July in the Garden: What’s Growing & What We’re Eating

A Month That Smells Like Tomatoes and Earth

July never arrives with a bang. It sneaks in softly. A shift in light. A breeze that smells like mint and compost. Out here in the countryside, this month always feels like the garden is finally ready to speak.

We’ve been tending it since early spring — watering seedlings, shooing off slugs, checking weather apps more than I care to admit. Now, the soil gives back. It feels like the garden has taken a deep breath, and everything is stretching out to meet the sun.

Each morning starts the same. I slip out early, usually with Maple trotting beside me, and walk through the vegetable beds with a cup of tea still warm in my hands. The children are still tucked in bed, the house is quiet, and the garden feels like ours alone. Birds rustle in the hedgerow, and sometimes a rabbit makes a cheeky appearance near the beans.

Everything’s growing now. And with that comes the joyful challenge of eating it all while it’s at its best.

What’s Growing in Our Garden This Month

This year, we planted more than usual. Mostly because we had the time, and also because something in me just needed to grow things.

The tomatoes are finally ripening. The cherry vines are always the first — small, bursting red ones that the kids snack on straight from the plant. The plum tomatoes take a bit longer, but they’re coming along now, their skins warming in the afternoon sun.

We’ve had courgettes galore. I don’t know how it happens, but one day they’re flowers, and the next they’re practically the size of an umbrella handle. Every morning I find more — tucked under leaves like quiet surprises. We’ve been slicing, grating, and spiralising them into nearly everything.

Carrots are ready now too. Sweet and small, sometimes a bit knobbly, but the children love pulling them up. It’s like digging for treasure. Most of them don’t even make it to the kitchen.

We’ve got beetroot, too, though they’re coming in slowly. And kale — always kale — standing tall even after heatwaves. The herbs are thriving in their pots: parsley, mint, chives, and thyme. I planted basil a bit late, but it’s catching up.

The cucumbers have been shy, but there’s promise. And we have one proud sunflower, leaning a bit after a recent rainstorm but still facing the sky. It feels like a little flag for July.

Letting the Garden Choose the Menu

This time of year, I find myself planning meals less and listening to the garden more. Whatever’s ripe becomes dinner.

At first, this used to make me nervous. I’m a list-maker by nature, and I like to know what’s coming. But the more we’ve grown our own food, the more I’ve realised the joy in adapting. The freedom in not having a rigid plan, but instead letting flavour lead.

This week alone, we’ve had:

• Courgette and mint fritters, pan-fried and eaten with yogurt and lemon
• A simple pasta tossed with blistered cherry tomatoes and torn basil
• Beetroot roasted with garlic and served cold with feta and walnuts
• A big salad of mixed leaves, chopped carrots, sunflower seeds, and a honey-mustard dressing
• Chard and onion sautéed slowly, folded into scrambled eggs with toast on the side

None of it fancy. All of it honest. Freshness makes up for any fuss.

Little Hands in the Garden (and the Kitchen)

One of the unexpected joys this summer has been watching the children really take to the garden. They’ve always liked helping with watering cans and the occasional digging, but now they’re starting to care. They check on the courgettes, count the cherry tomatoes, and argue over who gets to pull the next carrot.

They’re also helping in the kitchen more. My daughter has become quite good at slicing cucumbers, and my son loves tearing up herbs and sprinkling seeds onto salads like he’s casting a spell.

It’s messy. It’s slow. But it’s full of laughter and learning. And it’s helped all of us connect to our meals in a new way. When you’ve watched something grow from a seed, it tastes different. You eat it with appreciation.

Even if it’s just rocket on toast.

Preserving the Brightness of July

While we eat most things fresh, I do like to tuck a few treasures away for later.

This month, I’ve started slow-roasting tomatoes again — low heat, olive oil, garlic, and a bit of thyme — then freezing them in jars. They make winter pasta taste like July.

We’ve also begun drying herbs. Thyme and mint, mostly, tied in bunches above the sink. The children helped make a small batch of strawberry jam last week (a bit too runny, but delicious nonetheless), and we’ve talked about pickling beetroot and onions once we’ve got enough.

There’s something satisfying about preserving the season. It feels like a love letter to our future selves. A reminder that even in the darker months, we held warmth in our hands.

Learning to Trust the Seasons

Gardening has taught me patience in a way nothing else quite has. You can’t force a tomato to ripen faster. You can’t will cucumbers into abundance. You have to show up, care for the plants, and let time do what it does.

It’s a lesson that’s echoed in the way I cook now. Less rush. Less panic. More gratitude.

Not every meal is a triumph. We’ve had soggy fritters, overcooked beans, and a rather unfortunate beetroot risotto that no one wants to talk about. But we eat it anyway, knowing that the next try will be better — or at least memorable.

That’s the beauty of this season. It offers so much, and it forgives mistakes. It reminds me to trust what I have. To let food be an expression of place, not perfection.

July at the Table

Most of our meals lately are eaten outside. We move the wooden table to the sunniest patch, shoo away a few bees, and sit with bare feet and full plates.

Dinner might be leftover roasted veg with a fried egg. Or thick slices of bread, tomato salad, and whatever cheese we found at the market that week. Dessert, if there is one, is usually fruit — strawberries, if they haven’t been picked clean by the birds.

We talk about the day. We talk about the plants. Sometimes we don’t talk much at all.

It’s not a celebration in the loud sense. But it feels like one. Every bite tastes like sunshine and soil and a little bit of effort.

Final Thoughts

July in the garden isn’t about perfection. It’s about presence. It’s about growing what you can, eating what’s ready, and finding comfort in the small daily harvests.

It teaches you to pay attention. To appreciate crooked carrots and sun-warmed tomatoes. To build meals around what’s offered, not what’s missing.

If you’ve got a garden — or even just a few pots of herbs on a windowsill — I hope this month brings you the joy of watching something grow. And if you’re cooking with the season, I’d love to hear what’s on your table.

Here’s to courgette gluts, sticky fingers, and dinners shaped by sunlight. Let’s eat with the seasons — and with love.

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