There was a time when hubby and I had grand dreams of living on a sprawling piece of land—think “Little House on the Prairie” but with Wi-Fi and fewer bonnets. The plan? Become self-sufficient homesteaders, growing and raising our own food like modern-day pioneers with Costco memberships.

We scouted a couple locations, had serious talks, and then… plot twist!

Hubby’s back decided to audition for a role in a medical drama. Turns out, homesteading isn’t ideal when your body files a formal complaint. So, we shelved the dream and settled for a garden that was smaller than our ambitions but just big enough to keep us humble. Also, no goats or chickens. I REALLY wanted goats and chickens (cue the tears).

Then life threw us a curveball—new job, new adventure, and a move to Texas, where gardening took a backseat to surviving the heat in our pool while trying to learn all that Texas lingo.

🌽 Fast-forward and we’re back in Illinois, playing the gardening game.

🍅Take tomatoes, for example. I planted more this year because we can never have too many tomatoes. They have responded by staging a full-blown garden coup. They’ve grown like they’re auditioning for “Attack of the Killer Tomatoes” and have invaded neighboring plots like unruly guests at a potluck.

🍓 Raspberries? Oh, they’re prolific alright. They have a spacious raised bed, but that wasn’t enough for them. They’ve said, “Thanks, but we prefer expansion.” I’m now in a constant battle with rogue raspberry shoots that pop up like little garden ninjas.

🍇Blackberries? I tried to be clever and start one in a pot. Winter laughed in my face – bwa ha ha ha!!!! So I fought back and bought a new plant, gave it a cozy raised bed, and now it’s plotting garden world domination alongside the raspberries. I fear I’ve created a berry mafia.

🍓Strawberries are beloved in our house, but the bed I thought was so big is clearly too small. It’s like trying to fit a family of six into a one-bedroom apartment. Back to the drawing board—or maybe a berry mansion?

🫐Blueberries are my latest horticultural experiment, and let me tell you—they’re divas. They demand acidic soil the way royalty demands silk sheets and fresh scones. I’ve tried bribery: pine branches, whispered compliments, and a promise not to plant anything too clingy nearby. One bush seems to appreciate the gesture. It’s sprouting new branches like it’s finally decided to RSVP “yes” to the garden party. The other? Still sulking. No new growth, no signs of commitment. Just sitting there like it’s weighing its options—stay and thrive or ghost me entirely. I’m watching. I’m waiting. And I’m not above playing a little Mozart to woo it.

🥦 Asparagus is my pride and joy. Started last year from seed, babied in the greenhouse, transplanted in their own space and now they’ve grown into majestic towering ferns. Next year, I expect a full harvest—and possibly a parade in their honor.

🥒Butternut squash is thriving, but not without a fight. Seeds planted, but then disappeared. I can only assume birds. I finally won that battle but they are space hogs. Cucumbers are producing like overachievers, and I’m now morally obligated to make pickles. Zucchini? Not getting pollinated well, but I’ve learned a few tricks for next year. Carrots and onions did well. I even managed to grow a carrot with legs.

🍇 Grapes? Not my best gardening moment. They didn’t make it. I was too late planting them so, they ghosted me. I’ll try again next year, armed with guilt and better timing.

🌶️ Sweet peppers are my garden nemesis. Jalapeños and serranoes are thriving like spicy little champions, but sweet bell peppers? I swear they are mocking me. Half the plants got eaten by pests, and the survivors are stingy with their fruit. I will conquer them. Eventually.

So… do we expand the garden? Of course we do. Vertical gardening is calling my name—because if my plants refuse to behave horizontally, maybe they just need a little altitude adjustment. I’ve been lured in by those dreamy videos of cattle panel trellises standing tall like leafy catwalks. Tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, blackberries—brace yourselves. You’re going vertical next year whether you like it or not.

And that’s just the beginning. I’m plotting bigger beds for onions, carrots, peas, and beans. Basically, if it grows and shows me some respect, it’s getting a VIP spot. Once that seed catalog arrives this winter, all bets are off. I’ll probably convince myself that I need three more beds, a greenhouse, and possibly a large plot of land. Because really—who doesn’t need more fruits and vegetables?

So there you have it—our grand vision of a sprawling homestead brimming with fruits, vegetables, and a parade of animals has been gracefully downsized. In its place: a modest plot in town, a few well-earned cruises, and a garden that still manages to surprise me.

Gardening, like life, is a never-ending saga of learning, adapting, and occasionally yelling at stubborn plants and smug pests. It’s messy, unpredictable, and sometimes wildly uncooperative. But it’s mine. And like all good stories, it’s always a work in progress.