Ding Dong Ditch 2

 My straw bale garden has been growing and growing, and I am in full on harvest mode—desperate to off-load produce onto unsuspecting friends and neighbors.

Unfortunately, most of the people I know are in a similar situation and the search for produce-receptive people has become rather competitive.

I had lamented my lack of victims—er, my lack of “recipients” on Facebook, and a couple of friends messaged me with various “someones” they believed would welcome piles ‘o produce—specifically zucchini. 

I know, I know-- I too, found it hard to believe that such people existed, but desperate gardeners are not about to look at a miracle too skeptically, so when I was informed that a such willing person existed RIGHT DOWN THE ROAD from me, I immediately loaded up a brown paper bag with zukes, put on my mask, and headed over.

Now, the more suspicious among you might assume the mask was to hide my identity but I assure you, this was not the case. I was just trying to do my part to mitigate any possible virus transmission; the fact that I’d be harder to ID in a police line-up was only a secondary consideration.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t worked through the entire produce delivery scenario in my head. And when my neighbor opened the door to my rather quiet knock I wasn’t quite prepared, and panicked. Do I just thrust the bag into her arms and run? Was I supposed to have put the produce on the porch, then ring the bell? Wait—was I supposed to set fire to the bag first?

While these and other thoughts zipped thru my brain, I must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Luckily for me, my neighbor is a very kind person and she not only accepted the zucchini, she invited me to sit on the porch and have a visit—at the approved socially-distant distance, of course.

Embolden by this success, I will admit that it has been over 48 hours since I last shined a spotting scope on my garden...What could possibly happen that my newly acquired delivery skills wouldn’t be equal to the task?

Hubris. 

I haz it.

Ding Dong Ditch

 Summer is at its peak and you know what that means: everybody you know is offering you zucchini. And by offering, I of course mean dumping it on your lawn in the middle of the night and speeding off.

Experienced gardeners try to avoid this situation by harvesting their zucchini early and often. It’s a lot easier to “share” your zucchini with others if it’s smaller than a large canoe. But harvesting squash before it becomes unwieldy can be more challenging than you might expect. Zucchini is a master of the art of camouflage. Hiding in plain sight is also a common tactic. Sometimes, these two tactics are used together.

“Don’t mind me. I’m just a l’il ol’ harmless zucchini, just hanging out here at the edge of the garden, right where you can keep an eye on me. Please go on about your business. I’ll just be here, minding my own. Probably check back with me in, say, oh two days and I’ll be the perfect size for harvest.”

DO NOT FALL FOR THIS SUBTRAFUGE. Zucchini apparently have a bad steroid/growth hormone habit and will expand exponentially once your back is turned. And even if the zucchini in question doesn’t grow to gargantuan proportions in that amount of time, I can say—based on my own real-life experience—that the minute you congratulate yourself and bend over to harvest your Just The Right Size Zucchini, before you can straighten back up, your eye will fall and at least three other squash that have been stealthily assuming prize-winning proportions behind the cover of the harmless, l’il ol’ zucchini out front.

What to do with the four squash you’ve now staggered into the house with? Sure, you have plans for the ONE harmless (deceitful) zuke but now you’ve acquired three more, larger fruit. Fortunately for me, I happen to be Facebook friends with a woman whose mother is my neighbor. My FB friend claims her mother would love to have some zucchini and I should just take it over to her.

So, I did.

Next week: Part two of Ding-Dong Ditch. Spoiler alert, no bail money was required, hooray!

Jack and the Cinderella Pumpkin Stalk

I have a tale to tell, but it’s kind of hard to believe. You remember the story of Jack and the Beanstalk and how he traded his mother’s cow for some magic beans? He threw them away after his mom got a little bit miffed about the poor bargain; in the morning there was a towering beanstalk that reached into the clouds, and there was a giant, some thievery, bone-grinding and bread making, a talking musical instrument –I think it said “Help, help, I’m being oppressed!” But I could be misremembering that part. Anyway, the story ends with Jack chopping down the beanstalk—possibly killing the giant, but probably in some sort of pseudo self-defense—and living happily ever after with his ill-gotten gains. One hopes he at least bought his mother a low-mileage cow, if not a new one.

Now that I think about it, I wonder if this story was more an allegory about Wall Street than a fairy tale, but I digress.

My story is kind of like that. Except my name isn’t Jack, my mom hasn’t owned a cow in 50 years and the seeds in question are pumpkin seeds—Cinderella pumpkin seeds, to be precise.

Perhaps it is the Cinderella part that infused these seeds with magic, because I planted those things and holy cow! (Hah! There is a cow in this story after all!) Those seeds are growing at a phenomenal rate. They have already taken over my entire straw bale garden—it’s all pumpkin vine, stem to stern—the vines have forced me to remove my inner-pheasant fence by threatening to climb right over it, and now seem intent on neighborhood domination.

So far, there have been no talking musical instruments, ill-gotten gains, or bone-grinding. There was a bit of bread making-- but everybody is making bread these days so I’m discounting that.
But if a really, really tall guy starts hanging around mumbling “Fi, fi, foe, a deer, a female deer,” or mice begin to talk and offer to make me a ball gown-- I am out of here.

Secrets and Gardens

I have a secret, and it’s too delicious not to share. However, it seems that I may have promised not to share it—not yet anyway. So as difficult as it is for me to keep it to myself—I shall attempt to do just that.

Gosh, I really don’t know what else to talk about...Secrets can be marvelous, keeping them can be a full-time job. I suppose I could give you a garden update, tell you how my Straw Bale Garden is growing.

My SBG is growing like a weed. And it is growing weeds—despite all the assurances to the contrary, it had sprouted so many green shoots it looked like a shaggy green Cousin It. Every time I walk by it I grab a hand full and yank.

It is also growing veggies. My potatoes plants are leafy green, my tomatoes have blossoms, my radish crop has come to fruition. It was so exciting to pluck that first radish! To marvel at its lovely color, to rub it clean on my pant leg and then crunch it right up. First fruits always taste best when eaten right there in the garden. Who needs Farm to Table when you can just skip the table part?

After the third harvest of radishes I noticed that my “sweet radish” radishes seemed to be getting progressively spicy. I also remembered that I’m not a big fan of radishes to begin with.

My lettuce crop seemed to go from sprout, to baby tender—I know, because I picked a leaf and ate it—to looks like we have salad for days, to holy cow somebody grab the machete.

The peas are being temperamental, but the beans are taking off, the carrots should probably be referred to as THE Carrot---I don’t know what happened there. The Cinderella pumpkin is already setting fruit and appears set on world domination. I’ve been afraid to look at the zucchini plant—what if I’m the only person in the history of zucchini who can’t grow them? After all the unkind things I’ve said about zuke prolific-ness, I’d hate to have to eat my words.

Come to think of it—my words might taste better than veggies. I look at my vegetable garden and I’m starting to get overwhelmed at the thought of eating all that. Do I even like green beans? Oh sure, with enough bacon in them—but how healthy is that?

Luckily for me, the pheasant seems to like radishes more that I do so I guess it won’t hurt me to share with him.