Oh, there you are.

I don’t have half a mind to summarize or surmise the last long-while, but I suppose that bits and pieces will surface if I keep going. If you have half a mind to say hello and let me know your favorite part of today so far, I would smile to read it.

So here I am. And there you are. (I hope you are still with us, a lot has happened for everyone in the last not-so-lot of time.)

I dug more potatoes today. Elba, is their current name. I do wonder at the names of things before the names of things. I should wish I could hear them tell me how they like to be called. If someone we to call me by, say, Angela, I should not like that very much and may do my utmost to thwart whatever efforts they were making with me simply because they couldn’t care to get my name right.

So, Elba, I do apologize if you have an actual name. If you wanted to share it, I would gladly help you spread the word.

But alas, I think I can’t hear you. Not in the way you want. For my harvest is quite soundly thwarted compared to your cousins in neighboring soil. So I shan’t (y’all, let’s bring “shan’t” back, shall we?) be planting you again next year.

A few too many green skins, a much varied sizing. A tall yet flopping nature and I think not a flower to speak of.

Thank you, for your patience as I attempted to cultivate a relationship between you and I. It is, in fact, short-lived, just a season, as they say most relationships are meant to be.

Perhaps my loveliest love will hear your whispers. For while the time and space did not a bumper harvest make, we will still sop you in butter and appreciate your gifts.


Not a boa constrictor.

Oh, gee, it’s nibbling my knee.

Oh, my, it’s up to my thigh.

Oh, fiddle, it’s up to my middle.

Oh, heck… it’s past my neck.

The sweet corn is taller than I am and tasseling.

Is tasseling a verb?

The words are all a-jumble most of the day most days right now. When they arrange into a harmonic pattern, I listen and grab a pencil before the mirage shifts into sands again. Or something. You know. You know?

My youngest and I tested the size of the fingerlings last weekend. Adorable. Another week to this weekend and whatever size they are they’re coming out for Mother’s Day.

And would y’all tell the onions to hurry up? I don’t need the space but now I’m just worried they’ll cook or rot or dehydrate before the tops topple. (Toppling is definitely a verb.)

The popcorn is still shorter. It had a later start. It’s shading carrots and black-eyed peas.

The cherry tomatoes have started, the green beans have had their third harvest and we’re on about an every-other-day harvest there. No squash is making it larger than a pinky. It is pretty shady there… the cucumbers, too.

The Tiger Eye dry beans are setting but the mystery ones aren’t blooming yet.

Did you know you can eat cilantro flowers? They aren’t bitter like the leaves after the bolt. A little citrusy maybe.

I’m rambling. The calendula bloomed again. I’m drying the blossom. Maybe for tea. Along with the stevia, mint, and mullein for tea.

Ok ok. Back to your regularly scheduled scrolling.

“It’s just survival”

“Do you want to get away to the garden for a bit?“

It’s a kind question. An offer. The answer is yes (always, always, always yes.) I extract myself from limbs, ceding my space as headrest, blanket, octopus, to him.

I take the dog, who is missing his ‘brother,’ and am ‘caught’ by the dog catcher for not having him on leash before he attempts to elevate his lead butt into the back of the car. I assure her I have the leash and am simply getting him in the car. She is nonplussed. I don’t actually care.

There’s one other gardener when we arrive. Parked where I park. I park by a different gate.

I hear a drill. A hammer. I gather my remembered things, check my mask, and I see him. His plots are across from one of mine, between my two. He’s constructing a gate.

When it’s time to switch plots and we plod by, I comment on the rabbits. “It’s just survival” he says. I nod, agreeing that everything has a stomach. He chortles.

And we’re done. Back to our attempted solitude, shared.

It begins to rain. I haven’t remembered the right tool to cut the Brussels’ trunks. I go about removing sad leaves and harvesting what’s left. The rain increases. Tucked in a ball, low and small, the Brussels sprouts’ canopy shelters me mostly from the angled drops. I continue.

A whine. A soft, slow not-whimper. I look over. My dog is melting. Trying not to, attempted stoicism, but failure.

I pack up, trek my refuse to the compost bin, and load my grateful pooch into the back, with a leash, but with a running start.

Shifting times.

The obvious, obviously. But also the end of the broccoli, cabbage, and cauli and the start of the beans, squash, and corn.

I hope the Brussels stick around awhile. It’ll depend on the cabbage fly, I imagine.

I forgot when I sowed the potatoes and need to check so I know when to plan their replacements. Anyone remember?

The tunnel behind them is for the melon that still needs to sprout…

I’m not sure why I feel summers here don’t have the varieties winters do. Summers are fine with peppers, tomatoes, sweet potatoes, okra, southern peas, and Malabar spinach. Perhaps it’s the abundance of variety of greens that grow in the winters that feels different.

This mid-season for growing in Central Texas isn’t quite “spring” but will all die off before the dead center of summer. The melons, potatoes, beans, squash, corn, cucumbers, and others will have to run fast to beat the heat and don’t always make it. This is the season I still haven’t learned as intimately as I’d like. The moving target of climate change doesn’t help!

Long you’ve slept.

I’ve been dividing seeds to share. Finding and finding my seeds. I grew these once, (nearly if not) ten years ago.

Testing germination was a first for me. “Sow and see” was more for me. But these are for others. They might be counting on them. So sow and see has a new meaning.

Tiger eye beans are beautiful dried beans that taste akin to pinto. With more depth, as garden-grown food is known to do.

They’re an heirloom, as I try for most of my seeds to be, either officially or simply in age. If you’d like to grow some soup beans, I can’t recommend these enough for flavor, production, and now also I can say longevity of seed vitality. They’re on Seed Savers Exchange.



Too small to see yet are the Red Russian Kale, Lacinto, and carrot sprouts. The spinach is hiding to the right of the post.

Freshly compost mulched and watered: the bigger cabbages, broccoli, Brussels, rutabaga, and some peas not perpetually topped by the rabbits.

It was a glorious weekend and this garden visit capped it off nicely.

On the fence.

Another freeze is expected tomorrow night. High 20s. Do I cover the green beans again?

Last time the got some burn. They are flowering now. They’ll likely burn, covered, again. And need a bit of time to try and fruit, again.

I got called a softy, again, today. He wasn’t wrong 😉

So I’ll likely cover them, again. And hope, again, for a long enough stretch of warm sunshine for a green bean bite, or three.

At least until the onions arrive and the brassicae transplants demand more space and the green beans surrender.