After eleven years of growing nothing but bunions from New York City sidewalks, I was ready to move. Two months of volunteering on an organic farm in Australia left me with an awareness of being disconnected from the land, and fantasies of farming and self-sufficiency danced in my head. But once I got to Asheville, my goals became daunting. With limited experience and knowledge, I realized I had to lay some groundwork.

I did what I recommend to all gardening newbies: consult an expert. While in Australia, I heard about Chuck Marsh at Earthaven Ecovillage, so I called him. He taught me to first identify and get rid of invasive plants, like Japanese knotweed, poison ivy, Virginia creeper and kudzu, and replace them with hardy natives and useful plants, like grapes, fruit trees and blueberry bushes.

Although my first spring was mostly about clearing and cleaning, I managed to plant a few tomatoes, onions and echinacea. They struggled through large, unbroken clay chunks and survived, obviously more from my enthusiasm than from my skills. Seeing my first plants grow was as exciting as anything the Big Apple offered. I was hooked.
I reluctantly watched summer fade into fall that first year, feeling my usual despondency and loss. But then I spotted a nursery billboard that read "Fall is for Planting." I thought spring was the time for planting and new beginnings.

With this new insight, I wondered what I could plant. The answer came as I walked through a tailgate market on a perfect September day: garlic.

During the summer, I created raised beds. I broke up the soil, loosened the clay about eight to ten inches deep and added kelp, greens and phosphate; I alternated three layers of mushroom compost with three layers of straw.

With the bed prepared, I gently broke my garlic bulbs apart with my thumbnail. I pushed them into the soil, two to six inches apart and standing one to two inches deep. Although an experienced grower may have used only the larger cloves (bigger cloves=bigger garlic), I planted all but the tiniest.

Garlic enjoys cold winters. But, it should be planted about four to six weeks before the first killing frost, which, on average, is October 24th in our area of the Southeast.

After planting, I basically forgot about my garlic, and, thankfully, leaves covered the bed so I didn't have to be reminded.

Very early in the spring, I noticed little shoots and watched them eagerly. Everything looked healthy, and I saw no insects, so I didn't bother with fertilizer or pest control. One day, I noticed the oddest thing; the garlic shoots were twisted and looped. I GoogledTM garlic and discovered these were "scapes." Some growers recommend removing scapes during growing because all the energy goes into the flowers, not the bulbs, producing smaller garlic. Others say it doesn't matter.

But, scapes do have a use. They can be harvested just as they curl, when they're the most tender, and have a strong garlic flavor without the bite of the cloves. They can be sautéed, deep-fried, pickled or added to pesto. A quick Internet search for "cook garlic scape" will lead you to many recipes and suggestions.

The garlic itself is harvested in late summer, when thirty percent of the foliage turns yellow. I always pull one first to check visually before harvesting the rest. I cure my bulbs by spreading them to dry or hanging in bundles (with foliage still on) for several weeks. After curing, I clean the bulbs and trim the stalks and roots, setting aside some of the biggest bulbs for planting the next fall.

My first year's crop was good, mostly because I was lucky. This year's crop looks even better (it's curing as I write), mostly because I got great advice. I heartily recommend Growing Great Garlic by Ron L. Engeland.
As fall settles in again, I'm less desolate over the end of the growing season, because now I know fall is also for planting. As I break apart cloves to plant my next garlic crop, I know these are clones, not seeds, and that each clone contains original cells of the uber mother bulb.

When I plant a clove, I'm sustaining a memory of about 10,000 years. In fact, garlic never dies; new growth begins inside the clove long before it is even planted. So, with garlic's constant new beginnings, you can plant in the fall and always have spring on hand.

After eleven years in Manhattan, Gwen chose Asheville to reconnect with the land and the Southern life she knew growing up. She currently lives in West Asheville and is self-employed in marketing and advertising design; most of her free time is spent exploring urban agriculture, sustainable living practices and gardening. She can be reached at gwen@croftcommunications.com.

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