following through on my dream to harvest armfuls of wild garlic mustard and turn it into pesto. If you’ve ever done this, you know it can be an oily affair, bits of basil or whatever green you’re using sticking to your fingers and the inside of the food processor’s bowl and your spatula and the counter… It’s pointless to clean as you go and a much better use of your time to dream of that first bowl of pasta adorned with the fruits of your labor. Patrick and I have been intermittent foragers over the years. He’s the hesitant skeptic, what with his paramedic training and experience tending to those who ingested something they thought was safe, and I’m all “honey, you really can eat stinging nettles—just plunge them in boiling water first for about 45 seconds” (which is why I’m not allowed in the kitchen without a permission slip). We did acquire a copy of “Edible Wild Plants”, a field guide and companion in lean times when green leaf lettuce soars past the $2.99/lb mark, and it helpfully lists poisonous lookalikes (with color photographs) so you don’t go munching on leaves or berries that will make your lips swell to three times their normal size. I learned that the roots of spring beauties, a sweet little wildflower that takes over lawns in between the last really hard frost and a few subsequent milder ones, can be harvested and cooked like tiny potatoes, but I just can’t bring myself to dig them up. They’re too pretty at my feet and I’d miss them on the morning walks (besides, once you dig up those little tubers, that’s it for them. The book cautions not to wipe out an entire patch at a time. Leave enough for next year). On the other hand, I can’t keep up with this season’s garlic mustard crop. With a quart of that pesto in the fridge and several more pints resting in the freezer, there’s still enough growing out there in between the buckeye saplings that line the driveway and up through the chicken run fence to keep us going well into next spring. I tucked a few tablespoons into a couple loaves of no-knead artisan bread, which our guests last Sunday cut into thick slices and slathered with more pesto. Sometimes, you leave our place not only full but fragrant (remind me to put a bowl of mints by the door).

Meanwhile, the raised beds have yet to coddle a single seed, potato cut or onion bulb in their compost-fluffed soil because we can’t seem to catch a day when the weather would permit it or we’re not working. Today’s a bit on the drizzly side but the air is warm and my tired old gardening jeans hang patiently on their hook in the bathroom waiting to be more gainfully employed. We’ll be late getting the tomato seedlings in, and the cucumbers and peppers. Those need a strong root system to thrive and we’re not going to rush it. In the mudroom are bags of red, yellow and white onion sets and three varieties of potatoes begging to get on with it ‘neath a comfy layer of dirt. It’ll be messy, but what’s a little dampness in the face of a future roasted Kennebec looking up at us from its place on our plate, nudged in next to the Lacinato kale salad dotted with yellow pear heirloom tomatoes sliced on the diagonal? If you’re gonna eat local, dream big and put up with a little discomfort. It’s worth it.

I have a friend who often says “do something today that will make your future self happy”. Such wisdom is the essence of any effort to grow one’s own meals and a near-cure for the tendency to procrastinate or give up on a diet. It pulls us out of our stupored complacency just enough to change our current view from the couch and step into the bigness of a world noisy with bird reunions at the feeders and eye-stinging fresh colors dressing every branch and every acre.

If you need me, I’ll be out back getting our dinner ready.