“But it could work…”

I had discouraged this. (Out of sync). Seeds from a farmer’s market watermelon surely didn’t want to grow sown in August. More than 40 days over 100 degrees in the last weeks when all experts said we were four months too late.

Unless your goal is self-amusement, arguing with children is futile, I hear. So I didn’t argue.

Now, sweet pale blossom, will you fruit?

You could…

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Helping hands

Of the larger variety, as opposed to the “helping” hands of the smaller variety.

I can almost smell how he’ll cook these up for me later.

Coffees.

Yes, plural.

It’s odd. Interesting. Intriguing. Why can’t we, culturally, meet to chat and see, without coffee, booze, or tea?

Work is currently chats and catch ups and introductions. Fascinating. And caffeinating.

Hopefully fruitful.

Sunflower underleaf nests for this beneficial…or pest?

A cool night.

Down to 88° F! I almost need long sleeves. (You think I’m joking…)

I heard on the radio the other day that ~130 days per year here have a heat index over 90° F as the high. Somehow this both surprised me to learn (after 16 years here) as well as soothed me to know. (I did move here for sunshine, after all.)

I ordered a new toy, which I only discovered the name of after 10+ failed attempts at search terms to find it from witnessing one in a video.

And am experimenting… any favored soil blocker receptacles? Or tips for watering them without them crumbling?

Ten cauliflower sowed. Tens more to go.

More than those.

Pollinators aren’t only honey bees. Yes, we need to save the bees. But also these little flyers.

Can you spot them?

I don’t know their name. Nor do I immediately recall if this is quinoa or amaranth, only that it as an impulse grain purchase months ago now.

Months.

A few more months and perhaps my life will shift again. Stories told are being retold and adjusted. Unfolding as they are unearthed. And as such, perhaps the solid harvest shown, that recently appeared to be unraveling, may have been sown in cover crop and sold as orchard.

And perhaps, after these next few months, I’ll find my way away from mixed metaphors. Until then, I’ll dig into reality as often as I can, gulp from sweet sweet iced water in a jar reminiscent of pasta night years hence, and breathe.