Some stuff is growing and it's not all vegetables.

Thanks for playing along with my supah mature guessing game but I'm sorry to say that nobody guessed exactly right. Which is important to me, the exact-ness, because I'm A/R.

I do appreciate the fact that you think I could be growing raspberry bushes (thank you, Shannon) even knowing what a maniac I can be with prickly berry bushes. But, no, I'm afraid that there is a shoot-on-site alert from my mom posted at all Bay Area nurseries warning them against selling anyone fitting this description a prickly berry bush of any variety.

I am a very accomplished klutz with the bushes, dontchaknow, and I think my mom worries for my life when I get too close to them. Especially since I'm typically wearing flip-flops and shorts at those times.

ANYWAY.

I'm also not planting any new variety of citrus (already have the one Meyer lemon), since we have a ton nearby and that ton is good exercise for the Jada, so growing it at home would be silly and the dog would hardly get any backpack time taking it from the yard to our kitchen.

And LORD NO I am not having chickens around here. The idea...I can not fathom...it would be too...the dog would massacre...Aaaaaaaaaargh! Anyway, so, No on the chickens. But thanks for playing!

However, Kris did say "fruit trees" - which is pretty close, so let's just go with that.

Would you like to hear the story of the fruit trees? It's short. Here we go...

Bubba and I like to give each other trees as gifts. A few birthdays ago he gave me two Japanese maples for our front yard and for his birthday this year, I gave him an apple tree. A Gravenstein one, to be precise. The End.

Like that? I try hard to please you can't you write a shorter post? people, OK. Please appreciate.

So, for this momentous birthday-that-shall-not-be-named, Bubba got his long-desired apple tree and we planted it in the backyard with just enough hi jinx to be considered celebratory.

And because we are also silly, in addition to being oddball fruit tree-coveters, we then named the tree so that we can refer to it during future landscaping conversations without confusion.

We call this tree, Skinny, and I think you can see why.

One day, we will pick an apple from this twig. One day...

And then, in a totally birthday-free tree-giving event, our fabulous ,wonderful, generous neighbors gave us their cherry tree.

WHAT?

To give you an idea of how fabulous, wonderful and generous these ladies are, allow me to paint a picture of the tree-giving moment. If you are of the can't you write a short post? mindset, I suggest you look away. This might take a minute.

We were across the street at their house one morning, sharing some homemade waffles (theirs) and freshly squoze orange juices (ours), when they asked us if we wanted a cherry tree.

I'd be shocked if she didn't see the answer leap off my face because YES, obviously I've wanted a cherry tree all my life and how could you know that? GET OUT OF MY HEAD CRAZY WAFFLE LADY.

Well, apparently, they had a cherry tree WITH MULTIPLE GRAFTS HELLO!, living in a half wine barrel in their backyard and it needed a place to go in the ground where it would get adequate sun. Except, that sunshiney place didn't exist in their backyard. Sad. Poor tree, living in half a wine barrel with no sunshiney hole to call its own.

It sounds kinda porny, but really what this meant was that they thought a sunny spot existed in our backyard and wouldn't we do them the huge favor of saving their tree from this half wine barrel by taking this tree off their hands and planting it in our yard where it could have sun and a place in the ground to call home.

Um, kay.

I thought for a minute that they were joking, because of the too-good-to-be-trueness of the whole scenario, but no. They were being serious. And also fabulous, wonderful and generous as always by gifting us with a very nice and multi-grafted cherry tree that would fulfill all my fruit tree hopes and dreams.

That's all, just all my hopes and dreams in tree form, no biggie.

Howdy, Neighbor.

So, the tree's still pretty young, but one day it will produce a good crop of Bing, Black Tartarian, and Van cherries so that we may stain our faces (clothes, hands, dog) red from a prone position on the lawn.

I hope.

And, in the near future, we may also have the pleasure of a blossoming cherry tree in our very own yard.

And that is the dream, people.

My very own cherry blossoms which I can just stand in my yard and stare at without anyone walking by asking me exactly what the hell do I think I'm doing standing in their yard eyeballing their tree.

Yeah. I'm a total cherry tree gawker. I have ONLY ONCE OR TWICE stopped mid-run to admire a blossoming cherry tree because I'm a totally humongous dork. I don't know what it is.

I will stare at you. Prepare yourself, tree.

So, yeah, that's the story of the fruit trees. The long and short versions. And now we have two fruit trees living it up in the backyard and I've also been moving and planting some other things so that the trees won't be all alone as they get used to their new homes.

I mean, it'd be awkward otherwise, right?

So I relocated the strawberries so they'd be close to the cherry tree. Help it get up to speed on backyard gossip, I guess.

These strawberries are so snarky.

And I put in an artichoke near the tree so that it could feel graceful by comparison.

I'm not ugly, I'm exotic.

And because I was feeling adventurous and the camera was already a-snappin', I went out to the front yard to check on the bulb and wildflower progress.

Good job, pee hole!

Told you I saw a daffodil. And now there's three.

Ok, so those last two don't have anything to do with fruit trees or companion click social circle planting, but I look at them a lot, too, and they're doing a lot of growing without any attention from me which makes them awesome.

And if you want to keep going with the supah mature guessing games, just go ahead and guess what's blooming in the vegetable beds right now.

Go on then, guess...I won't ridicule you publicly for your wrong guesses or anything.

The tattoo I'd get on my ass if I could get a tattoo, which I can't.

This is not the tattoo.

I like to brag about our neighbors because they are really the best ones a young ill-mannered couple could hope for and also because we spent some time with the worst neighbors a young couple could imagine back in the day and so I feel that we are due.

I'm sure you agree.

Also, these neighbors aren't racist assholes, so that helps.

Anyway, these awesome neighbors (who are different from the awesome neighbors who helped us schlep 3 cubic yards of dirt and mulch across the street and different still from the neighbors who gave us the best tomato cages in all the land) came by on Sunday with a surprise awesome gift.

They called this an "Apple-Warming Gift", as we have an apple tree, three years the junior of their apple tree, and ours has yet to produce a blossom.

Sure - it's only been in the ground for nary a year and we were assured that after a year of establishment we could hope for blossoms, but you know, the neighbors felt that an awesome surprise Apple-Warming Gift would help solidify our chances.

We're not too worried yet, because he's still in the 95% percentile for height, or whatever those measurements are that parents of human children use to rate their kids against other kids to decide if they're normal.

Guess what, folks - they're not! They're all backward! Aaahahah ahahhA HAHAHAH ahaha!

Kidding - I have no idea about these measurements and what they mean or don't mean about whether your child is a future idiot or will grow up to be a super scientist.

Anyway.

So, these nice neighbors just knocked on the door, just as normal as could be, and then proceeded to gift us the most amazing tool imaginable that I actually had imagined buying about a thousand times but could never rationalize because HELLO when am I going to need to peel, core and slice quite so many apples?

I should just tell you now that this amazing surprise gift was The Apple Machine.

Feel free to stand back to properly absorb its glory.

This is the most amazing and wonderful machine of which I am aware.

Seriously, now.

I even told Bubba that, had I somehow invented this machine before anyone else in 1864 (thank you, Google), I could immediately die and be happy and satisfied with my life because this thing is a work of pure genius and obviously something for which its inventor will be forever known, Mr David Harvey Goodell. Don't act like you don't have his name tattooed on your ass cheek because I know that you do.

And if you don't think so then I'll thank you to produce one single other invention that is more ingenius, clever, easy to use, easy to clean and so 100% god damned effective. Go ahead, try.

Here, let me save you the trouble - you're wrong. The Apple Machine is better.

I mean, obviously.

Perhaps I was so bowled over by The Apple Machine at this particular moment because as he stood there just handing this magic machine to me as though it was the most mundane thing in the whole wide world and he wasn't even sure we'd want it (WHATEVER GIVE IT!), I had a whole basket of apples just getting ready to up and die on me.

And you know I don't do waste. Noooooooo.

So, obviously, I thanked him profusely and asked on about his own The Apple Machine and the status of their 2009 Apple Crisis (their tree produces apples, on top of which some of their friends door ditched them a bushel of apples. Woe is them) and then he started to look worried, so I let him say his polite goodbyes and escape to the peace and tranquility and Finny-Free-ness of his own house.

Despite this man's utter and total niceness, I'm not sure he quite knows what to do with me and my cocktail tottering ways.

Anyway.

Upon his departure, I made haste to the kitchen - along the way grabbing all the apples I could carry and crying out to my Joy of Cooking book that it better gird its fucking loins because I was about to bake an apple pie for the first time in about five or so years and it was gonna be a good'un.

And, in case you can't tell, I've been rummaging around in my brain thanks to NaNoWriMo and it appears the drama and Crazy spilling out on those pages is now overflowing here. Sorry about that. Don't mind the mess.

Now, there are a few apple pie recipes in Joy, I believe they are distinguished with numbers like I and II and maybe even III, and I think I went with Apple Pie II, but I can't be certain. Basically, this is the recipe and it's unique (to my small world at least) because it calls for pre-cooking the filling rather than tossing up the apple chunks raw and throwing them and the crust in the oven for the first time together as a couple.

Seems sorta trashy doesn't it?

I thought so, so I went for the pre-cooking the filling method, which seemed more decent and restrained. And we all know how decent and restrained I am.

Shut-up, you whores, I am.

The important thing is that I got to prop up my beloved, stained copy of Joy and commence to coring, slicing and peeling of my apple pile in, like, two minutes flat, because the thing is nearly assembled and ready right there in the box.

Bless it - it doesn't even need to be plugged in. Which, obviously, since it was invented before people had two dozen three-pronged outlets in their kitchens. Or electricity in their houses. Or stilettos.

And don't you judge me - I need all of those outlets. For things. Important, electricity sucking things. Like giant food processors.

Whatever, I'm getting off track.

I'd be lying if I said this was the only picture I took of this process.

Basically, within five minutes of mounting this beauty to my countertop (also mercifully quick and effective), I had a bowl full of perfectly sliced, peeled and cored apples ready to pre-cook with some butter, sugar and cinnamon in the approved holy way.

Just look at that and try to tell me it's not amazing. JUST TRY IT, SUCKAH.

This went into the compost. To make my compost amazing.

And this went into the pie to make the pie amazing.

I think you see where this is all headed.

As though I have any fucking clue what approved holy ways really are.

And, to keep these lovers apart for just a skosh more time - to heighten the longing and desire, I can only assume - I was told by Joy to let the hot, sweet filling cool to room temp in a single layer on a sheet before pouring it into the bottom crust.

Yes, I believe I *have* heard of food porn before.

If that's not good old-fashioned proper etiquette, I just don't know what is.

Though, it's surely obvious that I have ZERO idea what proper etiquette might be. But you knew that.

Sadly, though, I didn't pay so much attention to the warning bells going off in my head as I wandered over to the sideboard to cheerfully (and naively) retrieve the apple pie crust cutter gifted to me by a certain awesome mama.

Looks pretty promising, though, doesn't it?

Now, mom, don't get me wrong, I appreciate the cuteness of this particular item, and while the cuteness has not waned for me, its effectiveness does not, how you say, put it up there in the ranks with The Apple Machine given its general ineffectiveness and ability to destroy a perfectly good pie dough.

I mean, it started off innocently enough - I was even so excited to use it that it was the third thing I grabbed after Joy and the apples - but sadly, it's true vision was not to be appreciated as I dutifully turned my perfect dough into a misshapen wad.

NOT TO FEAR, though - because it was salvageable. And some apples did make an appearance on the final product.

Just not in the way I'd originally envisioned.

And after it baked, it looked as cute and chaste as could be. For a whoring apple pie, that is.

COVER YOURSELF!

Now, sadly, Bubba and I are still at odds over whether to deliver a thick slice of this pie to our Apple-Warming neighbors or wait until I bake another apple-something just especially for them (which could happen soon since the farmshare says we're getting apples again this week).

We probably shouldn't be having this conversation while eating the pie from the dish with one fork and his germs spewing everywhere (he has a cold) because the thought of giving them this germ-soaked masterpiece would probably feel more like a slap in the face than a proper thank you.

So, that seals it, I bake them something anew and won't let Bubba breathe near it.

Done. No repenting necessary.

Well, look who's up.

My mom used to do this when I was a kid.

Come creeping into my bedroom singing, "Rise and shine!" whilst ripping open the curtains letting mind-shattering sunlight sweep across my bedroom and sleeping eyeballs. And then she'd look over at me prying my eyes open in alarm and go, "Well! Look who's up!"

As though there was any chance I could have slept through her morning Broadway routine.

Ah, those were the days. When I could be bent out of shape for having to get up at 7am to the cheerful voice of my mama who'd already made us breakfast and wanted nothing more than for us to not be stiff pains in the ass on our way to school.

Anyway, I assume I'm not the only one whose mom used to do stuff like this. Perhaps you ARE a mom who does stuff like this? I don't know. Also, if your kids seem pissed about this now, they'll look fondly back on it in their 30s, so don't worry about their sneers and just forge ahead with your off-key singing and pleasant cheerfulness. Psychos.

Regardless, what I'm trying to say here is that the clouds were apparently ripped back long enough for some of the garden to start growing and TEE DAH, I'm excited. And I am reminded of my morning elementary school routine when I stand amidst newly growing plants. How apropos.

The strawberries seem to really like their new place in the world (away from the stupid annual vegetables and closer to the drip system), which is filling me with probably ill-advised hope as to their crop size this year. I'm sure I'll be fighting off the slugs soon, but until then, I reserve the right to be hopeful.

Don't try to ruin my good time.

And don't you try ripping us out in the fall, either.

It would also appear that the lettuce was advised of its command performance because it's doing the thing that I love most about lettuce: growing FAST.

I will have to thin this soon, but for now I'm just happy that some of the seeds I planted two weeks ago are doing what I explicitly told them to do when they were planted which is to GROW NOW, PLEASE.

These are the Butterhead Bibbs. I look forward to making the individual serving size salads purported to be possible from single heads of this lettuce. We'll see.

My destiny is to be covered in blue cheese dressing. No, really.

Thankfully, some other seeds have decided to make some movement despite the continual sub-70 temps and I was as shocked as you might be (do these things shock you? I kind of doubt it, but it sounds good.) that these other seeds were cucumbers - some of the heat-lovingest plants of them all.

Perhaps they saw me splayed out on the bench in the backyard trying with all my might (and while dressed in black head to toe) to absorb every degree of heat coming through the cloud cover and decided they were going to get in on the action.

But if I come out to the patio and find them in my sunny spot, things might get rough. I fight dirty, y'all and don't you forget it.

I've got my eye on the lounger. Don't tell.

I think I've forgotten to tell you the biggest news to hit our house in, oh, the entire time we've had the house - the apple tree is BLOOMING.

Yes. This was cause for much excitement, shrieking, clandestine tree-hugging and cautious optimism on both my part and Bubba's, because we were kinda thinking that the tree may be all show and no go. Even though the nursery said that the tree wouldn't bloom the first year. And even though that's what all the references said on the Internets. And even though that's what other plants have done. Still, though, we were afraid of getting our hopes up.

Which, TOO LATE NOW, they are way up there. I'm readying The Apple Machine.

I'm sorry this is a crappy photo. It was taken with my phone that is shy around apple blossoms. Obviously.

And in the most exciting of all the garden news (which, if you're a giant garden dork like moi is big talk) the potatoes are, well, UP.

Their UPness is actually what inspired this post and, I'll admit it, I channeled my mother this morning when I went out there to visit them and found them peeking out over the top of their #2 tire.

I did a sincerely shocked and slightly more blue version of my mom's wake-up routine when I pointed my finger accusingly at the potatoes and blurted out, "Oh! Well! Look who the fuck is up around here!"

Then I realized it was 6:45am and that not all of my neighbors enjoy hearing me scream swears as they are breaking their fast. Puritans.

But, really, if you saw this poking out over a short stack of tires, I think you'd do the same. Especially if was the first year you were growing potatoes and you didn't realize these fuckers grew quite so fast and that WOW look how pretty they are!

This weekend they'll get another tire, more dirt and a lot of retarded cooing from me because I'm a loser like that. And it'll all probably happen at around 6:45am, so I'll try not to scream swears or be too much of an asshole because I'd like my neighbors to continue liking us because I see their apricot tree blossoming and, well, you know...

Thankfully, there's another Test 10K (my last before the real thing) tomorrow that will at least keep me out of the garden until, perhaps, 9am when I hope to be trotting in victorious over my Virtual Whore and looking ahead optimistically to the coming weekend's Official Sub-60 10K PR attempt #1.

Get all that?

Probably not. That's OK. Just remember this: Potatoes are UP. Apple tree is NOT A LOSER. My neighbors are probably calling the cops right now, so bail me out?

Thanks, y'all.

Half a meadow + everything that's not vegetables.

How about before this turns into a LOOK AT THESE VEGETABLES DOING THINGS blog for the next six months, I show you the first results from last fall's efforts to turn my front yard into a drought tolerant meadow?

OK, let's do that.

But remember, like most things in the gardening world - this is an ongoing process. I'm imagining it will take a few seasons of, "Hey, there's an empty patch, let's put something there." before it gets all filled in and truly meadow-like.

So, I just say that because I don't want any to hear any beef about the bald spots that were supposed to be all covered with bushy meadow grass by now what happened is it dead? Because I don't need that kind of pressure in my life, oh beloved neighbors who I try to imagine are just being constructive and interested.

Sheesh. Go mow your water-sucking lawn and leave me to my bulbs.

Anyway - I'm OK with how my future meadow is progressing so far, and since I know that we won't have to mow ever again, that makes it all the better.

So, obviously, given these photos, the $.99 landscaping I did has proven again to be well worth my time. All 30 seconds of it that I spent dumping out a few packets of wildflower seeds and kicking dirt over them with the toe of my flip-flop.

The sidewalk patch has never looked finer and now I'm starting to wonder if I should have just taken that approach on the entire front yard except that I know how barren it gets around, say, December, and I doubt our neighbors would enjoy the dirt hole of our sidewalk patch extended across our entire front yard.

No, that'd be ugly. And I'd be ashamed. But only if it were the whole front yard. The dog pee hole though? That can go ahead and look shitty for three months out of the year and I won't give much of a crap. I mean, what do I expect from a dollar's worth of seeds? A year round cutting garden of Eden?

No.

I just expect it to look passable for most of the year while I don't water it or do anything other than point to it and go, "HA! 99 cents. That rules." as I go on about my life. Also, sometimes I get excited about the poppies and take photos like those you see above, BUT THAT'S IT.

I don't want more commitment than that with a sidewalk patch that's not "technically" mine in the first place, according to the City of San Jose.

Alright, now that we've paid heed to the front yard's shenanigans, I'll give you a quick run-down of what the backyard is doing to get my attention before all of my eyes are on the vegetables until October.

Much to my relief, the potatoes (top left) are actually sprouting in their old tires, so all that time they spent getting wrinkly and pathetic-looking on my counter wasn't a complete detriment to their ability to grow. Phew. I still have no fucking idea what I'm doing with the potatoes (help - when do I put more soil on them? Now?), but they at least appear to be alive. Yay.

Much to Bubba's relief, the apple tree (moving right through the photos) is making another effort at growing this year - its second year in our yard and its first overwintered spring - and that's good because if the apple tree croaked ohmigawdIdontknowwhatwewoulddo.

Some daffodils are blooming still - which was a surprise because I thought we were done after the white and yellow ones, but SURPRISE, there were some of my favorite variety just waiting to sprout up and get trampled by the dog. For the record, I favor the ones with the orange centers because, well, I like orange. So there's that.

The cherry tree, which I love with the rest of my heart that's not dedicated to loving tomatoes (there's some room left over), is blooming enthusiastically which pleases me greatly and causes my neighbors (who gave us the tree) to warn us about stealthy thieves who've been known to sneak into people's gardens and leave holes where, previously, there were healthy blossoming cherry trees. They're such jokers!

I have installed locks, though. Just to be safe. (Kidding)

On the patio, totally minding its own business since I raped it of all of its lemons a month ago, is the dwarf Meyer lemon just blooming its little heart out. Which is incredible given the horrible shearing I gave it a few years back, from which I thought it would never recover. Yikes. When I think about the pruning that poor tree took...*shudder* Anyway - it has about five hundred blossoms on it right now and PHEW. Plus, it smells rully nice.

Yarrow. It's fuzzy. And the two new plants I put in, like, five minutes ago, are already blooming. And you don't really care so let's just move on.

Strawberries! They're alive! Which is no small miracle since, a few years back, I nearly pulled them from the veg beds before their time to throw them away because I didn't know that strawberries are perennials. Oh. Thank you, mom, for letting me in on that little secret in time to save these very happy plants from certain death. Now they are happily growing in the landscaping, where they won't be chucked into the composter by a retarded gardener (moi), but will probably be napped upon by our dog who is a total plant napper.

And, according to the photo collage (which isn't as handy as I'd imagined since I've had to do all this elaborate referencing that's starting to really annoy me), we're back at the cherry tree now, which is in full bloom and YAY because maybe this year we'll pull more than a pound of cherries from it so I can make things like pie.

And you know how we like pie.

So that's it. I'm off the hook. I don't *have* to pay any more attention to anything other than the vegetables I'm about to plant this weekend until, like, October when the vegetables are dying out and I remember there are other things in my yard that want photo shoots and undivided attentions and thing.

So needy.

Tomorrow: Beans, cucumbers, lettuce, melons and tomatoes

#600 & Adopt a Crop : CORN, bitches!

I'm not going to blow a lot of space on this, but I thought you should know that I've subjected you to 600 posts now and that seems like a lot of you putting up with my foul mouth, so...thank you?

Anyway, yay! 600!

Now, back to the real story, which is corn.

Yes, bitches, CORN already!

This is the first year I've grown corn and corn is scary.

Scary like I've never grown it before so it could have disease or pest issues I don't know how to fix or it might have all kind of special needs I don't know how to address or it might be an anti-semite or WHO KNOWS. See. It's scary.

Or, should I say was scary.

Well, if you're my neighbor, corn still IS scary, but he's a funny dude who saw that movie too many times or perhaps had a traumatizing childhood experience near a cornfield so I can't account for all that, but to me - corn is no longer scary.

See. If I were scared of corn could I get this close to it? Alright, then.

Because the corn is HERE! In the sense that it is actually ripe and we're going to eat it for dinner tonight. And then hopefully for a lot of other nights because WHOA there's a good deal of it out there.

When it rustles, my neighbor squeals like a woman. It's amusing. Because he's not a woman.

And if I seem extra excitable about the whole situation it's because I'm trying to not be mad at Bubba for cracking off the first ear last night away from my prying eyes. And after we were so full from our gazpacho that we couldn't possibly eat the freshly cracked corn (Oh. Is that where that saying comes from? Because I DO care. Is anyone getting this?) in his hot fist even though that's how one must enjoy corn - freshly and immediately picked - so that it doesn't turn all starchy and wrong waiting for your teeth to chomp down on it.

Whoopsy.

But that's OK. I forgive the Bubba. He must have the corn fever, too. He's been helping me palpate the ears and estimate their readiness, so I have to assume that the excitement consumed him and he was unable to restrain his man hand from cuh-racking that ear right off.

I should have made us eat it right there, shouldn't I?

Too late now. We're having it tonight for dinner, with another ear which will be freshly cracked by moi, and we'll do a side by side taste test to see what's better: freshly cracked or yesterday cracked.

And now I will not say cracked or corn any more in this post.

But tomatoes. We can say, tomatoes. So let's!

If you've peeked at the tracker (which I'm actually being really good about updating, dontchaknow) you know that I've already taken down 12 lbs of tomatoes from those plants and we're nearly $80 in the black for the garden this season.

Sweetness. Yes, yes.

What you wouldn't know from looking at the tracker is that the garden shows no signs of said harvesting.

Oh no. It looks like no one has attended to its ripening bounty in a good long time since everything is producing and ripening and fruiting and basically making itself known in the vegetable sense.

Helloooooooo? Anyone home? We're ready to come inside now.

I have never grown tomatoes quite this large, my friends. And when I say, large, I don't mean just the plants are large. No. I mean the tomatoes themselves are XXL. Like, if we were on the islands, we'd be looking for that hula shop with the 4XL sign in the window so that we could properly dress these fuckers for a night out on the town.

There's just more of me to love, baby.

Not that we take our tomatoes out on evening excursions, but you get what I'm saying. Amongst the normal sized tomatoes - in the 1/2 lb category and such, we've had a disproportionate number of biggies. And I've picked more 1 lb+ monsters so far this season than I have in all of my combined gardening seasons and, of that, I'm proud.

Scared. But proud.

And let's not forget that the plants are mighty large themselves. To the point where they're trying to tear down their heavy duty cage in order to...well, I don't know what. Run for freedom? Escape to the circus? Mingle with the apple tree?

Who knows?


To keep them from running off, Bubba helped me reinforce their cages with twine and rebar and we've both given the apple tree a stern lecture about provoking the tomatoes.

YOU KNOW HOW THEY ARE, APPLE TREE - Don't taunt. It's rude.

You may also be frightened to know that the beans have gotten a second wind and are putting out another crop for me. Because they heard we were getting more beans in the farmshare this week and that my freezer is still full from the last 4 lbs I took off the plants which I believed to be my final bean harvest and clearly was not.

You know you want it.

Um, darn?

Also, if you were sad that we weren't going to be featuring the bulbous lovable lemon cucumbers around here anymore because we'd reached the finish line with this year's Adopt a Crop - dry your tears. The cucumbers have not yet halted production.



No. I picked about a half pound last night for our gazpacho and, in so doing, still left a sizable crop on the plants for, um, later. Yeah. We might have to make more pickles.

Other things are growing, too, although not as quickly or astoundingly as other things. These not astounding things of which I speak are the citrus.

I'd be astounding if I were a kumquat.

The lemon tree is doing, I'd say, average, and putting some energy into filling out the fruit that has set and stayed after it dropped a million little dried up good-for-nothings on my patio.


The new kumquat is doing, I'll say, slightly below average, given that it's dropped most of the tiny fruit that it initially set and is rounding out the few last little fruits with minimal daily progress. This may have been the result of a recent and poorly managed heat wave.

Thankfully the plant looks glorious and shiny despite its sudden lack of teensy fruits, so I'll give it a pass just this once. But no more free rides after this, kumquat - you hear me?

And that about does it for the update here. And I guess I can stop calling it Adopt a Crop since we've gone full circle on that madness already. Y'all can start thinking about what your winter crop might should be. And I'll start thinking about whether I have it in me to pull together a winter garden. Think about things like potatoes, garlic, onions and fava beans.

Just think about them! That's all!

I'm back and not Oh Nooooooooing.

I realized today, after a few Facebook messages and tweets from concerned bee-followers asking after my vitals, that I should probably check in with you guys so you know that both Bubba and I are fine.

No one's been stung or carried off by a swarm and neither of us has a beard or other hairpiece constructed from bees. Though, that last one would be cool-ish.

After the mayhem on Saturday, Sunday was relatively mellow. I mean, they sorta did the same bullcrap they did on Saturday with the flying all around the yard and clumping up at the entrance of the hive, but the big concern from Saturday began resolving itself and, of course, the big no-nos from Saturday were righted, allowing some semblance of order to be restored.

Specifically, I installed a makeshift hive top style feeder and the entrance reducer at its teeniest setting.

And then I set about capturing the swarm that had gathered on my fence. Which was the Big Concern from Saturday.

Oh hooray.

Sidenote: The fence to which I refer is the one that we share with the shitty neighbors.

The very same neighbors who I haven't talked to in any great length in, oh, about six months. Sure, from time to time we exchange sort of pleasant Hellos, but they really don't indulge in normal human interaction, so the opportunity to chat and, say, advise them on the status of my backyard hobbies has been non-exisistent.

What I'm saying is that they don't know (or, at least they haven't mentioned it yet) that I have a beehive in my backyard, so when all the bees swarmed the fence sniffing longingly after their departed queen (she landed there briefly before taking the fuck off forever), I sort of thought that this was karma's way of being, like, "You see what you've done. You didn't tell them about it like you should have and now you're going to have to go over there and be, like, 'Hi Neighbors Who Hate Me, I have a swarm of bees on the fence and I need to access your yard in order to capture them.'"

Barf.

Thankfully, by some miracle, the bees settled on swarming on MY side of the fence. Where I could then set about capturing them without the super soul-eating task of asking permission of my hating neighbors to access their yard to recapture a swarm of stinging insects that I'd released upon the world without their knowing.

Um...come to mama?

Anyway, I waited until they'd settled pretty well (bees are all about the sun, so when it starts to set and cool off, they huddle up and sleep until morning) and then went about brushing them into a box and pouring them back into the hive.

It was vaguely satisfying and not at all death defying, so that was good going.

Bubba seemed pleased that the big white box that had been activity-less in the morning was, after a very raucous day, once again activity-less and also full of the bees I'd introduced not more than 24 hours before.

Better.

The shit was back in the bag, so to speak. Plus, no neighborly interactions.

Well, that's not true. Another set of neighbors, the super nice ones with whom we share a dutch door in the fence, actually said it was "cool" and they weren't afraid at all because they're "not allergic or anything" and, hey, "the apple tree will love it!"

Gotta love those kind of neighbors. The kind that think swarming bee activity is cool.

Meanwhile, I tried not to let on that this behavior was unexpected or that I hadn't had any idea what to do about it when I'd first come upon it. Can't have them thinking I'm a total idiot.

And now? Well, I called the bee yard on Monday morning first thing, after leaving them two voicemails over the weekend (bee yards apparently do NOT work weekends) and at least one freakish sounding email, to get a new queen overnighted to my house.

How very last Thursday of me!

And that queen should be waiting for me this afternoon to be installed tonight. Hopefully without incident. And then again, hopefully without incident, in a few days the workers will release her from her cage by way of enjoying a nice smushy marshmallow that will never see the inside of a s'mores and then after that I hope to see some pollen laden bees traveling back to that hive from my cherry tree. DAMN IT ALL.

For reals. I want that tree pollinated. Watching them pass by the big billowing blossoms over the weekend was almost more than I could take.

We don't have much time!

And, hey, it wouldn't hurt to hang out on the citrus trees, while they're at it.  And the apple tree that's suddenly gone into pink bud stage.

We have a little bit more time. But still.

 So, I'll plan to update you on the queen's status soon. If you're antsy and don't want to wait until I have a few minutes to scrape together to blog on it, you can follow me on Twitter or Facebook where all my updates outside of Blogger happen.

And, if you're of the sort who wants your bee learning sans drama and swearing, I'm sharing as I go on Examiner.com.

I took some pictures so get excited, already.

There was yesterday when I was all, "I don't know what to talk to you fuckers about because I don't have any pictures to tell me what's going on in my life." and then proceeded to tell you about how my dog eats dead animals in Tahoe because that's what I had for pictures.

Not the dead animal eating, but Tahoe.

You know. You were there.

And now there's today when I have some pictures to remind me that yes, I stayed up late last night canning apple pie filling even though I hardly need photos to tell me that I'm exhausted and there's a weird sticky spot in my hair that lingers on even though I keep brushing at it and swearing.

Let me back the truck up a bit...

See, my neighbors are really nice people, y'all. These are the ones who brought such joys into my life as the tomato tunnel, group mulch hauling and The Apple Machine. Obviously they are people to be hugged regularly and given lavish gifts of microbrews from the beer fridge and good wine in The Big Glasses.

Well, to continue down their path to neighborly sainthood, they also delivered unto us (that's how people say it, right?) a big ass box of apples from their tree. Which, YAY!, right?

This isn't the monster box. This is only what was left after canning the damn pie filling. Yes, "damn" and "sainthood" can be mentioned in the same post. As can "fuck" and "shit". This is a big caption.

Normally, yes, it would be YAY! I'm going to can apple pie filling this weekend to give as gifts at the holidays because I'm not sewing shit this year! YAY! except that I'm going to be out of town again this weekend and oh I don't really need a monster box of apples going rapidly bad and fruit fly-y in my kitchen.

No, I don't need that in my life.

So, because I'm delusional and don't have proper understanding of the limits of time and space, I decided that oh well I guess that means I'm going to can this apple pie filling during the week after work and dog walking and dinner making and dinner eating and cocktail hour and wait, I think I just ran out of hours.

But I thought that if I sliced apples one night (with the help of The Apple Machine who I love) while watching the Giants summarily quash the hopes and dreams of all Atlanta fans (stopped your damn chopping, didn't we? Oh yes.)  and then went to the hardware store for jars another night and then did the actual canning yet another night - well, I could successfully turn these apples into canned pie filling before they turned to garbage can filling in my kitchen.

Um, kaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay. Sounds iffy, but I'll try it.

Go Giants.

Go Apple Machine.

Go Me.

Yeah. Around 10:30 last night I surveyed my destroyed kitchen, took one look at the clock on my range and let out a dramatic, "Boo on you clock. It is not 10:30pm. That is incorrect. Stop your lying."

Which awoke Bubba from the couch and touched off a brief conversation about my abusive relationship with inanimate objects.

Anyway, whatever, because I made it through 2/3 of the monster box of apples, canned 6 quarts of apple pie filling and cleaned up the kitchen before I took my sticky ass to bed.

ROMANCE. Yes, it is alive in our home.

Oh, but I didn't tell you that when I had gathered all my ingredients, materials, recipe and tools from the four corners of my universe (one corner being Orchard Supply Hardware because my life is very glam), I re-read the recipe for the one hundredth time and noticed that OH the fucking thing says that it takes TWO quarts of this legendary pie filling to make ONE 9 inch pie. Which isn't all that handy of a gift to give someone.

"Happy whatever holiday you celebrate! Please to enjoy these TWO ungainly and heavy jars of pie filling which I made all by meself and which you can use to make ONE measly pie! Bye now! Don't leave doody on my front doorstep!"

Yeah, it's no kind of gift.

But, what was I to do?

I didn't absorb this fine detail until after I'd gone to OSH for my dozen QUART jars even though when I went to pick up the flat of quarts I accidentally, at first, grabbed the flat of HALF GALLON jars (you know that two quarts makes a half gallon, right, because it does.) and then, after being all WHOOPSY! Better get the quarts, dummy, came home and ripped the plastic free of the quart-sized jar flat so that I could caress the pretty new unscratched jars while I memorized the recipe and OH WAIT this isn't what I had in mind at all.

*Sigh* It was a dramatic moment in my world of canning shit.

Well, what I did was call an audible at the line. Which, if you're any kind of sports fan or absent-minded cook, means that you assessed the new issue at hand and changed your plan to suit your current situation.

Let me say that if I were a dude and physically inclined in the football-type way, I'd make a fine quarterback. Or, at least a decent offensive line coach because I can call an audible like a fucking pro. Watch out, Solari, I'm gunning for your job!

Not really. I wouldn't want to take on that mess.

For my big call though...

I decided that this apple pie filling would be RUSTIC apple pie filling which OH YES requires only the one quart of filling and YAY AGAIN but this time for the recipient, only requires the one pie crust. So, no rolling out two circles of pie crust for a covered pie because in RusticLand you just roll out the one crust, pour in your filling, fold up the edges, bake it in the oven for a while and go out to the back 40 to chop wood or whatever it is that Rustic people do in RusticLand while they're waiting on their Rustic It Only Takes One Quart Apple Pie to finish baking.

Phew.

Did you get all that?

I'm about to Rustic UP this place.

Basically, I made 6 quarts of apple pie filling from one monster box of apples given unto us (see! again! Has it stopped being funny? Really, you can say.) by our neighbors and will give BACK to them and some other fine people at the holidays with a tag recipe for Rustic Apple Pie using the one quart of filling.

Neato burrito patio mosquito. (If you know this reference in its bastardized form then, whoa.)

Because of the weirdness and convolution of this whole thing though, I will now only be giving away 5 quarts of this pie filling because I feel compelled to test try it out on our household before inflicting my apple drama gift on others. So, keep an eye peeled for a post entitled, "Rustic Garbage Can Filling" or something similar.

Aren't we glad I had something to talk about today?

Yeah. I know.