Last June my raised beds were flush with lettuce.  The entire four by eight area was packed with heads ripe for picking. Probably the instructions on the package had suggested that I stagger planting, so that their growth would be spread out, but I think I skipped over that sentence in the two paragraphs of directions. 

No one can eat that much salad.

Plus the CSA we belong to was sending us four large heads of Boston and Bibb each week. Even though I offered some to friends, and begged kids to stuff it in their sandwiches, the bounty outnumbered our mouths. 

One of the persnickety attributes of lettuce is its resistance to being frozen. Or canned. Or cooked. Romaine insists on claiming the centerpiece of the plate mere minutes or days after being plucked. If you keep her waiting she will react like those prima donnas who demand the primary role, and if she is only given a minor part will develop a headache and refuse to go on. As everyone who has tossed gummy green bags of mixed greens knows. 

Saving up food for later is the reason most of us stay alive in January. Californians notwithstanding, it isn't feasible to walk out the back door and grab dinner. There is of necessity a market for edibles that we can store, and it behooves us to do so. 

There is a story in the Bible about lettuce. Well, not really. It is the one where the Children of Israel are told to not cache the daily manna, no matter how worried they are about the supply the next day. God invited them to trust Him, and being God, He upheld His end. Manna appeared each morning for them to gather into baskets. Did I mention that this went on for forty years? 

It is an oxymoron, I suppose. Save up blessings to sustain you during a famine. Resist the urge to hoard as if there won't be more tomorrow. 

But even a simple person like myself can manage two directives in one day. And if you are hungry and happen to be walking by my house help yourself to some green leaves. There is enough to share.