I never thought much about onions until I tried to grow a year’s supply of them. Onions were just onions—a necessary component of most nights’ dinners, but not a feature. In fact, onion was probably my least favourite vegetable. My first attempts to grow enough for the year were abject failures. Onion was such a mundane vegetable, I just assumed it would be easy to grow.

I was wrong. First, the tiny seeds didn’t like to germinate in the garden, so I learned to start them indoors, and transplant the seedlings. Then I discovered that onions are very sensitive to drought, and I needed to improve my watering regime or they would never get larger than a walnut. I also quickly learned that they hate competition and I needed to keep the onion bed scrupulously weed free. Finally, I found they were heavy feeders and liked a generous helping of good quality compost in their bed. Such finicky tastes for a vegetable I assumed was little more than a weed!

I did eventually get it right, and can now keep us supplied with onions year round. As with most vegetables, I gained a greater appreciation for subtle differences among varieties when I started seriously growing onions. One of my best “discoveries” has been red onions. The first time I grew them, I cured and stored them like the others, with poor results. They never properly dried, and rotted or sprouted within a month of harvest. What I’ve since realised is that they should be eaten fresh. And when eaten fresh, they are like an entirely different vegetable—so sweet and succulent, that even I like them raw in salads. Now we start eating the red onions as soon as the first bulbs swell. They fit nicely in the food year, between the last spring onion and the storage onion harvest.

The best thing about them is they’ve taught me to better appreciate a vegetable I was never overly fond of before. I think about the times I’ve had French onion soup and didn’t like it. Was it because it was made with the wrong variety of onion? Did I spend the majority of my life unenthusiastic about onions because all I’d eaten were the store bought varieties? Seems I’m going to have to do some more research and try some new varieties. There are dozens to choose from in the seed catalogues!

My husband cheats. No, not in that way. He cheats to beat the unwritten rule of summer: if we didn’t grow it, we can’t have it.

In summertime, there is so much food coming out of the garden, we don’t allow ourselves to buy treats like mushrooms. All summer long, we eat like kings, but keep thinking, “Boy, this is great, but it would be even better with some mushrooms.”

But this year, we can have mushrooms without feeling guilty about not eating our own produce. A couple of months ago, Ian and the kids “planted” mushrooms.

Hanging in the pump shed, like sides of beef in the butcher’s back room is a row of plastic sleeves stuffed with straw, inoculated with oyster mushrooms. They require no weeding, no watering, no pruning. They don’t take up space in the vegetable garden. We just go out there and harvest beautiful mushrooms—feels like cheating.

Grilled, sautéed, stir fried…doesn’t matter how they are prepared, these delicious little fungi put the crowning touch on our summer menu.

Popcorn makes any day special. Have you noticed that? Here at Crazy Corner, we make our popcorn the old fashioned way. First we plant the seeds. We water and weed. We wait and wait and wait. When the plants tassel, we ooh and aah over the beautiful burgundy silk. Then we wait and wait and wait some more. Long about April, the plants dry off, and we harvest the tiny, perfect ears of corn. We set them in the sun, letting the kernels dry, testing them regularly until they pop well.

The loose kernels sit in a jar in the kitchen waiting for a day like today. A day that needs something special. A bored kid, a game of Hunters and Gatherers, and a big bowl of popcorn.

We heat the oil in a glass lidded pot, so we can watch the action. A few minutes of popping and shaking the pan over the burner, a generous drizzle of melted butter, and a sprinkle of salt…and suddenly the blah afternoon sparkles a little.

Our home-grown popcorn isn’t the large-kernelled vapid stuff Orville Redenbacher sells. It’s one of many heirloom varieties. The dainty white puffs are flavourful enough they hardly need butter, and the texture is less like Styrofoam and more like a dry meringue. A real treat on any day!