Purple is as purple does.

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Try and try again.

It hasn’t been the year for squash. Last year, The Year of the Squash, I almost nearly tired of them. Almost. Nearly. But not even close. 

A few grey zucchini in the spring. Ten crook neck plants picked up by my love at the local feed store. They try. They try to live, they try to die, they try to bloom, and finally, they try to almost nearly set fruit. 

And then they don’t.

She blooms

Each day, closer. Inching less than inches, but progressing all the same. 


Suddenly, she’s there. Another switch flipped and it’s time. Finally, it’s time. Too soon, it’s time. It’s always time.

With love.

Picked wild and free on the hillsides I roamed as a child, packed, and shipped with love.

Measured, poured, spilled, and felt by tiny hands full of curiosity and mixed with love.

Poked, commented upon, and laughed at, with love.

Mixed, rolled, filled, and baked with love.

Eaten with gusto, feeling the love.