I love having a garden. It’s part of who I am. Part of how I was raised.

My dad grew a huge garden every year—big enough to feed not only our family but seemingly half the neighborhood. Our meals came straight from the ground. Tomato and cucumber salad. Slow-cooked green beans with bacon. Corn on the cob. It couldn’t have been tastier.

I remember one year when we thought our dog Tracey must be pregnant — she was getting so round. But no. One evening, we heard stalks falling in the garden. Thump. Thump. Thump. Something straight out of a Stephen King novel. At least that’s where my imagination went.

Except it was just Tracey, happily munching the corn.

My dad was not amused.

Fast forward sixty years to my own garden. Every time I add composted manure — or even sweet peat — to the soil, my dog ZZ completely loses his mind. It must smell like an all-you-can-eat buffet to him.

Dogs understand buffets.

There’s just something about dogs and gardens.

So we put up a fence. Keeps out the deer. The rabbits. And ZZ, most of the time.

What it doesn’t keep out? Everyone else.

Our resident young hawk has taken to pulling up green bean plants. (I’m pretty sure he thinks they’re the perfect target to pounce on and rip out. He’s still learning.) Our hummingbirds zip in and out of the overgrown spearmint bush, dive-bombing each other on their way to the feeder. And once — I kid you not — a snapping turtle stopped on its way to our pond and just stared at the garden. Longingly.

I still don’t know what that was about.

But the most memorable moment? That belongs to the lettuce.

Here’s the thing about lettuce: it grows fast, and there’s only so much salad a person can eat. So one afternoon I grabbed as many handfuls as I could — overgrown lettuce, some giant basil leaves — and dumped it all into my harvest bucket.

Brought it inside. Tipped it into the sink.

And out tumbled a baby garden snake.

Not a worm. Not a leaf. A snake.

I don’t know who was more terrified — me or that tiny snake, suddenly blinking under my kitchen lights. (Do snakes even have ears? Because if so, I really traumatized that little guy.)

What followed was not my finest hour.

I ran around the house. I screamed. I took a few calming breaths. Then I screamed again.

 Eventually, I mustered up everything I had, grabbed a deep bowl, scooped up that snake — at arm’s length, eyes half-closed — sprinted out the back door, and flung him as far into the woods as I could.

Pretty sure I set a personal sprint record that day.

And the lettuce? After all that? I just couldn’t. That snake had been living in it. It had been his home. Into the trash it went.

Next time, I’m shaking every handful of lettuce before it comes anywhere near my kitchen.

Twice.

—Peni

P.S. Growing up, our garden fed more than just our family—it brought people together. That’s one of the things I love most about Fried Taters, too. It’s a story about community, kindness, and neighbors helping neighbors. And thankfully, there are no surprise snakes hiding in the vegetables.