From balcony to table: my first harvest (and what happened next)

June has something magical about it. Everything grows, blooms, bursts with life. Except my courgettes. But we’ll get to that.

Back in March, I wrote—full of hope—about my microhuerto on the balcony of my finca. A few pots, some bags of organic soil, and seeds I wasn’t entirely convinced would become more than decorative optimism. The Spanish sun gave it her all, the rain did next to nothing, and I… well, I occasionally forgot to water. Pequeño detalle.

But this month, it finally happened: my first harvest from balcony. Small, chaotic, and—if I’m honest—rather symbolic of my general approach. But hey, something grew. And that’s worth celebrating.

The first signs of life (and doubt)

In early April, the first green shoots appeared. I felt like a proud dad at a school photo day. Tomato, basil, and even a few brave little rocket leaves poked their heads up. My courgettes were ambitious from the get-go. Too ambitious. They shot up like teenagers on a growth spurt—only to keel over like tipsy tourists, lacking any kind of structural support.

The peppers? Let’s just say they seemed more interested in a contemplative life than a productive one. But hey, everyone moves at their own pace, right?

The big moment: harvest time

By the end of May, it finally happened. My first actual harvest. A modest handful of cherry tomatoes, two sprigs of basil, and something that once aspired to be a courgette but ended up looking more like a failed cucumber. The scent of the basil was divine—intense, herby, like walking through a Neapolitan market with your eyes closed.

And the feeling? Priceless. Not because of the sheer volume of my first harvest, but because they were my tomatoes, from my little balcony. Sown by me, forgotten by me, and yet… there they were.

From harvest to plate (and mild kitchen panic)

I decided to honour the harvest with a simple dinner. With the help of my good friend Wouter (you know, the food writer with a borderline obsessive relationship with olive oil), I put together a pasta fresca using my basil and tomatoes. The result? A dish that was simple, yet sang with freshness. Like tasting sunshine. Whether that was down to the harvest or the white wine we had with it—I’ll leave that open to interpretation.

I did consider frying the courgette, but in the end decided to return her ceremoniously to the earth. Sometimes, letting go is also a form of love.

Reflections among the plants

What struck me most wasn’t the harvest itself, but the process. Watching life emerge, learning through failure, falling into the daily rhythm of checking, smelling, feeling. In a world obsessed with speed and efficiency, growing your own vegetables feels almost rebelliously slow. And that, oddly enough, is what makes it so valuable.

What I learned (and still haven’t figured out)

I learned that plants are a lot like people: they grow at their own pace, make odd demands, and can be inexplicably dramatic. But I also learned that nothing tastes better than something you’ve watched grow with your own eyes. Even if it’s just three cherry tomatoes and a single basil leaf.

Would I do it again? Absolutely. But next time with a better plan, sturdier support sticks, and a little less faith in courgettes.

Got a balcony, windowsill or terrace? Just start. Don’t expect miracles from that first harvest from your balcony—but do expect a bit of wonder.

Buen provecho.

This story is part of our June special: The Month of the Kitchen Garden. Discover how we sow, harvest, cook, and celebrate — Costa style.