If vegetables, herbs, and the occasional fruit were to ever convene a trial against me, the charge would be clear: crimes against nature.

And I would plead not guilty. For my acts are not premeditated.

Indeed, I love vegetables. True, I love to eat them. But that is their purpose in life, and they know that.

I think I love them most when they are sautéed. Or maybe boiled. No, baked. Deep-fried? Grilled!

I love them with butter. I especially love them with a drizzle of olive oil. I love them in a cold soup with a whole lot of other vegetables, like gazpacho, or by themselves, like corn on the cob. I love them wilted and I love them firm. But mostly this time of year, I love them fresh from the garden.

Which is why it is good to have friends with gardens. I get all the benefits and none of the dirt on my pants. Lou should be stopping by any day now with some peppers, Kathy with some tomatoes.

And what did I have to do? Nothing. Just admire their handiwork and be jealous. I am good at that. I go to their houses and walk around to their backyards and I gaze upon gorgeous rows of healthy, happy vegetables growing true and strong up trellises and in clean dark-soil corridors, and I am good at saying, “Man, that is beautiful. How do you do it?”

But I am not quite good enough at it. Because I am not content to be jealous. I covet.

So, year after year after painful year, I try again to grow my own. Who knows? Maybe this year I will have what everybody says is so easy to obtain.

Or maybe I’ll just wait till Lou or Kathy comes by — and have a greased frying pan at the ready.

Ahhh … summertime. The livin’ is easy. That is, if you don’t stress about how your garden grows.