A triumph of hope over experience
Unlike second marriages, gardening truly is a triumph of hope over experience. Second marriages, in my opinion, seem more like doing the same thing over (and over and over for some) and expecting a different outcome. Gardening allows you to sample much more, and you aren’t limited to only two genders of one species (even if they do come in a lovely array of colors). Gardening is really like polyamory on steroids.
And I do have a lot of loves: Beets consist of Cylindrica, and Red Cloud; carrot include Nantes, Atomic Red and Cosmic Purple; tomatoes always include Speckled Roman and Sun Gold, and whatever garden crush I have (or my friend Lisa forces upon me). But I have grown Sun Gold for over 20 years, and speckled Roman for almost as long.
Speckled Roman is a pain in the ass tomato that only seems to outperform Brandywine. That says it all. And I can’t find my photos of it, as I try to reconstruct my database of 30,000+ photos so I stole this one, from someone who said never again.
In defense of Speckled Roman, like the little girl with the curl, when it is good, it is so unbelievably good. But it usually looks like these. However, I’m not a huge fan of tomatoes. Except this one. I just love its meaty goodness. It is the only tomato I eat fresh. And it makes such unbelievable salsa. So I continue. Last year, it was positively hammered with late blight (pictues to come). But I love it. I know I am weak.
And then, there are melons. Charentais, a go to melon, that when it is good, may be better than sex—depends upon your partner, I guess. In thinking of past boyfriends, I prefer being single with Charentais. But why limit myself? I’m trying Noir de Carmes. And I did what I know better than to do: Saved the seeds of this lovely little melon called Lemon Drop. I hope Lisa grows it for me since she has the space. It might be a train wreck of poorly assorted genes.
Lastly, Kikui hull-less pumpkin will be spun again. Those seeds make me too happy. With curry powder. More on that in the autumn, I guess.
This year, though, I’m strangely bipolar on the subject of seed orders and face my garden with excitement (yay fresh beets, basil, and salsify) and loathing (boo weeds, bunnies, and whatever other fresh hell I have not yet experienced).
I am working on bunny proofing the garden. Little Handsome Man is old, and not the bunny muncher he once was. I will never forget going to bed, tired and bleary eyed, not recognizing the baby bunny head he left me on my pillow. The Godfather had nothing on this horror. It was just the head of a baby bunny. On. My. Pillow. How gross is that?
Not as gross as having NO fennel. And NO beets. And NO peas. And no Beans. WTF? Bunny can’t share? He knows that I’m armed (with a shovel) and a geriatric cat and one-eyed dog. But Bunny Don’t Care. Bunny thinks she’s a badass. So bunny must die. Or at least be stopped.
And now I wish Little Handsome Man could kill the bunnies–just not leave them on my pillow, because then I wouldn’t have to enclose my garden like Fort Knox. And I am loathing this, because I know, the bunny will outfox me.