“Would you count to twenty and then do the same for the next tall plant and the next one?”
“Right here, mama?”
I hope these little bean flowers make food before the heat causes them to keel over.
Not everything out of place is unwanted in its place.
We’ll see if weighing becomes a habit (doubtful) but here are 14 delicious ounces of mostly calima beans.
And the carrots and peas just won’t quit. The sugar snap peas haven’t made it in the house before this week. (Don’t tell the little ones or they’ll disappear before I get a taste.)
With these from feet away and peas in the salad picked moments before, our meal is made.
The beans will be ready for a first pick tomorrow or the next day. The peas will have their last harvest the next day or tomorrow. The tides turn with their speed. The earth spins with hers. The garden moves at its own pace. I’m merely here to watch it turn.
June, the plum tree, has four varieties grafted to her dwarf trunk. This branch has yet to set fruit in the years we’ve had her.
I’d yet to prune her in the years we’ve had her.
This picture was Friday and then DH and I left the little loves at home (with his folks) and set off to a resort up the road a smidge. It was our fifteenth anniversary last week (what!?) and so we celebrated with a night of (awful) sleep, a fine dining (delicious) dinner, and an old favorite action movie playing on cable. It was splendid.
Today, the branch is ensconced in blossoms and I’m hopeful the fruit will set before the next storm unleashes downpour. And I’m hedging my bets we’re done with freezing (last average frost is a week or so away and the ten day forecast looked promising. I put out beans and corn today…)
Or perhaps this branch never fruits precisely because it blooms too soon in the spring and the rains take away any chance.
I didn’t sow any snow peas this year… odd.
They didn’t mind their light blanket so much as their bean neighbors did. A small final harvest, but I marvel at any bean harvest in December.
The volunteer cherry tomato plant weathered the frost, so those will not be the last winter bites of tang.
And skeptical of the forecast, my love harvested the limes. Twenty two in all and when he unwrapped Bill the next day, he was no worse for the wear…including a few incognito limes left hanging.
I do hope the butterflies will return to the lantana. There was a true kaleidoscope of them alight upon the blossoms some days.
Tis the season for growing compost piles, for weeding unwanted seeds from the stockpile, for starting a wishlist for next year and reflecting on the season’s passing.
I think it may be the last year for the raised beds. And I think I’ll help them go. They harbor ants nests I can’t beat back or cajole away. They permit sweet potatoes to bunker under the walls, lessening the harvest and sowing the next generation of ground cover in the same allowance.
But to do so would require remapping the irrigation installed by our predecessors. And that is not in the time budget between now and the early sowings of spring when we’ll try for more peas and beans and carrots and things.
So perhaps another year, I’ll eke out of these tiring lengths, and perhaps next winter we’ll be moving, or the kids will be old enough to require less of my ship’s side to barnacle upon which will both ease and sadden my heart, and also increase the time budget a smidge, methinks. We shall see.
So the beds will rest, the compost will grow, and the caterpillars will continue to feast like royalty upon my cauliflower dreams.