The seed catalogs started arriving in December.
I didn’t order them — they just appear, like they can smell the desperation of a gardener trapped inside by winter. Baker Creek. Johnny’s Selected Seeds. Burpee, because I’m a basic suburban-adjacent gardener and I’m okay with that.
I keep them in a stack by my reading chair, and on these cold January evenings, I flip through them like other people flip through Vogue. Except instead of fantasizing about designer clothes, I’m fantasizing about a garden that produces so many zucchini, I have to start leaving them on neighbors’ porches under cover of darkness.
This is the dangerous time. The time when anything seems possible. When you forget about the groundhogs and the Japanese beetles and the fungal problems that made last year’s cucumbers look like they had a skin condition.
In January, the garden is perfect because the garden doesn’t exist yet.
Here’s what I’m dreaming about for 2026:
More tomatoes. Always more tomatoes. The Cherokee Purples were such a hit that I’m adding Brandywine and some variety called “Mortgage Lifter” that I’m choosing entirely based on the name.
An actual herb garden. Not just a few sad basil plants that bolt immediately. I want rosemary, thyme, oregano, sage. Maybe lavender along the border if I can keep the deer off it.
Flowers for cutting. Zinnias. Cosmos. Sunflowers. I want to be the kind of person who has fresh flowers on her kitchen table all summer, grown by her own hands.
One thing I’ve never tried before. This year I’m thinking watermelon. Emma is convinced we can grow “the big kind” and I don’t have the heart to tell her that Kentucky clay soil and a short growing season might have other ideas.
Tom walked in last night while I was making my list (yes, I have a list, I am a person who makes lists) and looked over my shoulder.
“That’s a lot of plants.”
“It’s aspirational.”
“You said that last year. And the year before.”
“I’m consistently aspirational.”
He kissed the top of my head and went to make popcorn. Twenty years of marriage means he knows when to argue and when to just let me have my seed catalog dreams.
There’s something I love about this time of year — the planning stage. Everything still theoretical. The soil frozen, the garden beds sleeping under their mulch blankets. But underneath, the roots are waiting. The dormant seeds from last year’s flowers are biding their time. Come spring, it all starts again.
And I’ll be ready.
Or at least, I’ll be out there trying. Which, honestly, is the same thing. 🌱