A New Season, a New Plan (and a Kitchen Full of Seed Trays)

Last season taught me a lot.

I learned what worked, what didn’t, and how quickly confidence can grow after just a few small wins. Coming off that first year, I feel different heading into this one. Less impulsive. A little more organized. Still excited—but with a plan.

This year, I actually thought things through.

I spent hours researching companion planting—what should grow together, what shouldn’t, how plants can support each other, and why spacing matters more than I realized the first time around. I sketched layouts, rearranged them, second-guessed them, and rearranged them again. I tried to figure out the best tool for planning a garden and, predictably, ended up using all of them.

There were hand-drawn diagrams.
An Excel workbook.
Even a PowerPoint.

Honestly, it took a while to realize that the “best” tool didn’t really exist yet. I’ll keep working on that. But in the end, my notebook won. There’s something about drawing grids by hand, flipping pages, and seeing the whole plan laid out in pencil that just works for my brain.

One of the things I’m most excited about this year is that I expanded my corner garden by about 36 more feet of growing space. That’s a lot of new real estate. A lot of potential. A lot of room to experiment.

And so… the kitchen has officially turned into a greenhouse.

Right now, I’ve got two seed trays set up in neat little rows, filled with all kinds of hopeful beginnings: marigolds, lots of herbs, zucchini, lettuce, and even chamomile. Every day when I check on them, I swear I hear a sportscaster’s voice in my head giving a play-by-play update on who’s in the lead.

The marigolds were first out of the gate.
Then the chamomile followed.
Next came the bunching onions and the thyme.
And today—out of nowhere—a zucchini popped up like it had been waiting for dramatic effect.

It’s such a simple thing, watching seeds sprout, but it never gets old. Seeing how long each plant takes, how differently they emerge, and how quickly some take off is a lesson you can’t really learn any other way.

Of course, there’s a flip side to that excitement too.

Not every seed germinates.

Out of 32 marigold seeds I planted, only nine sprouted. That’s a little disappointing—but also data. It means I’ll start paying closer attention to seed sources this year. Which companies are more reliable, which varieties perform better, and what’s worth replanting. I have a feeling a new spreadsheet is about to enter the chat, and honestly, I’m not mad about it.

For now, I’m just enjoying this stage. The waiting. The watching. The tiny daily changes that make you lean in a little closer each morning. These seedlings will eventually make their way outside into their new homes, just in time for spring.

This season feels like a continuation—not a restart.

Same curiosity.
More intention.
Better notes.

And a kitchen full of little green lives, all racing toward the light.