Saving Seeds

By Ann Asher

The first time I saved seeds, it felt a little like cheating.

After spending all spring and summer buying plants, watering them, pulling weeds and hoping they survived Oklahoma’s heat, it occurred to me that nature had figured this out long before seed catalogs showed up in my mailbox.

Every tomato, pepper, bean and flower in my garden was trying to make next year’s garden on its own.

Somewhere along the way, I had forgotten that.

Like many gardeners, I had always bought fresh seed packets every spring. Nothing is wrong with that. Seed companies offer incredible varieties bred for everything from disease resistance to better production. But once I began learning about saving seeds, I found something satisfying about planting seeds from vegetables I grew myself.

I also learned that not every seed is created equal.

One of the first lessons was the difference between heirloom and hybrid varieties. People often use the terms interchangeably, but they mean different things.

Heirloom plants are open-pollinated varieties passed from generation to generation, often for 50 years or more. Because they reproduce “true to type,” the seeds you save from a healthy heirloom tomato should produce plants very similar to the parent the following year, as long as they haven’t cross-pollinated with another variety.

Plant breeders create hybrid plants by crossing two carefully selected parent plants to combine desirable traits, such as better disease resistance, higher yields or improved vigor. Those qualities make hybrids wonderful garden plants, but their seeds don’t reliably grow into the same plant the following season. You might get something similar, or you might get a surprise.

Neither type is better than the other. Each serves a different purpose.

As a beginner, I found seed saving much easier than I expected.

Beans do most of the work for you. Leave a few pods on the vine until they dry completely, shell them, and the seeds are ready to store. Peppers are almost as simple. Once the fruit is fully ripe, remove the seeds, spread them out to dry for several days and store them in a cool, dry place.

Tomatoes sounded intimidating until I tried them. A gelatinous coating surrounds the seeds and keeps them from sprouting inside the fruit. To remove that coating, you usually let the seeds ferment in a little water for a couple of days, then rinse and dry them. It sounds more complicated than it is, and once you’ve done it, you’ll wonder why you waited so long.

Flowers have become one of my favorite places to experiment. Watching seed heads dry on coneflowers, zinnias, marigolds and sunflowers reminds me that every bloom is already preparing for another season. Instead of cutting everything down the moment it finishes flowering, I’ve started paying attention to what comes afterward.

I’ve also learned that patience matters.

Seeds need to be fully mature before you collect them and completely dry before you store them. Otherwise, moisture invites mold and can ruin months of work. A paper envelope labeled with the variety and the year often works better than an airtight plastic bag, especially until the seeds have finished drying.

The biggest surprise has been how seed saving changed the way I look at gardening.

I used to see the end of the growing season as the finish line. Now I see it as the start of the next one. Every healthy plant is a potential source for next year’s garden, and even the vegetables I once hurried to pull out have one last job to do.

Will I still order seeds every winter? Absolutely.

There are too many interesting varieties to stop exploring, and I’ll probably always have room in the garden for something new. But I’ll also be opening a small box of envelopes from this year’s harvest, each one a reminder that a garden can last longer than a single season.

Sometimes, if we let it, the garden grows itself right into the next year. I have to admit, that’s pretty rewarding.