Charmed Blankets

At 7 AM this morning it was a cool 25 outside, no lie. That’s it, I thought. We are kaput. I’d spread ratty old towels and quilts over the seedbed, but how were mere textiles supposed to withstand twenty-freakin-five degrees?? I’d braced for 28 as forecasted, but this? Ack.

Naturally I headed straight to the garden store to self-medicate by buying replacement seeds. Seems melodramatic now, because after the sun came out and warmed things up I peeled back the covers and found… Yaya Carrots, pert and chipper! Freckles Lettuce, undeterred! And the Kestrel F1 Beets had actually come up while blanketed, in spite of positively Canadian conditions. When seed packs say “hardy,” they sure mean it. Although I’m glad I bought the extra seeds. This way there will be plenty to plant all spring long. And I will say this: I am never throwing those quilts and towels out, never not ever.

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Wild-Eyed Optimism

The last two weeks have been so sunny and hot that no one could help but prance around in tank tops and hot pants, flinging seeds at the ground as though this were Florida. Spring was running a temperature. I myself planted lettuce, peas, carrots, beets, and marigolds.

But the fever has broken, and the forecast for Monday night is 28 degrees. Yikes! What was I thinking? I must have been delirious! I thought I could gamble on the little lives of seeds without a care. Hang in there, sprouts! I will put a blanket over them. I will tuck them in and sing them a song and teach them to say, Now I lay me down to sleep… On second thought, no. That rhyme is much too morbid for these desperate circumstances.

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And So It Begins

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Hello, Handsome!

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The Turning Point at Turning Point Park

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Overheard at Guys’ Wine Night, Where All the Guys Are Named Mike

Mike walks in late, and Mike says to him, “Too bad, we just ran outta the ’82!”
“And the ’61!” says Mike.
Mike adds, “And the ’45!”
Raucous, bellowing laughter.

~ ~ (a little later) ~ ~
“If this wine were a car, what would it be?”
“I dunno, a Mercedes.”
“Naw, it’s a Lexus. It wants to be a Mercedes when it grows up.”

~ ~ (later still) ~ ~
“Look, it’s Opus.” One of the Mikes points to a picture on a wine label.
“Huh?” I say.
“Opus. The god of wine.”
I do a quick inner scan, double-checking the JoJoPedia entry.
“Bacchus.”
“Whassat?”
“The god of wine is Bacchus.”
Mike looks at me like I’m way too drunk. “Yeah. That’s what I just said.”

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The Woods in Winter

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Now Sprouting: German White Garlic!

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Adventures with Sophie

I totally meant to post an update from Paris, but Sophie and I had an incredibly hectic schedule of shopping for French office supplies. Oh, the notebooks! The folders with elasticized covers! The paper of non-US proportions! It was all too distracting to think about typing anything.

We were also occupied with eating creme brulee. Well, we were pretty occupied with eating in general. Studying menus was our most serious and intense language work, and it took far longer than waiters seemed to think necessary. Sophie kept having to say things like, Encore une minute, s’il vous plaît, and Nous n’avons pas encore choisi, and Nous n’avons pas decidé! The stakes, after all, could not have been higher. On one hand was the possibility of being swept aloft by transcendent wine and cheese, but on the other hand lurked the very real threat of being plunged into the pit with a plate of slimy snails. Then there was dessert, but always, every time, after translating and pondering and weighing the consequences, we always went with the creme brulee. We were never sorry.

So here’s a great big hug & thanks to Sophie for being such a trooper of a tour guide. She is indefatigable and enthusiastic, and on top of all that she speaks fluent French. Love you, Soph! Next project: let’s learn some Italian so we can go to Rome.

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Merci, Paris!


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