The summer has been lovely – no threat of forest fire like we had last summer, and therefore no stinky days with windows closed against the smoke.
The evenings have been great for sleeping – full moons and digestive issues notwithstanding. Cats romping and roaming, notwithstanding. (One doesn’t get to use big words like notwithstanding often enough, wouldn’t you agree?)
I’m not so sure about the garden, though. The beets have been terrible producers this year. The first few days after I sowed the seed, we had a period of frosty evenings. I guess beets aren’t as cold tolerant as I thought.
The lettuce has been great, but we haven’t been eating salads as much as we used to, so it’s bolting and going to seed. Ah, well.
To compensate, I’m happy to report that the yellow wax beans are producing phenomenally– which is a complete surprise – I planted them on a whim, totally expecting crop failure. Several pints of pickled beans are stewing in the fridge.
In the “if it ain’t broke don’t fix it” department, what the heck were they thinking when they designed black tomatoes? How do you tell when they are ripe? I tired the taste test three times before I decided that was foolish. Finally, I checked the label and sure enough, they are supposed to turn red. But for Pete’s sake, when? They’ve been excruciatingly slow to ripen.
I’ve discovered that I’m not good at waiting for the taste of fresh, vine-ripened tomatoes in the summer!
“Patience, Maggie,” said the hubby.
Winter took so long to leave this year that even though it’s halfway through August, I still experience a mild shock to see that the snowdrifts are gone. Gone! And so are the bugs. It’s been so nice to step outdoors, without winter clothing, without bug spray, in my bare feet and walk through the grass…
Well, most of the bugs are gone. This year, grasshoppers are borderline plague status. Do you remember grade school and reading about the sky darkening by clouds of locusts and the devastation wrought by the bugs as they devoured what little of the crop that survived the dust bowl of the dirty 30s? Do you recall the passages that described the wall-to-wall grasshoppers and the disgusting slimy crunchy horror as the protagonist gingerly made her way from the cabin door to the hen house?
Not quite like that, but near enough.
The bugs have even made it indoors. Thanks to hubby who thought it would be cute to bring in a grasshopper for the cats.
Oh, great fun! Sure! You bring in the bugs and then skedaddle outdoors while I get to supervise the carnage!
[insert glaring stink-eye here]