I’d yet to see a caterpillar on an onion. First time for everything and to each their own, I suppose.
A quick visit to the garden for greens and rabbit-proof-fence checks with the kids.
A silent passerby in work boots and community shirt.
A dirt pile mountain to climb and a successfully stable barrier.
A friendly, yet reserved, hello.
“If you like onions, I pulled a ton out of a bed I was clearing for a new owner. They’re in the bin.”
– We have a good number already but I won’t argue with more onions.
“They’re right here. These will grow, right? They look like the dried up ones you can buy at (big box store) and they aren’t dry. They’ll be ok for people how I laid them out?”
– *inhales deeply, enjoying fresh onion green smells* They will grow just fine. They might not bulb, or they might, but they’re definitely happy to be green onions.
“Ok, good! I already put some in the plot by the workshop but there were just so many I didn’t want to go to waste so I laid them out nicely, a whole wheel barrow full!, so others could gather as they wanted.”
– They look great and are easy to retrieve and use – thank you for telling me and taking care of them.
After I picked out a few bundles for me, my in-laws, and a friend, and two days passed, I took a picture of how many were still left.
I also saved some chard because beautiful deliciousness.
I’m familiar with foraging but this was my first encounter with foraging plants from a compost heap.
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.