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Coming to you from the depths of frigid February: I forgot to post this, but it’s a nice reminder of what may occur six month hence. Which, really, is no time at all.

 (Originally written October 13th, 2014)

“Lilacs on a bush are better than orchids. And dandelions and devil grass are better! Why? Because they bend you over and turn you away from all the people in the town for a little while and sweat you and get you down where you remember you got a nose again. And when you’re all to yourself that way, you’re really proud of yourself for a little while; you get to thinking things through, alone. Gardening is the handiest excuse for being a philosopher. Nobody guesses, nobody accuses, nobody knows, but there you are, Plato in the peonies, Socrates force-growing his own hemlock. A man toting a sack of blood manure across his lawn is kin to Atlas letting the world spin easy on his shoulder.”
― Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine

(I recommend everyone read Dandelion Wine, at least once, preferably in time with the season.)

What’s left of summer number twenty-nine: A line of tomatoes on the sill above the kitchen sink in various stages of ripeness, a freezer bursting with bag upon bag of blanched greens, ten cubic yards of earth on the front lawn (the remnant of three months worth of do-it-yourself driveway installation), five hundred thousand EMT Basic flash cards next to the couch, a new teal one-piece (worn thrice), a few roses too full of their own self-importance to notice the frosts, a pile of smooth lake rocks forgotten by the front door, seed packets laid to rest in a cool, dry place, a sense of regret, and the last chapters of Dandelion Wine.

And pictures. For no other reason than the desire to keep a sense of the colors, the patterns, and the small, forgettable delights of a free afternoon spent enjoying the fruits of Spring labor.

White peony: Fresh whipped cream and clean sheets and expensive stationary. I want to eat it and live in it and wear it.

Such a chaste little bridal cap. This was my first year planting sugar snap peas and they did not disappoint, though they did get a bit out of hand.

Early farmer’s market haul. Thoughts of this sustain me through February. Most of the time.

As fleeting as it may have been, the growing season was a riot of color. And for my first time planting a proper garden, I’m rather pleased by the results.

So. Much. Kale. Five times this much at the end of October.

All that lovely color, even in a photograph viewed in the dead of winter, has the capacity to revive the spirit a bit.

Perfect bite: Recently picked French breakfast radish, some kind of herb or green, and hummus on freshly baked baguette rounds.

 

Another perfect little snack or lunch. Pickled chioggia beets, red onion, and goat cheese on fresh made crostini.

A whole wheat pastry tart with lemon boy tomatoes, eggplant, and…something else I can’t remember. Probably some kind of cheese involved.

Late Summer Flowers

A little gathering of the end of summer and the beginning of autumn. Hydrangea, a kind of tea rose, sage, something I’ve always called blushing bride but isn’t, some sort of yellow, feathery weed that I absolutely love, and a few sundry little blooms from here and there.

It’s All The Little Things (Warning: Sentimental Post)

Every vapid, sentimental, useless definition of love that the world throws at us every few seconds is completely invalidated and shamed by this hastily scrawled quote in my sketchbook, in my opinion. And who could ask for a more simple and genuine summation? Once all of the various chemicals settle themselves out, what does a relationship have left except the constant, thoughtful resolve of the people involved?

Though I am not exactly capable of a truly objective analysis of my marriage, I can still say quite confidently that Stephen loves me. Not because he says so, but because he does so. Every day before work he makes me breakfast while I shower because he knows I’m not a morning person. When he has a free moment, he works tirelessly to improve our home and help me with chores. When I ask him for help with something I find difficult and frightening and then immediately turn around and yell at him because I don’t know how to handle being pushed beyond my limits, he sticks around to do it all again another day.

And he’s just so thoughtful. The little things he does to brighten my day or to mark a special occasion are, quite frankly, delightful. The other day he trimmed the rose bushes and proceeded to make a few simple arrangements around the house. Just because they smell nice and make the house look better.

The morning of our wedding anniversary, he left at 4 AM to drive to Baltimore. I would be meeting him a week later, but I was of course a bit despondent in the mean time. After he had gone and I’d started to get ready for my day, I found these little notes around the house. Dozens of them. Every day I’d find a new little piece of his thoughtfulness and I was–and am–so grateful. They buoyed my spirits while he was gone, and I decided to leave them alone where I could. I still smile each time I spot one.

While it all may seem mere  kissy-face huggy-bear, it’s the real deal. Feel free to yak up on your loafers at any time.

 

Succulents and…not so succulent

So the side of our house is just full of lavender and succulents. Talk about unexpected blessings, right?  The entire garden is a joy (well, not the weeding…or the rose beetles), but I particularly like that something so hardy and beautiful is thriving without me having to do a single thing. I’ve wanted something green growing inside the house for a while now, so I decided to transplant some of the smaller plants into another container.  Without doing any research on how to do so, obviously.

It looks good for now, so let’s hope they just keep doin’ their thing. In the mean time, I need to walk down to the beach and find some pretty white round rocks to fill in the empty spots.

On a separate note:

Holy cats, what IS that?!

That, everybody, is what happens when you wash the conventionally grown Washington apples your lovely husband brought home (by mistake) in a sink full of water and vinegar. Mmm….wax. Delicious, preserving wax. Preserving what, exactly, I don’t really want to think about. Previous to trying to wash these little blighters, I tried scraping the wax off with a paring knife. After two rounds of scraping and a literal pile of wax later, the apple seemed a little more appetizing. But I don’t actually like Washington apples, so I didn’t want to go through all of that effort each time. Hence the sink full of vinegar route. Which didn’t work. The lesson here? Maybe spend the extra couple of bucks for the organic bag if the above image isn’t your thing.