Artifacts surface.
An incomplete mystery about the past: gracelessness or brutishness?
Under the edge of the deck, shiny green shards of something foreign appear. Painted clay, stylized glazed leaves. Black lines, a simulation of striation. Once a playful cheekiness, now harsh cracked edges and missing flakes. A scattering of what was once whole.
This is not a treasure recently lost. Near Hopper’s burrow, he finds what the tenant overlooks. A planned project for this fiscal year or a curiosity that poked through to grab the caretaker’s attention? A small piece here, a jagged edge there: discovery is well under way.
A story exists behind these pieces.
Who was the tenant that lost this artifice? Was it smashed with intent?
Was the loss marked at all?
Discovered pieces remain in place waiting for more to be uncovered. With enough pieces the shape and size of the pot could be known.
Other flourishes could be revealed.
The story will never be fully known.
Controlled, comfortable environments instill a sense of safety. A too precious perspective built on a curated worldview. Ignorance of the world gives way, eventually, ready or not.
Transition is achieved through measurable steps. Heat tolerance built slowly, observation earned atop the tables in the greenhouse. Let out for an hour in the shade, then a couple. A week later the seedlings spend most of the day in the partial sun, feeling an open breeze. Ready for their summer home.
Sunny days, nights projected to stay above forty-five degrees. Time to chance planting the nightshades and cucumbers. Tomatoes near the garlic, nasturtiums and peppers together. Eggplants as a connector between the carrot patch and potato trench.
A season that doesn’t follow a strict schedule, but where everything falls into place. A mix of planning, patience, and whatever the season provides.
Some hardening was enough. Others weren’t ready.
They chose to tap out. I’m not ready to deviate.
I venture to the neighborhood garden center. Tagwords — organic, sustainably grown, eco-friendly — signify this is the right place for me.
Very few of my marigolds sprouted. Colorful dashes, their deterrence value intact regardless of origin. I buy enough to fill the bases of each cucumber vine.
Cauliflower and broccoli. Mine are sparse and struggling. I hedge for the future and add a couple quads to my collection. I know a space in one of the raised beds, where they will be partially shaded.
Finally, a new pepper. I have lots of thriving peppers. This is vanity.
Back in Plot 17, I incorporate this amendment to my plan. As I fill in around the cucumber, I note Hopper gnawing nearby, studying this change to the balance. As I wrap up with the infusion of more stable Brassica, I see Hopper has followed, eyeing the cages. Tracking what is new. Soon after, he moves on. Calculations updated.
Uncontained space leaves vulnerable greens and carrots exposed, susceptible to becoming someone else’s salad. I cage them to protect them. Tomatoes, peppers, and eggplants require support, incapable of carrying their weight independently. Staking them now prevents nibbling and trampling as their roots take. Cucumbers, beans, and peas must be provided space to climb. This doubles to create a leaf wall privacy fence.
Within the eastern clearings, I cage in two areas with wire fences. One easy to reach from the path for clippings. The other a border below the edge of the elderberries. Morning sun, shading greens by midday.
I assembled a framed chicken fence together around the south clearing planters. Strawberries protected from birds, shade cover for greens in the hottest months, more space for peas to clutch and hang their pods.
As I carry sections into place I feel Sola’s eyes following me. At first glance her smile suggests pleasure, basking in the sun. But that smile is frozen, the manic stare suggests danger. I work quickly to screw the corners in place, never turning my back.
A steady flow, then suddenly nothing.
A couple dry weeks leave a near empty rain barrel. I’ve connected the hose to the house and rolled it out to tend to the seedlings. Fifteen minutes in, reaching the far east corner, I thumb on the wand to… nothing.
I glance behind me, expecting a hose kink and seeing a taut line. Thumb the valve closed and open again. Obviously, nothing changes. Flip the hose’s valve back and forth, to no avail, unsure which way is open. Hands on hips, staring at the hose dumbfounded. I close and reopen the wall spigot. I even toggle the valve in the basement. I can’t explain the parallel where I find myself.
Back out at the spigot, I slowly scan the clearing.
No movement. No sound. No wind.
I run my hand the length of the hose, searching for a block. Nothing.
I disconnect at the house and all the water in the hose sprays out at the source.
I reconnect and turn on the water.
It flows out the wand, no issues.
Five minutes of peculiarity, back where I started.
I finished the watering.
Unsure what just happened.
Or if it will happen again.
With seedlings and garden support structures settled, I distribute the additional ollas. A safe guard for coming warm, dry days. For stretches of days where I am distracted and forget to water.
one quart terracotta pot = one foot diameter of moisture
three quart terracotta pot = one and a half foot diameter
There is a science, but this doesn’t require precision. Center each between a few plants.
I feel Sola’s hard stare continue to track me as I set the pots in place, and see her toes on her olla’s edge brace when I near. I hear her move to keep her watch as I round the corner of the house. Getting down to dig, I catch Maren leaning over her shoulder, Sola whispering updates in her ear. To the far east end, Hopper looks on. A determined chew, charting my progress.
Everyone watches as I execute my plan. Long hours digging, training, then watering in the sun, end in a sense of exhaustion and pride at dusk.
One day the branches are bare. The fear tickles: dormant or dead?
As temperatures warm, I look askance anywhere color isn’t popping. It is a silent wait, resisting verbalizing the contemplations of morbidity.
Then one day, multiple branches of the elderberry have a string of explosions. From each node, multiple leaves push and squeeze through. Vying for premier position, a spot in the sun. A flood of relief as each shoot is quickly covered with green patches.
But up near the top. There is a limb with no explosion of leaves. Not a single sign of green, all the way down to the base. One limb of many is not the concern: six feet above the deck, eight above the ground, it is snapped, hanging limp. Damage higher than anything spotted yet in Plot 17.
It makes the mind pause, the eyes slowly search the site for anything watching. Anyone else who might know.
The search offers nothing.
What knows, keeps that knowledge close.
Among the dried remnants,
something fresh.
Ragged, woodsy remains of last year. Some chopped for eating, others cut back at winter’s onset, maximum energy in reserve for the next season.
Vibrant purple talons make their early spring appearance. One day, a spear head, just barely visible. The next the stalk extends, revealing its meaty thickness: stored energy expended to break through. A couple days later, two or three separate foot long spears. Ready to harvest. To roast over a grill. The next two weeks are a steady harvest, taken clean with a snap at soil level.
Inevitable. More stalks each year as the roots spread and strengthen their claim.
What was a casual obstacle has become a fence,
redirecting other creatures around the rows.
Consistency.
Now a part of the site's legacy.
The roots remember what the tenant has yet to learn.
A Tenant's Quiche
A break from the garden, the celebration of returns.
Diet evolves through the year, with what the season yields.
Make dough for a crust
Cup your hands and scoop two healthy loads of flour.
Small hands might need three scoops. It should be roughly 2 ¼ cups.
Pour salt on the flour long enough to think “Oh, that’s salt!” Teaspoonish.
Mix until all hope of removing excess salt is lost.
Cut a stick of butter into 32 cubes. 24 cubes go in the salty mix. Scoop in the amount of shortening necessary to lather up and cook yourself in the sun like it’s the 1960’s. Don’t overdo it, ⅔ of a cup should be sufficient.
A fork is best for mixing the shortening and butter, squashing the cubes into smaller bits, coating well. Do this as long as a two-year old’s attention span allows. If there are still crumbles of butter and shortening, just shrug. It’s a crust not a bomb.
Add a dash of very cold water and mix. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
After the ½ cup of water is added, dough masquerades as smooth, but crumbles at any stress. Dump on a lightly floured counter and form two loose, flaky balls. Wrap individually in plastic wrap and chill in the fridge.
Read The Great Gatsby in its entirety; an exquisite way to spend 180-210 minutes on your hammock, in the sun. Reflecting on the hollowness of the bourgeois, assemble the quiche. Or wait up to five days. Sometimes it’s nice to start a project, lose steam, do something else, and come back to it later. Just don’t forget.
Assemble the quiche
Roll out the dough ball until it will cover your quiche pan, which might be a tart pan. A tart pan is shorter, but using the wrong one (or the only one you have) won’t functionally change the recipe. You’re cooking. It’s not that serious.
Place in the oven at 375o. If you didn’t preheat it, do that now while you weigh down the crust. It wants to rise, but you need to fill it in 15 minutes. If you don’t own pie weights, use an oven safe bowl or a small glass dish.
In a bowl whip equal parts eggs, milk, and heavy cream.
Two, ¼ c., ¼ c. for less custard and more fillings.
Chop asparagus, ham, and swiss cheese. Mix with custard and fill the crust. Don’t let it overflow, but it won’t rise much so near the lip is fine.
Place in the oven at 350o. Did you lower the temperature before? If not, do it as you put the pan in. Check back in 45 minutes and then at 5 minute intervals. Pacing. Anxious. Waiting until the custard is set and the top of the crust is lightly browned.
Let sit for a couple minutes, cut and serve.
Or chill it and eat cold.
Both are delicious.
Or right out of the oven take a fork and start eating it out of the pan.
You’re an adult.
I’m just text on a page.
Visible from the kitchen, at the dining room door, the deck’s an extension of the house. An elevated platform. In previous seasons I treated it as a necessary transformation from home to a stage for plant hardening and finally out into the garden.
For Charlie it is a place for oversight. Monitoring. Searching.
Charlie has the right idea. Maybe not about sitting on the railing. Definitely not in using it as a hunting stand, on the watch for new baby rabbit playmates. But about the sitting itself: sun, shade, and the bird chirps.
I assemble a new wicker seating area. One end positioned to nap in the sun. The other side, ideal for reading in the house’s afternoon shade. On the south side, ornamental lattices wait for the cucumbers.
As the season progresses, the elderberry and cucumbers create a privacy screen. An outdoor sanctuary, a place to eat on a warm evening, with people worth feeding.
Violence on display.
Left as a statement or a threat?
Two tulip blooms are left lying on the ground. A bold red and elegant yellow. Petals half open, otherwise unharmed. The stem chewed clean, just below the bloom.
A message not a meal.
Too select to be petty vandalism. Beside these two the street front display of tulips and hyacinth are in full bloom. Mostly open, a few on the verge, an array of colors and types well mixed. The first spring after placing most of the bulbs, the volume is thin, but the success rate is high.
Tulips have a slim elegance that looks simple, yet this bed takes time, patience to assemble. Smothering of the under-achieving grass and over-achieving weed was quick, deliberate. Then it's not mass plopping bulbs down, but balancing the 2”-3” and the 6”-8” depths of each type. Varying the bulbs to not end up with even segments of yellow tulips, purply hyacinth, red tulips. A rolling area of time, height, and color emerges through careful planning rather than random chance.
These dissections feel as well considered.
Small purple fingers spread, morphing into green leaves. As one anthropomorphic feature recedes, eyes extend from the bush. Squeezed shut at the ends of stems, the semi-double peonies form. Soon a bulky ball of maroon petals, just revealing their golden center, bloom.
They are bold, rampant, and short lived. Five days from full bloom to wilting flowers, petals limp and falling. Beauty lasts but a short time, easily missed when distracted by the mundanities of professional affairs. To focus energy towards the roots and next year, as soon as the bloom starts to shrivel, it’s off with the head.
The first garden snack of the season. Pick and devour on the spot.
No need to douse in steam
or warm a skillet.
In Foster’s Addition only the tulips are showing this depth of color this early.
The strawberry is soft and sun warmed.
Nothing like those chilled
from the supermarket.
I take multiple bites, each savored.
It is juicy, refreshing.
It is enough.
Recorded Here
for the Unlucky
The fairies of Plot 17 watch over this record.
Would be thieves: they will know.
Your produce rots by morning.
Dreams of horrors you can't name.
You leave home and walk in circles:
close enough to see where you're going,
never arriving.