We were enjoying a holiday at my mother’s house—a place that, compared to where I live, feels even more rural. A true village, where the air carries the earthy scent of damp soil, and people are engrossed in simpler, yet undeniably more meaningful, pursuits.
One of the cherished traditions here is using every bit of yard space wisely. Not for extravagant flowers or ornamental statues, but for small gardens filled with kitchen essentials. Nothing goes to waste. Everything planted holds a purpose: vegetables for soup, chilies for sambal, and tiny herbs whose names I might not know but whose value I fully understand.
Of course, my mother’s garden is no less creative. The moment we arrived, we were greeted by something grand, almost like a natural bridge: a rambutan tree beside the house. Its fruits resembled a traffic light—red, yellow, and green. But unlike traffic lights, these didn’t signal you to stop; they simply tempted you to pick them.
Beside the rambutan tree, there’s a small patch of garden where I often sneak off to in the early morning. Not to hide, but just to take a closer look. This garden feels like an old book, rich with stories, each corner holding a tale of its own.
There, I found cassava standing still like an old guardian, chili plants growing shyly as if uncertain of their place, peanut plants beginning to bloom as if proudly displaying their effort, tomatoes still green yet already boasting a glossy sheen, long beans stretching endlessly like playful children who refuse to stop growing, and sweet potatoes sprawling lazily as if indifferent to the world.
The peanut plants, with their tiny blossoms, seemed to whisper promises: Just one more month, and I’ll be something worth noticing. Meanwhile, the chili plants varied in their stages—some bright and cheerful in their redness, ready to dazzle, while others were newly planted, young and hopeful, dreaming of one day spicing up sambal on someone’s table. Everything in this garden lives quietly, simply, but with a clear sense of purpose.
For maintenance? It’s not complicated at all. Mom has a simple yet brilliant method. Organic leftovers—fruit peels, wilted vegetables, scraps from the kitchen—none of them are ever tossed away carelessly. They’re patiently collected, awaiting their turn to transform into fertilizer.
Organic waste, often overlooked elsewhere, becomes a hero here. It nourishes the soil, ensuring the plants in the garden thrive and flourish. "Life should be about giving," Mom once said. Even leftovers know how to play their part in making a difference.
This backyard garden serves to sustain daily life.
Every morning, it calls to them—a quiet invitation to step outside and gather herbs or fresh vegetables. It’s not just a task but a labor of love, driven by the joy of nurturing and harvesting.
And if there’s ever a surplus, it doesn’t go to waste. They can sell it, whether directly to neighbors or through local vendors who act as middlemen, ensuring nothing from the garden goes unused.