I’d always saved the plastic pots and trays from purchased transplants.
Save them. Wash them. Scrub them. Rinse them. Sanitize them. Dry them. Fill them. Sow them.
Then they’d break.
Recycle bin. And hope. Hope they’d actually be recycled.
I put the brakes on all that.
A local coffee roaster offering up free jute bags. Weed control? Paths to walk? Compost layers?
Oh, the possibilities.
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.
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.
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.
A bumble by a neighbor’s vine.
A wild sunflower lends a trunk.
Okra reaching for the sky.
Twisted and curled, poised to launch. Crafted and careful, compressed.
Toppled and rolled and crunched
Buddha is happy to remind traipsing bipeds of the budding asparagus.
Their first night in the ground always leaves me apprehensive. Lone beacons of fresh greens in an open plain. The earth is awakening and there are empty bellies roaming.
Their pot homes become cloches. Their new beds make up an anchor for their hats. Sleep well, little starts.
Until the morning…
Now where to plant the 18 or so tomatoes still in pots…