In truth, I don't eat most of this stuff. The nectarines, berries and nuts "came with the frame" so to speak. (The 'Burbs reference. One of Tom Hanks finest performances.) We planted the squash, okra and watermelon along with a couple of strawberry plants. Wild critters ate the strawberries but the others are doing well. I fried some yellow squash but did not eat it. I stir fried some zucchini and mixed it with enough rice, chicken and teriyaki sauce to enjoy it. I'll try the blueberries in pancakes and I'll look forward to picking out the walnuts but the others are just pet plants to me. Too bad we can't grow bacon on a tree.
I make no secret of the fact that I do not eat vegetables. I know they are good for you and I know you think I'll die if I don't eat something green and gross but I do ok for an old guy and no, I don't take vitamins or supplements. The thing is....I hate vegetables. I abhor them. I know that if you smash them up just right and mix them with enough other items you can make some great things like bbq sauce or grits (grits come from some type of corn, right?) but just vegetables, by themselves, they bother me.
I trace this hatred back to my childhood when I was forced to grow all sorts of despicable things in the dirt. We didn't just have a garden, at one time we had a produce stand and for years our Silver Queen corn was talked about all over town. We grew everything imaginable that would grow in upstate SC. I hoed it, plowed it, picked it, broke it, shelled it, shucked it, cut it, washed it and pulled weeds out of it and I think those experiences turned me sour toward the fruits of my labor. But I was also forced to pick peaches and shell pecans so I guess my love for those things blows my theory a bit. Maybe I was just a picky eater. Fine.
My parents always had some type of garden. Mom is a professional canner and preserver. She and dad would eat the things they grew but they always ended up giving away most of the garden yield. I used to joke with them and explain that in the modern world we had these things called grocery stores and we could just hop in a horseless wagon and go to Ingles and buy some produce if we were hungry. They always said that there's just something about growing your own food that makes it worth all the trouble.
As usual, they were right. Perhaps there's some genome in my family that was coded with the desire to grow things. Maybe it's just a natural human instinct. But oddly enough I really enjoy growing these things even though I have no desire to eat them.
Dad used to tell me stories about raising pigs. Maybe if I do a really good job with the plants I could work my way up to a pig.