Choose your words wisely; they hold the power to craft your reality.
Baby Spinach, south garden, May 21, 2010 —
Baby lettuce, south garden, May 21, 2010 —
Baby mighty oak tree, Acadia’s garden, May 21, 2010 (acorn planted by Kira in April)
Baby tomato, soaking up some front porch sun
Baby eggplant, sunny self on porch —
Baby squash —
Baby rainbow chard, volunteer (self-seeded) in north garden, May 21, 2010
Baby snap pea, May 21, 2010 north garden, from seed April 4 —
Sneaking off the couch and hobbling into the back yard I was rewarded with our very first spring salad —
And then over to the north garden to see how the rhubarb was behaving–
He may have been waving it in the air like he just didn’t care, but I paid him no mind and got right to business. Harvesting time.
The leaves are mildly toxic, and I can’t go near them without gloves or I’ll break out in a rash, but it doesn’t bother the girls one bit. They are of tougher stock.
Even a child can harvest rhubarb. All you do is grasp the stalk, pretty close to the ground, and wiggle it. It will release from the plant with this little slipper attached–
Stalks are ready when they are thick enough (about the diameter of a dime or thicker.) They will range in color from deep pink to light speckled green.
I dice them and freeze them for recipes like my favorite crisp. Inside the color also ranges from a whitish pink to a light green–
Also reporting in: the raspberries have millions of tiny buds, and the strawberries, recently thinned, are sporting tons of flowers.
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?
It’s hard to tiptoe on the tulips when they are slick with snow–
Snow, shmoe, I won’t let it get me down. The weather changes so fast around here that you might not even notice something very fishy going on in the rhubarb patch. What, exactly, is this?
I’ve had this rhubarb for seven summers now and this is the first time I’ve seen it get so, er, excited. Email me stat if you’ve got a reasonable explanation.
With Dave up on the roof battling his nemesis, and me here on the ground with a broken foot and looming cold nights, there was little I could manage in the garden. Still, Mother’s Day means I get my way (kind of) and my request was simple–just pick all the dang dandelions. I know it’s short-sighted but I don’t want to look at them and I’m the mother and it’s my day so just get rid of the things, okay?
And so it was.
And the mother was pleased as she watched the children pick the “wild flowers” and construct a chain of them which they looped round the au natural trellis and they all lived happily ever after.
On to the mundane. I hobbled to and fro to photograph the progress being made between the snowflakes.
The spinach is coming along nicely,
As is the lettuce, which had been written off but is proving tougher than 28 degree nights–
Our itty bitty peach tree even has a couple of promising blossoms–
Mother’s Day had us planting, hesitantly. We’re going to wait a few more weeks for some warmer nights before planting the more fragile stuff, but put in another round of carrots, onions and chard today.
April 12, and our previously perky sprouts have called it quits.
All but that one little guy, who I think is an eggplant. Our over-zealous watering took out not only our nice handwritten signs, but much of our crop as well.
At least the tomatoes are still hanging in there —
Outside things are moving right along. The snap peas are winning. I think it’s their super-cool au natural trellis that keeps them reaching for the stars.
The rhubarb rules–
The garlic is doing great.
I overheard at the garden store that garlic and raspberries are a recommended pairing. Maybe that’s why both these guys are going strong. I love the look of these early raspberry leaves.
It seems I might have had some slight miscalculations when plotting out our square foot garden, and now I can’t be sure if this square is carrots or onions. I had been 99% sure it was carrots, until these sprouts poked through —
They do not look like the frilly tops that I associate with carrots. Any chance they are onions?
March is a pyscho. Never mind the whole lion and lamb thing. It comes in like a fluffy bunny and then just like that turns into a frigid witch and then right back into a kitten. It’s driving me a little batty.
March 6, and our good old Northern corner spot is still snowbound.
We decide to take this party to the sunny side of the street yard.
We had no champagne to break her in, but this is officially the South Garden, future home of lush lettuce and gorgeous salad greens.
March 13, and enough of the snow has melted off the North to allow garlic shoots to push through.
Despite this positive sign, plans move ahead with the South Garden.
The weather is always warm and predictable here in the dining room. Now home to sproutlings to be
Oh Welcome Back March. It’s really so delightful to see your many moods once again. At least the girls are not bothered by the icy side of spring
After the week we’ve had here, I could do with some raindrops on roses or whiskers on kittens, or perhaps a tutti fruity tropical beverage with a pink umbrella on top.
Everything was going along swimmingly.
Our trees, lush and pink and beautiful, burst into bloom right on schedule.
And then it snowed.
Which was fine. I can roll with it. The season doesn’t want to move on, kind of like those guys who are all that in high school but then they stick around too long and go from cool to creepy. The lettuce, however, took issue with the creep.
And hey, wow, where does the time go? Had an entire month really passed without a visit to the ER? That simply won’t do, so off we ran to log some scary time there with our nine year old. Truth be told I’m over this record breaking streak of emergency room visits. Though I think all I need is one punch more in my frequent flier card to be eligible for that free boob job.
Oh yes, and another bone up and broke in my stupid foot. Let’s just say turning 40 and jumping rope don’t exactly go hand in hand.
No worries. I can deal. I mean, the snow did eventually stop falling, and we’ll replant the lettuce as soon as it warms up again. At least no driving means no carpool duty for a whole 3-4 weeks. Someone pass me the bon-bons.
You see, all good. We’ve got hail on tulips instead of raindrops on roses, but I’m not one to complain. After all, I’ve got nephews in overalls,
And girls with red tulips–
Blooms persevering,
And a bustling new business.
Well, these are actually the brains of the operation–
With the snow melting away and mom laid up and out of the way, they decided to embark on an ambitious bug selling venture. If consulted I probably would have pointed out the flaws in their business plan so it’s best that I was left to hobble around unobtrusively.
Good thing too. Out they went, up and down the street with a tupperware o’ bugs, and back they came with 70 cents clutched in their filthy, bug-germy entrepreneurial little hands.
Baths? They don’t need no stinkin’ baths. That stench is merely the smell of success.
I’ve got a bone to pick with a particularly heated humpback whale. Or maybe it’s that mudskipper’s fault. I don’t really know who’s to blame but my first grader has picked up an alarming new habit and she didn’t get it from me.
Maybe it’s the season. Something in the air.
I know I just got through saying that this season was all about jumping rope, but perhaps I was hasty. Even jumprope can’t trump that sense of er, love in the air.
Well, love. Or mating. Something like that.
I’ve got one kid happily engrossed in setting Abba tunes to spinning ropes–
And another who can’t stop talking about mating rituals…yours, mine, the cows, the birds…you name it, we’re discussing it. And it’s all thanks to the incredible imagery in LIFE, the picturesque if slightly randy Discovery Channel documentary.
We were fascinated to learn the extent that some bird fellas will go to lure a pretty lady to his nest. And thrilled, of course, that the kids finally have the down-low on the snuggling habits of cuttlefish.
But what my nine year old really needed to know was this:
So what did you do to attract your mate, Mom?
While I frantically tried to drum up an answer that didn’t include vodka shots or shimmying in dimly lit bars, her little sister stepped forward to field the question for me.
“I know how people attract a mate,” she boasted to her naive sibling. “Booty shaking.”
And her money-maker’s been in motion ever since.
Before you get suckered in by any cute thoughts about this dancing queen, I should confess: This shake-shake routine goes out with a bang. And by bang I mean a slap; a playful slap executed upon her own unexpectedly and abruptly exposed shaking booty.
I am so proud, so proud you see.
Or mortified. I get those two emotions mixed up.
Either way, thanks a bunch, natural world. Sure, you’re educational, but I’m not really on board with the downward direction in which you’re dragging my little darling.