Whenever I crouch in my garden and poke about the dirt, pet the leaves and smell that wet dirt smell, I get a sense being a part of something. That something is special, it's removed from the little nugatory squabbles of life.
The familiar sight of basil shyly shifting aside the dirt to warms its leaves. My hope is that this time it finds something nice here that it chooses to stay and maybe even flourish.
I cheated with the spring onions and leeks. Cut offs were delicately shoved into the ground, and thereby giving myself instant grown ups. I'm glad I didn't have to deal with their puberty years. I've got a few teen-onions in a separate naughty area, since they wouldn't behave themselves.
I've been informed that tomatoes are not fussy at all, their only flaw is their unquenchable thirst. I don't know why but they still worry me. So I've been pampering her with the sunniest spot possible, even if it means grass may wilt to satisfy her needs.
Already I see signs of what I hope is the fruit of my labours. But first I'll have to fight off the slugs.
I'm pretty sure I only have those very same slugs to thank for the holes in my spring beans. I'm glad I learnt about slug pellets before I sowed the snap peas. I'm trying a technique I like to call "stagger-planting". No, it's not staggering around the garden after imbibing C2H4OH and then face planting. I'm hoping that if I plant beans at one weekly intervals it will mean I shall have a constant supply of perfectly ripening beans to eat.
Now thank you friends for enduring that nauseating gushing about my newborns. One can only hope that if I do it now it will stem the effusive flow of cooing when I have a newborn of the human variety.
I blame spring.
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