I used to think I was supposed to plant everything at the same time.  Right after Mother’s Day, time to plant.  I planted rows and rows of garlic.  They came up with their green hands waving and never really became anything.

I planted in one fall.  We moved the next March, so I never did see what the garlic became.

Last fall I planted rows and rows of garlic.  I kept them covered with straw for their long winter’s nap.  This time we would have garlic!  I looked for their awakening in the spring.  Indeed they shot out of the ground with promises of Italian food and garlic rubbed French bread.  They dissipated a bit, so I planted potatoes where the empty spaces were.  Yet, still a few stood strong.  Three small cloves were brought out of the bed last month (and I mean small, one clove).  Thinking more were behind them, I sold two of them.  I dug through the bed like a Blood hound searching out my long lost promised garlic.  Alas, it is gone.  Simply vanished.  Not a green stem, not a clove, not a husk to bid good bye.  Vanished.  No sign of vandalism, of raccoon or squirrel robbery.  No culinary savvy birds have been by.  So, where, pray, is the garlic?