My earliest memories are of gardens, kitchen gardens with herbs and vegetables, flower gardens with sweet-smelling old-fashioned plants. Lily of the valley, bearded iris, night-blooming jasmine, stock and phlox and climbing roses. Everywhere we lived, my mother made a garden. Everywhere I've lived, I've made one too. This vegetable garden's the biggest challenge yet, carved from the same clay earth that May Knight Rindge, queen of the Malibu (and I say that in the most respectful way; if it weren't for May, Malibu would be one big railroad bed) used for her gorgeous Malibu tiles. I'm planting corn and sunflowers, peppers and artichokes, marigolds and pumpkins and watermelon. The bunnies and gophers watch and laugh. They write out shopping lists, plan menus, take bets on how quickly they can decimate my crop. Last year, they succeeded. This year, we're digging a trench, burying chicken wire, making a three-foot fence, wishing the coyotes luck in the hunt and generally hoping for the best.