There was a king.  A queen.  A couple of princesses.  It was quite an ordinary family. They were content; not much happened in their little kingdom.

Then one day funny things did start to happen.

Funny, unexpected things that were not really the ha-ha kind of funny but more of the surreal funny of old-fashioned fairy tales.

The king, a rugged, tough guy sort of king, ignored a nagging pain in his side.  And wound up spending his magical summer in the hospital.

The brave queen soldiered on.

And then the princesses began acting funny.  They slept-walked into dangerous unknowns, narrowly escaping swirling attic fans and plunges.  They threw up.  They fainted.  Their fair coach failed to complete the trip home.

And yet despite grave doubts, the magical summer did end.  Happily-ever-after returned to enchanted suburbia.  And the brave queen soldiered on.

And then one day in the palace kitchen . . .

Princess number 2 skipped happily along, successfully navigating the stairs and turning the corner into the kitchen, for she wanted to know what was being prepared for dinner.  The Queen was there, chopping veggies; she was unaware of the terror lurking just feet from her precious princess.

The princess threw her hands up and started to scream.  And when I say she started to scream I mean SCREAM SCREAM SCREAM as in the horror industry was on the phone immediately trying to sign up such splendid vocal chords.

Her pointed finger shaking, she screamed on.  And when the queen followed the wiggling digit she saw, not 2 feet from the warm kitchen with the chopped vegetables and the screaming princess, a bear.

A BIG BEAR.

A BIG BLACK BEAR staring my shrieking princess in the eye.

A big black bear standing on the welcome mat inches outside our patio doors as if he had just taken the burgers from the grill and was merely waiting for the princess to lend him a hand in opening the door.

And then he loped away, pausing once for a slow backward glance.  He sauntered into our garden where he found our berries covered in snow, and with a cat-like grace leapt 6 feet to the top of the fence, strolled a bit up top, and disappeared into the afternoon sun.

And the brave queen?  She’s kind of at a loss here.

Not a chicken:

Hang tight. We have just about reached the end of my knowledge about chickens.

They have beady little eyes.

The color of the eggs they lay is directly linked to the color of their earlobes.  Impressive sounding, right?  At least until you get to the obvious follow-up question.

So no, I do not know how one locates a chicken earlobe.

I also do not know how the eggs decide who will go on to become a big chick and who joins us for breakfast.

Nor do I understand what drove the children to spend copious amounts of time passing weeds into the coop.

Perhaps it had to do with the pathetic state of farm strawberries this year.  Hail damaged and dusty, we picked barely enough to squeak out 4 jars of jam  Hardly enough to get us through the summer, let alone the school year, but I am not concerned in the slightest.

Who needs cowboy-hick-farmland berries anyway?

Not us.

We are partial to their beautifully bountiful backyard suburban cousins.

]]> http://www.greenerbiener.com/2011/06/what-i-dont-know-about-chickens/feed/ 6 http://www.greenerbiener.com/2011/05/blame-it-on-the-rain-that-keeps-fallin-fallin/ http://www.greenerbiener.com/2011/05/blame-it-on-the-rain-that-keeps-fallin-fallin/#comments Wed, 25 May 2011 14:47:32 +0000 daphne http://www.greenerbiener.com/?p=4742 Ahhhh.  Hello my beautiful sunny iris.

If you squint just right it don’t you think it almost looks like that smoking hot orb that used to hang in the sky above this fair land?

Forgive me the sarcasm.

It’s not as if I’m one of those cheery sunshiny types.  I don’t need the sun to make me smile.  I like dreary rainy days that dispense permission to lounge in sweatpants with each thirst-quenching drop.

But enough is enough. I’m getting kind of cranky.

Maybe that has something to do with swim team practices in the cold rain and my inability to differentiate between a character-building, commitment-keeping lesson and being a mean parent.

But never mind a couple of wet, whiny kids, we’ve got strawberries bursting out of their patch–

My favorite flower flax is flexing its, um, floral-ness

And speaking of things that are taking delight in this everlasting deluge, there’s this, er, thing

This unidentified random weed that I neglected and it grew and grew and just when it started towering over me and hungrily licking its chops it burst into lovely light pink blossoms and now it’s not that scary anymore. In fact, I’m renaming it ‘flowering bush’ and inviting it to stay.

This is the garden.

Unfortunately, that big bare spot to the south represents the broccoli, pepper and eggplant sprouts that, like my shivering swimmers, proved not to be fans of icy rain.   But it’s okay, because I’m sure these guys will fit in just fine–

They look so hearty and tough.

And I’ll just bet they don’t complain to their mother even though she’s hardly the one who voluntarily begged to be signed up to swim.

Outside.

In Colorado.

In stupid old unpredictable May.

]]> http://www.greenerbiener.com/2011/05/blame-it-on-the-rain-that-keeps-fallin-fallin/feed/ 5 http://www.greenerbiener.com/2010/05/hes-huntin-wabbits/ http://www.greenerbiener.com/2010/05/hes-huntin-wabbits/#comments Mon, 10 May 2010 14:17:15 +0000 daphne http://www.greenerbiener.com/?p=3918 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?

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.

Pledge-smedge, bring it on.

We eat in all the time anyway and what a perfect excuse to try out new recipes and yippee for family cohesion and what? What’s that you say? It’s this week? Oh no that simply won’t do.  This is the week of my 40th birthday and I’ve got visitors in town and lunch dates and hey, BACK OFF!  I’m pretty sure that everyone out there in pledgeville would agree that no one should have to cook dinner on her 40th birthday.

How about this?  I’ll gladly pledge you Tuesday for a birthday dinner today?  Just this week, that’s all I’m asking and then I promise I will cook at home from here to eternity.

I can say this with conviction, because based on my incredible haul of birthday loot I know that there is an awful lot of cooking in my future.

It’s awesome, isn’t it? My gorgeous cherry red Kitchen-Aid surrounded by the best books in the biz. I can’t wait to start flinging flour.

Rest assured I am going to spend hours gleaming expert advice from these legendary cookbooks.  I will create masterpieces that will have eaters in tears.  Already I have visions of Crepes Suzette dancing in my delusional head.

But I have to tell you, despite thousands of pages of beautifully detailed recipes, the advice that captured my loins attention came not from a renowned book nor from a celebrity chef.

No, one voice stood out from the crowd.  His beautiful, naked request really spoke to me.  Grabbed me in that visceral sort of way. (Visceral sort of way = passionately around the waist as the sun set over the waving wheat and he easily hoisted me up onto the saddle and steadied me with one bronzed arm as he steered the steed towards the nearest haystack.)

Now that I am older and wiser I understand why, as some women age, they seek to make changes.  Some take up knitting.  Some go blond.

In honor of my 40th birthday I have officially changed my name.

Call me Biscuit.

Well, something has changed, but maybe it’s not the kids.  Maybe it’s what we’re putting into kids today that is so remarkably different.

I thought I was aware.  I thought I was doing a pretty good job with this whole food thing.  But this weekend I saw the movie Food Inc, and once again my eyes have been forcibly opened.  If you think the truth was inconvenient, you’re not going to be happy when you take a look at what’s going on with food these days.  This is not about your sweet tooth.  This has nothing to do with cutting out the fat.  The very food we eat, the food we feed to our children, has become little more than chemically and politically engineered calories.

Our bodies are not happy about that change.  Our bodies are staging a revolt.  So should we.

I know. It’s not fun, and I’m sorry.  But we need to pay closer attention to the story of our food.  The story, in short, goes something like this–

In 1994 we started engineering neurotoxins into our food supply.  The rise and acceptance of genetically modified crops and uber-processed food-like items corresponds quite neatly with the bizarre health trends that we’re noticing in our children and their friends.

As of the year 2000, 1 in 3 of our children will develop asthma, ADHD, serious food allergies, or autism.  Our cancer rates are considerably higher than all other developed countries. A person’s risk increases by 4x just by moving to the United States.

That is crazy. And terrifying.  And totally unacceptable.

It’s one thing to go overboard every now and then.  We all do it, eat junk and then negotiate with ourselves for a longer jog, a salad for dinner.  And that balancing act used to be enough.  But these new-fangled calories are different. The damage they do cannot be worked out in the gym.  Our children are not lazy; their bodies simply have no idea what to do with the junk that we shovel into them in the name of convenience.

The more refined or processed a food item is, the further away from it’s natural state a snack gets, the less our bodies are able to deal with it without getting sick. Really, really sick.

We don’t even know what we’re eating anymore, but I know this: we need to go back to eating food.  Real food with real ingredients.

It may seem inconvenient; then again, so do seatbelts and helmets.

Rules to Eat By:

• Eat real food; that is, food that our grandparents would instantly recognize.
• Eat food as close to it’s natural state as possible.
• Read labels. If you can’t pronounce it or define it, don’t eat it.
• If you’re eating meat, know where it comes from.   Cows haven’t evolved to eat corn, organic or otherwise.  It makes them sick.  Healthy cows eat grass. Healthy people eat healthy cows.
• An average fast food burger contains DNA from hundreds or even thousands of different animals.  Even if those animals aren’t sick, it is gross, and dangerous.

*****************************************

Wow, that’s sure a lot of proselytizing. So where have I gotten all my information?  Here–

Books I think are terrific:

• Barbara Kingsolver, Animal Vegetable Miracle
• Michael Pollan, Omnivores Dilemma
• Michael Pollan, In Defense of Food

Movies that tell the story (both are available from Netflix.)

• King Corn – 2 guys plant 1 acre and follow it through the system and into our food;
• Food Inc — great summary of the issues, including the politics of the food system;

Oh yeah. It’s hot.

Thing is, much as I may covet a good old fashioned roll in the hay, I never have, actually, rolled in the hay.  And given my current circumstances I probably never will (though if I can get my hands on a hat, Halloween is looking promising.)  While I am ensconced in my life here in the suburbs,  I’ll just bet that somewhere out there someone is rolling in actual hay with an actual cowboy.  So to that lucky lady I must ask:

Doesn’t the hay make your boobs itch?

You see, recently I had the good fortune of experiencing hay in my bra, not from a wild romping in the barn with this guy,

but from the stomping about at Monroe Farm during harvest day, picking basil and carrots and pumpkins and strawberries.   Here, the carrots pose artistically, fresh from the earth–

And the sweet children, with the largest pumpkins they could find upon hearing that said pumpkins would have to be hand carried twenty-seven miles, uphill, in the snow, to the car.

You’d never know it from the handful of fresh strawberries and my cowgirl-ish good looks and cheerful smile–

but trust me, already the hay had worked its way in. And I was one heck of an itchy cowgirl.

I never would have guessed it, but it turns out that hay in the bra can make one feel a tad cranky.  That being said rules are rules; they may seem unfair, they may be difficult to understand, it may even appear to some as though they were made up on the spot out of poking discomfort but I assure you that on the farm rules are made to be followed, and that has nothing whatsoever to do with itchy lady parts.

Take for example this gem that came screeching out of my mouth towards the end of a delightfully long day:

NO! I said no and if you pick up one more grasshopper I will take it and saute it and call it dinner. Do not touch your sister’s grasshopper!  NOT one more grasshopper AND I MEAN IT!

If you think I’m crazy, that’s ok.  City slickers don’t know what it’s really like down on the farm.  Besides, I was just looking out for this guy

Poor Jiminy, he’d already lost his jaunty top hat and cane and I could barely make out the words to his exuberant show tunes.

With the grasshoppers set free and the time for liberating hay from it’s hiding place drawing near, it is time once again for a gratuitous picture of a cow. Those of you who have been around a while know that prior to my infatuation with cowboys, I had a thing for cows.  I’ve even been know to throw in a gratuitous picture of a cow, or two here at the Greener Biener.  It’s been a while, so here you go, one gratuitous picture of a cow

What?  You’ve got a problem with my picture of Bessie?  Perhaps you think you could do better chasing down a wild cow for a photo session with hay in your bra?  (If so, send me your successful picture and I’ll post it on the site, no jealousy, no hard feelings. I promise.)

Oops, that’s not my birthday baby.  Here she is.

Lest there be any confusion, her name is Acadia, not Lorax.  But boy oh boy does she speak for the trees.  If by speaking for the trees you mean throwing down on the lawn and kicking and screaming in protest of a few defenseless branches.

Sweet Acadia.  She doesn’t always manage the birthday with a smile.

Even the Mardi Gras beads didn’t make up for her extreme displeasure over my choice of birthday restraint back in her earlier fling-self-from-rooftops days.

Last weekend we moved some things around in the yard, in preparation for the big backyard birthday blow-out.  We are also weighing options for a still-hypothetical garden relocation project.  Maybe, just maybe the soil on the sunnier side favors the production of girl flowers?

In the heat of the preparations a large plastic climbing object was moved across the yard.  A couple of overhanging branches were cut to make room for playtimes free of eye-pokes.  A couple of branches.  Cut a couple of inches.

The planet patrol lost all control.  Her face turned red with rage.  She stomped her feet.  She clenched her fists. She announced that she WOULD NOT STAND HERE ONE MORE MINUTE AND WATCH US KILL THE TREES.  Then my dear little Lorax flung herself on the ground and cried her heart out.

Eventually the heart-heaving sobs quieted, but she continued to mope around, forlorn, staring at the mistreated grass and communing with the flowers that somehow had the misfortune to fall under the evil reign of her own parents.

Sweet sensitive soul. In her haste to castigate us she overlooked the fact that she claims as parents two of the biggest tree hugging hippies one could find.  Never mind that we committed to diligently recycle and compost and carry reusable bags.  No sound arguments would make it through whilst the sap on her friends’ wounds still oozed fresh.

We appeased her by letting her plant flowers, however many and wherever she thought best. It turned out the flowers felt they should be randomly scattered strategically placed in beds all over the lawn.

And with that the Lorax was back in business. She grabbed hold of that big old shovel and set right to work restoring balance to the planet.

She set sister Kira to task too.

While the irises were busy contemplating the next stop in their total domination of the yard, I questioned Acadia about her birthday wish list.  Turns out that there are, in fact, a couple of things that might make her stony facade break into smile.  They are, not necessarily in this order:

1. Clothes for her dolls.
2. A horse.
3. And a promise on behalf of her parents to leave her leafy large friends alone.

Back when I was still knee-deep in needy newborns, it was hard to conceive of a day like today.  A day that loomed out there, somewhere in a future where children attended school all day and I would have hours upon hours of fulfilling self-reflection and silent contemplation.  Well, it’s here. Today is the first day in nine years that I loaded both of my big girls onto the school bus, not to return until 3:00pm.  Pass the bon-bons;  I’ve got six hours of silent bliss.  I will write a novel.  I will read all the editorials.  I will cook a meal the likes of which gourmets round the world will clamor to taste.

Or I’ll strip every bed and rip up the rugs and douse the entire house in bleach and lemon-scented spray stuff.  Anything that will increase my chances of breathing through my nose once again.

Don’t be fooled.  These are no ordinary allergies.  They laugh in the face of Benadryl, my trusted old friend that typically knocks me out faster than a blow to the head with a falling piano.  And the sneezes just keep coming.

My waking hours are spent buried in a box of tissues, and I haven’t slept in days.  I swear last night would have been better if someone filled my pillowcase with freshly cut grass and a bag of kittens and then wrapped their fluffy little tails around my eyes as a blindfold.

I have been so busy ooohing and aaahing over the delightfully cool weather and the extra dose of lush rain that I didn’t stop to consider the consequences.  Something new is growing out there, and it does not play well with me.

The doctor gave me an appointment for next week, and extracted my sincere promise not to step foot outdoors until then.  In the meantime to rid my house of lurking pollen  I am dousing every inch with a bottle or two of bleach.  Cleaning isn’t really my thing, but if it will buy me an hour or two of snot-free sleep, I’m in.  And since I’ve only got a few hours left in this precious gift of a day nine years in the making, I’d better run and dump more bleach into the laundry and see about some dust monsters under the couch.

Yes, these are tears in my eyes.  It’s all this sneezing, of course.  It’s purely coincidental that this morning I bid farewell to my little darlings as they set out for first and third grade, so big and so grown-up already.  Of course my eyes are itchy and red.  Allergies or not, that is the price I pay for watching my babies morph into real people right before my very eyes.

That’s a seven and a half pound fluke being hefted by Grandpa Mikey.  And yes, seven and a half pounds of fish is so big that it pushed all but Grandpa Mikey’s forearm from the frame.

There are a million ways to prepare fresh fish, but it really doesn’t get better than fried.  Here’s how we do it.  Even my kids beg for seconds, and they’re barely bigger than that fluke.

Fresh fish offers more than a great meal.  If you’ve got a retired surgeon on hand, you can use the carcass as a lovely stained glass window.

That’s Grandpa Mikey: world-class fillet master, and a talented boat builder to boot.  Last year he built an adorable little sailing dory for his grandchildren.  Dave took Kira and nephews MJ and Evan for a row around the bay sans mast.

This year Grandpa is trying his hand at kayak-building.  I may be biased, but I think he’s pretty darn good at it.

Grandpa also pulled some strings and entered the girls in a marine naturalist camp. They strolled the beaches, collected specimen, and learned all about life in, on and around the water.  If you have been wondering how to tell the difference between male and female fiddler crabs, Kira is your source (hint: she told me that the males have one big claw.)

All questions about hermit crabs or star fish should be directed to marine expert Acadia.

Fun fact of the day:  A baby oyster is called a spat.

and terrorized the local teeny-tiny trout population.

After all of the baby fish had been caught and released, we left them to recover and joined the cows who had mosied south for fresher pastures in South Carolina.  Everyone was thrilled with the new digs, which were rustic, near the cows,

and close to the old watering hole.

The kids were as happy as cows grazing on organic grass.  While there may be no creature quite as content as frisky old Fernando, I’d wager that these heifers were just about as happy as, well, as happy as children playing for hours down at the watering hole.

The Proffitt farm is the source for grass-fed beef in the Charlotte, NC area.  And for the three days that we were lucky enough to count ourselves as locals, we partied like carnivores.  I’m not typically a meat-eater, but eating grass-fed beef is as much like eating conventional meat as a rain puddle is to the Pacific Ocean.  It’s a totally different experience, for the cows, for the carnivores, and for the earth.  Visit their site to learn more about the benefits of eating locally raised, sustainable grass-fed beef, some of which include lower fat content and higher omega-3.

It tastes a whole lot better too.

we got our REAL welcome to life on the farm–

There it is, the facts of life in your face.  You might be thinking, especially if you recall what happened over winter break, that I bring out the frisky in animals.  Perhaps I do.  Either way, it provided a fitting conclusion to the conversation that I recently had with the girls; THE conversation.  The one about eggs and sperm and making babies that, in retrospect, I might have left a little open-ended.  Thanks to Fernando and Bovina for the visual that effectively fielded any remaining questions.

Kira watched the action, observed the cow’s blase demeanor despite the considerably-sized bull behind her, and wanted to know “does she even know that he’s there?”  Take another look at that picture. Talk about your high expectations.

I can only assume that’s what these crazy kids discussed on their first date. Sure that’s my eight year old being driven around by a boy, but hey, life on the farm follows it’s own timeline.  And when he asked her join him on a jaunt to spread manure in the fields, Kira leaped at the chance.

While the eight year olds pondered life’s deeper questions, back at the barn…

Acadia got friendly with the horses,

and helped feed the chickens. They even convinced the hens to give up a bunch of eggs too. I’m starting to think that I haven’t been fulling utilizing the farming capabilities of these girls.

We frolicked with fish, moved the cows, and mucked the muckity-muck from the horse stalls.  But still, my heart belongs to the true wild child of the farm, Rasta Chicken.  I know looks aren’t everything, but try telling that to this fine looking lady –

Superior hair style not-withstanding, my little Rasta Hen isn’t getting her fair share of the lovin’.  Most of the time she sits alone in a corner, missing out on the hen-house gossip and the attention of the resident rooster.  I’m no farmer, but look at that gleam in her beady eye.

This lady knows her birds and bees. Just give her a chance to prove it.

This year the scene was a little different.

It was chilly and wet, and there was a threat of a serious thunderstorm that we had to out-pick.  On the plus side, we were the only nutjobs people picking on this stormy 50 degree day.  And that waving wheat sure smelled sweet as the wind blew in before the rain (Oklahoma fans in the house?)

Our little farm hands were game and smiled, at least for a few minutes.  That’s about how long it took for the first drips of cold rain to trickle down their necks and into their shoes.  But we pressed on.  There was no time to stop and taste the berries; we had a box to fill before lightening put an end to all this farming fun.

Maybe I was a little tough on my pickers, what with fingers turning blue and lips chattering, but I had this idea in my head, this sunshiny, farm-freshy ideal to be lived up to.  Besides, I wanted those berries.   So no, that thunder clap was not too close.  And no, that cow is not mooing extra loud because he got hit by lightning.  Less questions, more picking.

Cold day aside, we were lucky for the chance to pick berries, albeit in the snow, up hill, both ways.  Just days after we picked, the farm got drenched with almost 3 inches of rain, decimating the berry patch and forcing other, less hearty CSA members to go strawberry-free.

Meanwhile, we lucky ones dried off, warmed up, and bellied up to a box filled with the delicious fruits of our labor.

Sure it’s muddy and chilly, but oh how the garden does grow.  Check out this rhubarb plant from the Cretaceous period–

It’s not really prehistoric, but I do think it was sizing up my children for its lunch.

That Brontosaurus rhubarb plant isn’t one of mine.  We admired it in the yard of artist Tiffany Koehn, who gave us a personal tutorial on glass blowing.  She makes gorgeous jewelry and lamps in outrageous colors like these–

She let the kids pick out colored glass to create their own charms,

and even gave them each a chance to take the blow torch for a spin.  No, Mom, I’m kidding. Tiffany kept a firm grasp on the torch while we watched from a safe distance.

Meanwhile, back at our ranch yard, the potatoes have been eagerly soaking up all the rain.

I can’t imagine what’s doing beneath the dirt, but a few more days of precipitation and we’ll be climbing those potato stalks to a castle in the sky.  Not far behind are the strawberries, which are still rock hard and green, but crazy plentiful this year.

I have told them that we’ll be hitting the road soon and I expect ripened berries within the week. Likewise with the raspberries, which are all abuzz with bees but remain curled up in small green nubs.  They also seem determined to ignore my schedule and start ripening just about the time we load up the car.

Come on garden.  I’m not asking for much.  Just a taste of your sweet fruit before we leave town, and a little bit of respect for my schedule.