Heatwave stress: how to keep your kitchen garden alive at 40°C

It started with a drop of sweat. Not on my forehead — on a basil leaf. That’s when I knew: we were heading for trouble. How do you help your kitchen garden survive the heat?

In my previous story, I shared how my first balcony harvest taught me to slow down, observe, and marvel. It was a meditative experience, crowned with a plate of pasta fresca. But while I was still romantically musing about nature’s gentle rhythm, I’ve since learned that nature in Andalusia can also be utterly ruthless — especially in June, when the thermometer soars past 40°C and even the cacti seem to take the day off.

Plant panic on the finca

I remember it well: at the end of May, my microhuerto still looked healthy. The tomatoes were in the prime of their lives, the basil stood tall, the rosemary held its ground. Then June arrived. And with it, the sun. Not the friendly, Mediterranean sun that invites you to sit down with a glass of wine — no, this was the stubborn uncle at a family gathering: loud, relentless, and absolutely everywhere at once.

The first to give in? Basil. Always a bit dramatic. It went from proud to pitifully wilted in just two days. The rocket wasn’t far behind. My tomatoes held on bravely, though they started showing suspiciously blotchy patches. Sunburn, I assume.

Watering without waterboarding

In my enthusiasm, I started watering in the afternoons. Generously, even lavishly. Because—thirst, right?
Wrong. Plants don’t drink during siesta. They simmer. And adding water only makes it worse, like trying to put out a pot of boiling pasta with a garden hose. The golden rule: water early in the morning, or just after sunset. Not when you’re already thinking, “I wish I lived in the fridge.”

Since then, I head out to the finca at 6:30 in the morning, watering can in hand. The neighbours probably think I’ve taken up sunrise yoga.

Creative heat hacks

I’ve since rigged up a shade cloth. Nothing fancy — just an old beach towel clipped in place with clothespins. I’ve also started filling old bottles with water and turning them upside down into the pots. The water drips out slowly, like an IV drip for heat-exhausted plants.

In emergencies, I even give the plants their own siesta: I move them under a shaded awning and drape wet towels over the pots. It looks like a makeshift field hospital. But hey, 41 degrees will do that to you.

Climate gap between friends

I called Wouter, who—as usual—remained cool in his Costa Blanca kitchen. “Here, the parsley grows on its own,” he said. “In the cracks between the tiles.” Yes, it’s warm there too, but with the shade from his olive trees and the sea breeze, his kitchen garden barely knows what real heat is.

I nodded while brewing chamomile tea from what used to be rocket. Even my plants are trying to calm down around here.

What plants taught me about heat and survival

Plants aren’t built for haste — but they’re not made for passive surrender either. They need structure, rhythm, protection. And someone who waters them on time, without making a scene. Basically, they’re like people. The only difference is plants don’t complain on Instagram.

What did I learn? Heat makes you resourceful in your kitchen garden. It teaches you, even when everything wilts, how to keep caring. For your greens. And for yourself.

This week’s final takeaway?

As long as you don’t collapse before your basil does, you’re on the right track.

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