Ode to Tractors

daphne on October 17, 2009

Aren’t tractors cool?

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I mean cool, cool.  Not as reusable bag cool or hybrid car cool, but just good old fashion cowboy cool.

Even without the husky cowboy, I mean.

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Now I know what you’re thinking.  You’re wondering what I am doing talking about rugged old tractors when my forte is clearly feeding children healthy foods and raising awareness about treading softly on Mother Earth.  Well, back off.  Stop painting me in such a small corner.  I am so totally versatile.

And I happen to like tractors.

So do my children.  See?

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Not only is Kira giddy with her cornstalk, but Acadia is clearly enjoying the tractor, eating kettle corn, and entertaining thoughts about broccoli.  You can’t hear them, but trust me when I tell you that they are also in the midst of a discussion about re-engineering that tractor to run on popcorn.  See?  Tractors:  Fun for the family and good for the earth.

And we do have tractors to thank for the 497 pounds of potatoes that we are in the process of eating our way through, day in, day out.  Potatoes.  All thanks to this guy.

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That’s the Flipping-potatoes-out-of-the-earth tractor.  Otherwise known as, well, as something else probably.  Anyways, thanks to Flip my girls have been enjoying homemade french fries every single night.

So yeah, tractors are cool.  So is Tori.  She’s the reader that  successfully identified my trick picture as a chicken, and submitted what she claims is a more accurate depiction of a cow.  You be the judge.

Cow?

tori cow pic

Or not cow?

Very good class. It is a cow.  I like cows.  And I like tractors.  That’s just the way I roll.

I am especially fond of my own tractor.  Which we loaded down with multitudes of gourds, a twelve foot stalk of corn, and 758 pounds of pumpkin.

Hi Ho Silver.

Away.

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who me, jealous?

daphne on September 29, 2008

Over the river and through the woods, or up the road and across the town line, lives my little brother. Say what you will about my use of the diminutive regarding a grown man with a wife, 2 sons, and his own business; the fact remains that this is my little brother. And you know how little brothers can be.

Just as soon as I got around to planting a garden and cooking up the harvest he had to get in on the game, which is fine, really. I don’t care. One thing, though. As you may have heard, I have had a difficult history with pumpkins, what with the all stag parties my gourds tend to throw. But does my brother have the same troubles? Noooooo, he does not. Just look at this. I shudder to think of the multi-gendered orgy that went on in his pumpkin patch last spring.

And here’s my brother’s oldest son postulating to my daughters about the fecundity of their soil, the robust sexual appetites of their gourds, the, oh all right, he’s telling them that the pumpkins are turning orange, but still, it all seems just a little unfair.

Oh, and lest you think his green thumb is limited to the garden, let me tell you that it’s not all pumpkins being made over yonder at baby brother’s house. This little nugget was also freshly plucked. Apparently they’ve got an active cabbage patch too.

That’s Javi, my gorgeously adorable new nephew.

So I ask, why does my brother get pumpkins AND a new baby? What about me? I like pumpkins. I like babies. (And yes, I apparently am partial to pouting and whining too. But I happen to think that makes me all the more human and likable.)

Yes, the ugly but honest is that I am jealous. I’m a greener biener, all right; green with envy. Greener than those pumpkins in his patch that I know will soon turn the perfect pumpkiny orange.

It sure is swell that my little brother offered us a pumpkin for Halloween. Right. Pumpkin shmumpkin, I need to get these hungry hands on that yummy baby.

Let’s talk about sex, baby

daphne on August 20, 2008

Sure, springtime’s got young lovers and the birds and the bees and I’m on board with all of that. Who doesn’t like love in their air? But honestly, it’s autumn that has my thoughts turning to sex. Pumpkin sex that is, and squash booty and hot cucumber action and well, you get the picture. Visions of procreating gourds are dancing in my head.

Speaking of sex, it’s not too much to say that Dave and I have got the girl-making game down pat. Indoors, at least. Somehow we take that step from boudoir to backyard and suddenly all we’ve got to show for our efforts are boys, boys, boys. When it comes to flowering vines, our garden is a no-girls-allowed frat party of testosterone. Across the board our sporty gourds are nothing but snips and snails and puppy dog tails.

Hang on a minute. Male flowers? Pumpkin sex? What? Your fifth-grade teacher skipped the part about girl and boy squash blossoms? Do not fear, I am here, and I never tire of talking sex, gourd or otherwise. Here’s what you need to know: To tell the difference between boys and girls, flip over your flowers. If your flower looks like this…

female flower

…congratulations, it’s a girl. See how she wears her womb on her sleeve? That little nub beneath the flower (which she has yet to open) is her fruit-to-be. Come on girlfriend, waving your reproduction flag is no way to lure a man. But lo, the Romeos for whom she waits are right next door:

male flowers

The males stand strong. The stems run straight up into the flowers. (Of course they stand straight, they’re not the ones lugging around all that pre-squash weight. Hey, does this baby squash make my blossom look fat?)

Our vines last summer tended towards boys-only too, forcing me to take matters into my own hands. When at last a lady pumpkin flower showed up, I got down and dirty, inseminating, pumpkin style. (Note: I’ve been informed that one cannot actually inseminate anything without, well, you know.) Still, I plucked a lusty male blossom, rubbed him good on our single brave female, and wham bam thank you me, I made a baby pumpkin.

At least last year’s bachelor party was limited to the pumpkins. Our butternut squash needed no help in the lovin’ department. It took both kids just to heft the gorgeous gourds of ’07.

They were big, and they were bountiful. Only two vines, but they produced upwards of 10 hefty squash. We were so impressed with their ability to reproduce on their own that we skipped the fertility-challenged pumpkins altogether this year and went crazy with the squash seeds. After all, brown-sugar-bronzed butternut squash is the star of my favorite pasta recipe.

I have been looking forward to that pasta all summer, so I’m getting a little desperate about the dearth of ladies on my vines. What is one to do about the preponderance of males in the garden? I don’t know, and I haven’t yet found anyone out there who does. In the meantime, I’m adding a healthy dash of sugar and spice and everything nice to the compost pile. I’ll let you know how that goes.

Update from the garden: It’s ladies night! As I write this, four potential squashettes sit on the vine advertising their wares to the plethora of suitors. I think the numbers are in their favor.