That’s ok, because the lettuce is so soft and sweet I’m fine to let the mysterious muncher have the majority of the spinach.

The pumpkins are promising –

A self planted carrot –

Cucumbers

Potatoes

Yellow Watermelon

Butternut squash

Super sweet sugar snaps

Hearty looking strawberries –

I’ll miss you dear readers,

It’s for you that I write

But the call of the wild (that is, my backyard)

Is too strong to fight

Schools out for summer

I’ve cut back on house cleaning

Yet my time packs right up

With picnic-making and sun-screening

And there are weeds that need weeding

And ice cream to eat

And bikes that need riding

And filthy bare-feet

The children are clamoring

Long forgotten is school

They run through the sprinklers

And jump in the pool

Between following the kiddos

And watering the plants

When it comes time for typing

I’m finding…I can’t

But I’ll be back soon

With stories for sowing

‘Til then, Happy Summer

And to all some good growing

**** As always, thanks for reading.  The Greener Biener is taking a sabbatical, but I’ll be adding garden updates from time to time to chronicle the progress of our home-grown veggies.

Hope to see you again in the fall.

I’m sure you’d agree that it takes some serious mama skills to hit the bottom of the peanut butter jar on the very last day of school.

Timing is everything.

The kids wondered why I was chronicling my morning sandwich making.  They should have been wondering how their strawberries were going to taste doused in a thick layer of my tears.

I was teary-eyed because although my timing peanut-butter-wise has proven impeccable, I have yet to figure out how to halt the ridiculous sprint of time that puts my babies into this space aged time capsule –

and spits them back to me as a 2nd and 4th graders.  I am not ready.   I practically just graduated from high school myself.  It’s simply not possible that I am old enough to have such big kids.

As if to prove the calendar right, the girls went and sealed the deal–

Kira donated 8 1.2 inches of her long flowing locks, transforming herself from this young innocent,

Into this sassy thing

One look at her sister’s cool new look was more than enough, and soon Acadia was hopping up into that chair.

Time keeps on ticking into the future, and those dang seasons, they keep going round and round and I swear there is just one thing that is keeping me from singing folk tunes as I sob into my coffee and that’s this –

Flax. Flax makes me happy.  The color is so deep and purple blue that it can actually hold back the hands of time and freeze my babies at this absolutely delightful stage.

Flowers have loads of medicinal qualities.  Time manipulation is merely one of many.

Even before I had one appendage masquerading in this 71,520 pound storm-trooper suit I was not what you might considered leggy.

Unleggy and unsuspecting, I simply picked out a pretty, ambitious sprout from the $1 bin at last summer’s farmers market.  I put it in a pot, and it went wild–

It’s growing like it’s going out of style, and my father, currently studying to become a master gardener, called my baby leggy.

He never called me leggy.  Nobody ever called me leggy.

In all fairness, my father did not mistake my plant for a tall blond;  he simply meant that my plant was growing too long and lean for its own good, and could do with a little trim.

Sounded good to me.  I’ve always been a fan of the short and stout myself.

I grabbed the scissors, but as I headed over to the window to work out my long leg lust to give the plants a taste of my sharp shears, I noticed this–

Long legs, gorgeous red coloring, and now a dainty purple flower on top.  Of course.  Why not.  She’s probably smart with a great personality too.

(Note Number One: although sitting on the couch with my foot up is all that and a bag of chips, I have a confession: I snuck out.  I had to.  The garden was beckoning; click here to see what it had to say.)

(Note Number Two…something completely different…) I made this cake yesterday–

Because sometimes you just have to bake with marshmallows shmeared black and totally not-organic blue food coloring.   Like when you gather with a bunch of your similarly minded geeked-out friends to say good-bye to a TV show.  Lost is no more.

Good-bye smoke monster.

Good-bye mystery island with polar bears and time travel.

Good bye hotties trooping through the jungle in search of answers.

Hello Chocolate Cake.

Baby lettuce, south garden, May 21, 2010 –

Baby mighty oak tree, Acadia’s garden, May 21, 2010 (acorn planted by Kira in April)

Baby tomato,  soaking up some front porch sun

Baby eggplant, sunny self on porch –

Baby squash –

Baby rainbow chard, volunteer (self-seeded) in north garden, May 21, 2010

Baby snap pea, May 21, 2010 north garden, from seed April 4 –

And then over to the north garden to see how the rhubarb was behaving–

He may have been waving it in the air like he just didn’t care, but I paid him no mind and got right to business.  Harvesting time.

The leaves are mildly toxic, and I can’t go near them without gloves or I’ll break out in a rash, but it doesn’t bother the girls one bit.  They are of tougher stock.

Even a child can harvest rhubarb.  All you do is grasp the stalk, pretty close to the ground, and wiggle it.  It will release from the plant with this little slipper attached–

Stalks are ready when they are thick enough (about the diameter of a dime or thicker.) They will range in color from deep pink to light speckled green.

I dice them and freeze them for recipes like my favorite crisp.  Inside the color also ranges from a whitish pink to a light green–

Also reporting in: the raspberries have millions of tiny buds, and the strawberries, recently thinned, are sporting tons of flowers.

The message I’m getting from the universe: think otherwise.

Take, for example, my rhubarb.  Up until recently it was such a well behaved plant.  And then he pulled his thing out, right there in the middle of my family-friendly garden.

I told him to put it away. He upped the ant, and went all Rhubarb-Gone-Wild on me –

And the phallus phenomena is spreading.  All I wanted to do was prepare some locally raised organic chicken for dinner.  I’m no prude, yet something about this boasting roaster gave me pause. I can only imagine how he ruled the coop.

I hoped my nephews would help me out.  Surely my own little panel of experts had some insight into males running amok in the natural world.

It’s not pretty, but I will share what I learned.  My source is one of the following fellows:

To protect the innocent I won’t divulge if it was this guy:

Or this guy–

Or this guy –

Or this guy–

Or this one –

But I well tell you that the tidbit said nephew shared did shed some light on the wild bachelors and their love of living it up in the great outdoors:

Nephew:  Oh no Aunt Daphne. You don’t have to use the bathroom.  Do you know why?

Me (kind of hopping up and down): Why?

Nephew:  At my house we get to pee outside.  In the backyard.

Me:  Um…

Nephew:  That’s why my house is lots more fun.  Because boys really like to pee outside.  Want to go outside now?

Me: Um…

I don’t have much to say about boys and their aversion to indoor plumbing, but I do know what I’m going to do about that rambunctious rhubarb.

And it has everything to do with raspberry crisp.

]]> http://www.greenerbiener.com/2010/05/put-that-thing-away/feed/ 7 http://www.greenerbiener.com/2010/05/put-that-thing-away/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/greenerbiener/~3/_2Wm0zFWXiA/ http://www.greenerbiener.com/2010/05/inch-by-inch-row-by-row-gee-ive-had-it-with-this-snow/#comments Wed, 12 May 2010 19:05:00 +0000 daphne http://www.greenerbiener.com/?p=4000 Golly gee, I wonder what on earth could be making me feel so droopy?  Could it possibly be this–

You might not recognize that shiny metal thing, but that’s what I was going to use to help these guys along–

Oh my sweet sweet snap peas.  Hang in there.  You too, my poor brave blossoms.  Confidently you woke to greet May 12th, and harshly you got slapped down by Mama Nature.  She’s sure been in a foul mood lately.

But hey, it’s okay.  I have found my happy place.  It’s right here, with John Denver, his Garden Song and the Muppet veggie singers.

I’ll give you a hint:  There are no wabbits on that rooftop.  But he is after something….

I know.  All super-hereos have their kryptonite, why should mine be any different?

He has a nemesis–

Do not be fooled by the banal laugh and bright feathers.  This evil bird haunts us;  every spring, sure as the unwanted snows cover the tulips,  woodpecker arrives on our roof in the pre-dawn hours to pound away like a jack-hammer on acid in hopes of attracting a mate.

He must go.  The squirrels and the robins are our friends.  But this early morning wake up call simply won’t do.

We’ve discussed my husband’s single minded dedication to triumph over the woodpecker here before.  He’s out to get that bird.  And I am totally on board.  If I were any more supportive I’d be a bra.

It’s just that there is already a pretty impressive arsenal awaiting our fine feathered friend.  Our roof currently sports a large mirror, a duct-taped reinforced line of nails, and now this –

Yup.  It’s patriotic. It’s plastic.  It spins in the wind.   And our house is officially that house.  Sorry, neighbors.  And here you were so supportive of the whole bug-selling venture.

Meanwhile, down here on the ground–

That snow was so 2 days ago.  This weekend Mother’s Day brought sunshine and daisy-chains.  Head over to Digging in the Dirt to see The World’s Longest Dandelion Chain and other garden updates.

Spoiler alert — you’ll find this Gardener’s Challenge.  Tell me, please, what on earth has gotten my rhubarb so excited?

Snow, shmoe, I won’t let it get me down.  The weather changes so fast around here that you might not even notice something very fishy going on in the rhubarb patch.  What, exactly, is this?

I’ve had this rhubarb for seven summers now and this is the first time I’ve seen it get so, er, excited.   Email me stat if you’ve got a reasonable explanation.

With Dave up on the roof battling his nemesis, and me here on the ground with a broken foot and looming cold nights, there was little I could manage in the garden.  Still, Mother’s Day means I get my way (kind of) and my request was simple–just pick all the dang dandelions. I know it’s short-sighted but I don’t want to look at them and I’m the mother and it’s my day so just get rid of the things, okay?

And so it was.

And the mother was pleased as she watched the children pick the “wild flowers” and construct a chain of them which they looped round the au natural trellis and they all lived happily ever after.

On to the mundane.  I hobbled to and fro to photograph the progress being made between the snowflakes.

The spinach is coming along nicely,

As is the lettuce, which had been written off but is proving tougher than 28 degree nights–

Our itty bitty peach tree even has a couple of promising blossoms–

Mother’s Day had us planting, hesitantly.  We’re going to wait a few more weeks for some warmer nights before planting the more fragile stuff, but put in another round of carrots, onions and chard today.

All but that one little guy, who I think is an eggplant. Our over-zealous watering took out not only our nice handwritten signs, but much of our crop as well.

At least the tomatoes are still hanging in there –

Outside things are moving right along.  The snap peas are winning.  I think it’s their super-cool au natural trellis that keeps them reaching for the stars.

The rhubarb rules–

The garlic is doing great.

I overheard at the garden store that garlic and raspberries are a recommended pairing.  Maybe that’s why both these guys are going strong.  I love the look of these early raspberry leaves.

It seems I might have had some slight miscalculations when plotting out our square foot garden, and now I can’t be sure if this square is carrots or onions.  I had been 99% sure it was carrots, until these sprouts poked through –

They do not look like the frilly tops that I associate with carrots.  Any chance they are onions?

March 6, and our good old Northern corner spot is still snowbound.

We decide to take this party to the sunny side of the street yard.

We had no champagne to break her in, but this is officially the South Garden, future home of lush lettuce and gorgeous salad greens.

March 13, and enough of the snow has melted off the North to allow garlic shoots to push through.

Despite this positive sign, plans move ahead with the South Garden.

The weather is always warm and predictable here in the dining room.  Now home to sproutlings to be

Oh Welcome Back March.  It’s really so delightful to see your many moods once again. At least the girls are not bothered by the icy side of spring

Everything was going along swimmingly.

Our trees, lush and pink and beautiful, burst into bloom right on schedule.

And then it snowed.

Which was fine. I can roll with it. The season doesn’t want to move on, kind of like those guys who are all that in high school but then they stick around too long and go from cool to creepy.  The lettuce, however, took issue with the creep.

And hey, wow, where does the time go?  Had an entire month really passed without a visit to  the ER?  That simply won’t do, so off we ran to log some scary time there with our nine year old.  Truth be told I’m over this record breaking streak of emergency room visits.   Though I think all I need is one punch more in my frequent flier card to be eligible for that free boob job.

Oh yes, and another bone up and broke in my stupid foot.  Let’s just say turning 40 and jumping rope don’t exactly go hand in hand.

No worries.  I can deal.  I mean, the snow did eventually stop falling, and we’ll replant the lettuce as soon as it warms up again.  At least no driving means no carpool duty for a whole 3-4 weeks.  Someone pass me the bon-bons.

You see, all good.  We’ve got hail on tulips instead of raindrops on roses, but I’m not one to complain.  After all, I’ve got nephews in overalls,

And girls with red tulips–

Blooms persevering,

And a bustling new business.

Well, these are actually the brains of the operation–

With the snow melting away and mom laid up and out of the way, they decided to embark on an ambitious bug selling venture.  If consulted I probably would have pointed out the flaws in their business plan so it’s best that I was left to hobble around unobtrusively.

Good thing too.  Out they went, up and down the street with a tupperware o’ bugs, and back they came with 70 cents clutched in their filthy, bug-germy entrepreneurial little hands.

Baths?  They don’t need no stinkin’ baths.  That stench is merely the smell of success.

Maybe it’s the season.  Something in the air.

I know I just got through saying that this season was all about jumping rope, but perhaps I was hasty.  Even jumprope can’t trump that sense of er, love in the air.

Well, love.  Or mating.  Something like that.

I’ve got one kid happily engrossed in setting Abba tunes to spinning ropes–

And another who can’t stop talking about mating rituals…yours, mine, the cows, the birds…you name it, we’re discussing it.  And it’s all thanks to the incredible imagery in LIFE, the picturesque if slightly randy Discovery Channel documentary.

We were fascinated to learn the extent that some bird fellas will go to lure a pretty lady to his nest.   And thrilled, of course, that the kids finally have the down-low on the snuggling habits of cuttlefish.

But what my nine year old really needed to know was this:

So what did you do to attract your mate, Mom?

While I frantically tried to drum up an answer that didn’t include vodka shots or shimmying in dimly lit bars, her little sister stepped forward to field the question for me.

“I know how people attract a mate,” she boasted to her naive sibling. “Booty shaking.”

And her money-maker’s been in motion ever since.

Before you get suckered in by any cute thoughts about this dancing queen, I should confess:  This shake-shake routine goes out with a bang.  And by bang I mean a slap;  a playful slap executed upon her own unexpectedly and abruptly exposed shaking booty.

I am so proud, so proud you see.

Or mortified.  I get those two emotions mixed up.

Either way, thanks a bunch, natural world.  Sure, you’re educational, but I’m not really on board with the downward direction in which you’re dragging my little darling.

‘Tis not the season for long, lazy days of riding bikes and lounging by a pool.

‘Tis particularly not the season to draw in deep carefree breaths of fresh air, unless you are particularly enamored of hours spent sneezing your head off.

‘Tis the season…

For jumping.

Last year I knew nothing from jump rope.  I carpooled and stumbled around blindly and despite my ignorance and incompetence we landed at the Junior Olympics and I wouldn’t have been more flabbergasted had a tornado risen up out of the sink.

I was proud.  I was stunned.  And I was stumped as to how best to support my jolly jumper.

This year, we know what’s up.  And we are all in.

For Kira, there are ropes to be jumped and ribbons to be won.

For me, there are children to be judged.   I don’t know why I thought that it would be nice to be out in the yard digging fresh seedlings into the dirt.  Fresh air and gardens evoke nothing compared to the whoops and howls of delight coming out of me during a Saturday spend indoors judging a child or 300.

That’s me; the intimidating looking judge second from the right.  I scrutinized moves as if I could tell an Awesome Annie* from a Backwards Frog*. (*Actual jump rope moves.  Go on, impress the crowds at your next cocktail party.)

While you’re busy with the image of me as a jump rope judge making you laugh until coffee squirts out of your nose, I will inform you that it was under extreme coercion with great pride that I agreed to provide direct support for my child’s chosen athletic outlet.

Because I may be clueless when it comes to handling an athlete, but I sure do love my kid.

And nothing says I love you like 12 hours in a gym.