A Greener Biener

The Greener Biener Takes A Break

I’ll miss you dear readers,

It’s for you that I write

But the call of the wild (that is, my backyard)

Is too strong to fight

Schools out for summer

I’ve cut back on house cleaning

Yet my time packs right up

With picnic-making and sun-screening

And there are weeds that need weeding

And ice cream to eat

And bikes that need riding

And filthy bare-feet

The children are clamoring

Long forgotten is school

They run through the sprinklers

And jump in the pool

Between following the kiddos

And watering the plants

When it comes time for typing

I’m finding…I can’t

But I’ll be back soon

With stories for sowing

‘Til then, Happy Summer

And to all some good growing

**** As always, thanks for reading.  The Greener Biener is taking a sabbatical, but I’ll be adding garden updates from time to time to chronicle the progress of our home-grown veggies.

Hope to see you again in the fall.

I’m sure you’d agree that it takes some serious mama skills to hit the bottom of the peanut butter jar on the very last day of school.

Timing is everything.

The kids wondered why I was chronicling my morning sandwich making.  They should have been wondering how their strawberries were going to taste doused in a thick layer of my tears.

I was teary-eyed because although my timing peanut-butter-wise has proven impeccable, I have yet to figure out how to halt the ridiculous sprint of time that puts my babies into this space aged time capsule –

and spits them back to me as a 2nd and 4th graders.  I am not ready.   I practically just graduated from high school myself.  It’s simply not possible that I am old enough to have such big kids.

As if to prove the calendar right, the girls went and sealed the deal–

Kira donated 8 1.2 inches of her long flowing locks, transforming herself from this young innocent,

Into this sassy thing

One look at her sister’s cool new look was more than enough, and soon Acadia was hopping up into that chair.

Time keeps on ticking into the future, and those dang seasons, they keep going round and round and I swear there is just one thing that is keeping me from singing folk tunes as I sob into my coffee and that’s this –

Flax. Flax makes me happy.  The color is so deep and purple blue that it can actually hold back the hands of time and freeze my babies at this absolutely delightful stage.

Flowers have loads of medicinal qualities.  Time manipulation is merely one of many.

Me?  Not so leggy.

Even before I had one appendage masquerading in this 71,520 pound storm-trooper suit I was not what you might considered leggy.

Unleggy and unsuspecting, I simply picked out a pretty, ambitious sprout from the $1 bin at last summer’s farmers market.  I put it in a pot, and it went wild–

It’s growing like it’s going out of style, and my father, currently studying to become a master gardener, called my baby leggy.

He never called me leggy.  Nobody ever called me leggy.

In all fairness, my father did not mistake my plant for a tall blond;  he simply meant that my plant was growing too long and lean for its own good, and could do with a little trim.

Sounded good to me.  I’ve always been a fan of the short and stout myself.

I grabbed the scissors, but as I headed over to the window to work out my long leg lust to give the plants a taste of my sharp shears, I noticed this–

Long legs, gorgeous red coloring, and now a dainty purple flower on top.  Of course.  Why not.  She’s probably smart with a great personality too.

(Note Number One: although sitting on the couch with my foot up is all that and a bag of chips, I have a confession: I snuck out.  I had to.  The garden was beckoning; click here to see what it had to say.)

(Note Number Two…something completely different…) I made this cake yesterday–

Because sometimes you just have to bake with marshmallows shmeared black and totally not-organic blue food coloring.   Like when you gather with a bunch of your similarly minded geeked-out friends to say good-bye to a TV show.  Lost is no more.

Good-bye smoke monster.

Good-bye mystery island with polar bears and time travel.

Good bye hotties trooping through the jungle in search of answers.

Hello Chocolate Cake.

I’ve got girls, so it’s not too surprising that I’d be confounded by the abject masculinity surrounding me these days.  Still, I figured that having five nephews kind of qualified me to manage males.

The message I’m getting from the universe: think otherwise.

Take, for example, my rhubarb.  Up until recently it was such a well behaved plant.  And then he pulled his thing out, right there in the middle of my family-friendly garden.

I told him to put it away. He upped the ant, and went all Rhubarb-Gone-Wild on me –

And the phallus phenomena is spreading.  All I wanted to do was prepare some locally raised organic chicken for dinner.  I’m no prude, yet something about this boasting roaster gave me pause. I can only imagine how he ruled the coop.

I hoped my nephews would help me out.  Surely my own little panel of experts had some insight into males running amok in the natural world.

It’s not pretty, but I will share what I learned.  My source is one of the following fellows:

To protect the innocent I won’t divulge if it was this guy:

Or this guy–

Or this guy –

Or this guy–

Or this one –

But I well tell you that the tidbit said nephew shared did shed some light on the wild bachelors and their love of living it up in the great outdoors:

Nephew:  Oh no Aunt Daphne. You don’t have to use the bathroom.  Do you know why?

Me (kind of hopping up and down): Why?

Nephew:  At my house we get to pee outside.  In the backyard.

Me:  Um…

Nephew:  That’s why my house is lots more fun.  Because boys really like to pee outside.  Want to go outside now?

Me: Um…

I don’t have much to say about boys and their aversion to indoor plumbing, but I do know what I’m going to do about that rambunctious rhubarb.

And it has everything to do with raspberry crisp.

Golly gee, I wonder what on earth could be making me feel so droopy?  Could it possibly be this–

You might not recognize that shiny metal thing, but that’s what I was going to use to help these guys along–

Oh my sweet sweet snap peas.  Hang in there.  You too, my poor brave blossoms.  Confidently you woke to greet May 12th, and harshly you got slapped down by Mama Nature.  She’s sure been in a foul mood lately.

But hey, it’s okay.  I have found my happy place.  It’s right here, with John Denver, his Garden Song and the Muppet veggie singers.

What is our caped crusader up to this time?

I’ll give you a hint:  There are no wabbits on that rooftop.  But he is after something….

I know.  All super-hereos have their kryptonite, why should mine be any different?

He has a nemesis–

Do not be fooled by the banal laugh and bright feathers.  This evil bird haunts us;  every spring, sure as the unwanted snows cover the tulips,  woodpecker arrives on our roof in the pre-dawn hours to pound away like a jack-hammer on acid in hopes of attracting a mate.

He must go.  The squirrels and the robins are our friends.  But this early morning wake up call simply won’t do.

We’ve discussed my husband’s single minded dedication to triumph over the woodpecker here before.  He’s out to get that bird.  And I am totally on board.  If I were any more supportive I’d be a bra.

It’s just that there is already a pretty impressive arsenal awaiting our fine feathered friend.  Our roof currently sports a large mirror, a duct-taped reinforced line of nails, and now this –

Yup.  It’s patriotic. It’s plastic.  It spins in the wind.   And our house is officially that house.  Sorry, neighbors.  And here you were so supportive of the whole bug-selling venture.

Meanwhile, down here on the ground–

That snow was so 2 days ago.  This weekend Mother’s Day brought sunshine and daisy-chains.  Head over to Digging in the Dirt to see The World’s Longest Dandelion Chain and other garden updates.

Spoiler alert — you’ll find this Gardener’s Challenge.  Tell me, please, what on earth has gotten my rhubarb so excited?