The Last Cucumber

I’m certain I’ve posted on here about cucumbers before, if only because they are my family’s absolute favorite garden produce. There are some plants that aren’t made much better by being grown in the garden - storebought is just as good in my opinion. But there are some that really benefit from that extra burst of freshness. Cucumbers are the epitome of those.

It’s funny, the little family rituals that develop over time. Every year, when the first cucumber is ready to be eaten, whoever finds it runs into the house, inevitably cheering for the long awaited harvest, and cuts it into five pieces, which are distributed to the rest of us. It’s nothing formal, just what happens. The idea of keeping that first cucumber for yourself, of selfishly eating it alone, is almost unthinkable. And so, this small harvest ritual is re-created every year, without fail.

What we don’t have is a ritual for the last cucumber. Perhaps we should somehow memorialize the end of the growing season and the return to the storebought. Instead, in the hustle and bustle of fall sports and school, Forrest usually decides enough is enough and rips out the yellowing vines, pulling off whatever cucumbers are still hanging on. They’re always tiny, usually unripe, and far too bitter - the fruit that came too late, in unwelcoming conditions, just trying to grow some seeds before the frosts come.

Right now those last few cucumbers are sitting on the table in front of me. We’ll munch on them, but I doubt anyone will notice when the last one’s gone. I wouldn’t at all be surprised if it actually ends up in the compost after being ignored for days.

We don’t have a lot of “ending” rituals around here. Everyone puts up the Christmas tree together. I take it down alone. The first day of school is full of hoopla. The last day is celebrated with take-out on the couch. Even New Year’s is more about welcoming the new year than saying goodbye to the last one.

I didn’t grow up in a culture that had a particular harvest festival. We had Halloween, of course, but that was about candy and pranks and costumes. Even when we did the pumpkin patch thing, that wasn’t about the end of the harvest, not for me, anyway. I guess I always believed Harvest Festivals were like carnivals - full of delicious food, frivolity and family. But I think the old festivals must have also been about loss. The loss of light as days grow shorter. The loss of space as life moves indoors. The loss of variety as cuisine moves towards easily stored foods.

All of that food and frivolity takes on a different meaning then, doesn’t it. It becomes about enjoying that which does not last. About making sure that the last cucumber is cherished because the next one is months away. About appreciating what we have while we have it, secure in the knowledge that it will come around again.

This probably sounds made up, but while I was writing this, Forrest has been munching on those cucumbers right in front of me. No joke, somewhere in the last hour, that last cucumber disappeared. Perhaps next year I’ll hold on to it, carefully cutting it into five pieces. Perhaps next year, I’ll remember to celebrate the end just as meaningfully as we celebrated the beginning.