Nine (9) Things to do with Hardneck Garlic Scapes

"Paws in the Soil: Love and Loss on a Montana Farm"

 

Alexis had a smile that could melt the frost off the Crazy Mountains, and hands as sturdy and weathered as the Montana soil she loved. Living just outside Wilsall Montana, she was a seasoned gardener with an uncanny green thumb. Her modest farm was a array of colors, textures, and aromas—a reflection of the beauty of patience and care. Among her many treasures were the emerald curls of garlic scapes growing triumphantly from her early summer garlic field. To Alexis, they were more than just plants; they were miracles, whispers of hope coiled in green spirals.

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But life, much like the Montana weather, is unpredictable. One brutal winter, Alexis's best friend, her dog named Lassidy, passed away suddenly, leaving her with a grief so vast it seemed to swallow the Big Sky whole.  Even the garlic scapes seemed to grow more slowly that summer, as though mourning alongside her.  

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Lassidy wasn’t just a dog—she was the dog. The kind that wagged her tail so fiercely it could knock over a stack of flowerpots, who knew the rhythm of her owner's laughter better than any melody, and who always seemed to know when someone needed a little extra love. She had a way of filling the farm with joy, her paws leaving faint imprints in the soft Montana soil as she trotted alongside Alexis during the garlic harvest. Lassidy had a knack for finding the plumpest bulbs, pawing at the earth with such determined precision that Alexis often joked, "She’s got farming in her blood."   They had shared everything together—the quiet solitude of Montana sunsets, the buzz of summer cicadas, and the chill of winter mornings when the world was blanketed in white. It was Lassidy’s zest for life that made even the hardest days on the farm bearable.

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​Without Lassidy, the farm felt hollow, as if the very soul of the land had been taken with her. Each row of garlic, each passing day, reminded Alexis of what she had lost—a loyal friend who had turned ordinary moments into magic.

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One day, in early June, Alexis stood in her garlic field, clippers in hand. She gazed at the scapes curling toward the heavens, their green cork screws defying gravity. “Garlic scapes,” she muttered aloud, “nature’s curly green exclamation points. What’s the point now?” She snipped one half-heartedly, her movements mechanical. As she dropped it into the basket, a tear slipped down her cheek, blending with the dew.

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That afternoon, a knock on her door interrupted her solitude. A cute man stood on her porch, holding a small clay pot filled with daisies. His name was Jyree, and he introduced himself as a part-time model for Nike and a wealthy gardner. He’d heard through the grapevine about Alexis’s legendary garlic scape pesto and wanted to learn her secret.

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Alexis was hesitant. She wasn’t ready for company, let alone to teach someone else her craft. But something in Jyree's quiet demeanor reminded her of her lost friend—the way he leaned slightly to the right, as if balancing an invisible weight. Reluctantly, she invited him into her kitchen.

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They spent hours talking about growing garlic, compost, and of course - garlic scapes, their culinary potential, and the peculiar joy of snipping them at just the right moment. “Garlic scapes are nature’s way of telling us not to take life too seriously,” Alexis explained, her tone lightening. “They grow all loopy and wild, like they’re dancing in the field. And when you cut them, it’s like the plant’s saying, ‘Fine, I’ll stop showing off and focus on my roots.’”

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Jyree laughed, a warm, deep sound that filled the room. “So, you’re saying they’re like us?” he said. “Needing a little pruning to grow stronger?” Alexis chuckled despite herself. For the first time in months, she felt a flicker of warmth in her heart.  The two began making garlic scape pesto together, blending the curly green stalks with olive oil, parmesan, and walnuts. As the rich, garlicky aroma filled the kitchen, Alexis felt herself coming back to life.

 

She started selling jars of pesto at the local farmers’ market, and soon her booth became the heart of the community. People came not just for the pesto but for the stories Alexis shared—about resilience, love, and finding joy even in the shadow of loss.

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One day, as she handed a jar of pesto to a young couple who just arrived in Bozeman, Alexis noticed Jyree standing nearby, holding a bouquet of wildflowers. He offered her the flowers with a sheepish grin. “For the garlic queen,” he said. She laughed, tears streaming down her face, not from sadness but from a deep, unexpected happiness.

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By the end of that season, Alexis had learned that grief, like garlic scapes, could be both bitter and sweet. And just as the scapes needed to be snipped to allow the garlic bulbs to grow, she realized she had to let go of her sorrow to make space for new roots.

 

Each jar of pesto she sold was more than a condiment—it was a message of hope, a reminder that even in the darkest soil, life finds a way to flourish.   ​And in the glow of a Montana sunset, with garlic fields stretching out before her,  and Jyree by her side, Alexis felt something she hadn’t in a long time: peace.

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