Flu is such a short word. Flu. Small. Simple.
Influenza sounding more flora. More weighty. Simply more.
I’m not sure I’ve ever been so under the weather. I lost days to it before losing track of what day it was.
The rain timed itself as keenly as it can this time of year.
Which did nothing to mature the palates of my pests from pea shoots and brassicae greens toward henbit or this star-shaped mystery.
Perhaps next year.
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.
Rainbows have hit a new level of glory in our home.
First we had the usual childhood awe, fascination, and adoration of them. Like you do.
Then June came round and for some unknown (to me) reason, this was the year in which much of corporate America felt free, finally, to celebrate Pride month. This added to the rainbow fandom in my house and lead to heartening conversations. When asked by a wee one why there were suddenly rainbows everywhere, I found the answer coming from my mouth before trying to find age-appropriate words: people have decided that rainbows are a way to celebrate love – and that love between any person and any other person is worth being happy about.
From the mouths of babes: then why aren’t there this many rainbows every day? I want to open a year round shop called, “Every Rainbow Every Day” because every love is ok every day.
And so in our house, we celebrate rainbows every day, in every way. Last night’s rainbow?
Yellow pear tomatoes, sun gold tomatoes, black cherry tomatoes, and pink Arkansas traveler tomatoes from the garden with a white onion and green cilantro.
I remember worrying about tidy rows. Organized rotations. The choreography of organic vegetable gardening.
I know, now, that milkweed and potatoes can be friends with a volunteer squash sidling up.
Or that an asparagus crown doesn’t mind a four-year-old beet over its head with a pin cushion to the side and lettuce and onions all down the bed.
One more week and the garden isn’t mine. I picked a lot of carrots today.
I am crossing my fingers the seeds from the brassicae will be ready by Monday. I will gather them however they are and find out in a few months if they were ready.
I need to research asparagus crowns. Mine started as seeds in the laundry room years ago and I don’t want to upset them through my ignorance during their removal and transport.
Anyone remember when I planted the potatoes, by chance? I think, sadly, they still have a month to go but perhaps you know differently.
I doubt the onions will bulb, but they’ll green.
I doubt the Spinach will cover, but it’ll sprout.
I doubt the radish will reach giant sizes, but they’ll lend pops of pink to the world for a short bright while.
My thumb is split and splitting more yet. My nails peel and my scalp hurts. My heart is sore, my mind spins, and old fearful aches returned home to roost.
And so I look to others to bloom.
Nasturtiums calling hello.
Volunteer mystery squash shining through.
Snow peas’ purple greeting.
Snap peas white nod has passed.
Red potatoes without red petals.
Blackberries without black blossoms.
A mess of friends of all ilk.
I’ll see if I can’t tend my soil a little more. If I can’t feed my roots a little extra. If I can’t water my leaves a little softer. I’ll see tomorrow.