I’m feeling some pressure this year because last year’s garden was such a torrid success (TEN whole re-pins of that picture just above, people! TEN!). Particularly since last year’s tomatoes all got the blight (leaves that shriveled and fell off, black spots that eventually consumed the fruits entirely. Pure EVIL). No way I’m planting tomatoes in the same spot again. Though I have done some research on blight, and–according to those in the know at the Athen’s Farmer’s Market–the Amish farmers spray their plants with a baking soda/water solution once a week. Their tomatoes look beautiful. Trust the Amish. Which is good advice for lots of situations.
Still and all, tomatoes are overrated in our family. I mean, what do you do with bushels of tomatoes once salsa loses it appeal and your neighbors hide when they see you coming? Well. You freeze them. Except now we have bushels of frozen tomatoes stuck to the floor of the freezer because someone unplugged the freezer and they sort of melted into a pulpy mush. And then someone plugged the freezer back in without cleaning anything up. Of course. It’s a tomato glacier down there, which is to say: permanent. At least until global warming takes care of them.
So. No tomatoes (Well. Except for two plants that I’m hiding away in the back of the yard. I mean, let’s be honest here: it’s not really a garden without tomatoes). But I’m afraid that without such green, thick, tallish, luscious tomato plants behind the fence to anchor the whole composition, the garden will look like a dog with the mange.
I’ve decided to replace the tomatoes with asparagus. Here’s the trench and the mass of asparagus roots I haven’t yet planted. I’m not convinced they’ll grow, but I’m planting fifty asparagus plants that I hope will create a feathery hedge behind the fence and a carpet of firm and delicious asparagus spears beneath. Pretty soon, three years or so, our whole family (and our neighbors) will have eight weeks worth of stinky pee.
Which reminds me.
Image courtesy of shopwithmemama.com
In Party in the Back news. This weekend my mother-in-law gave my daughter a game called “Doggie Doo” for her seventh birthday. It’s a game where you feed a wiener dog bites of neon, slimy goop, then roll the dice to figure out how many times you get to squeeze the dog’s leash to force air into the wiener dog’s bowels and try and blow the goop out of its backside. The winner is the person who collects three turds on her or his shovel. The pooping dog was a real hit. We had the Director of the University Creative Writing Program, three grown-ass men construction workers, my oldest son’s girlfriend who gave the wiener dog mouth-to-mouth whenever the dog got, um, “constipated”, and a seven-year old all holding miniature shovels up to a plastic dog’s butthole.
THIS IS A REAL THING. I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP!!
I’ve married into a family not nearly as tight-lipped about bodily functions as the one I grew up in. My spouse, my in-laws, my children–it’s poop, poop, poop, all the time, poop. The other day my spouse came home from the job site to “rest” in the “restroom” for a little while (he’ll only poop in two places: home and WalMart), and my youngest daughter said, “Daddy, are you home?”
“No, sweetheart,” he told her through the closed door. “I’m just here to use the restroom for a minute.”
There was a long pause and then she said. “Um, Daddy?”
“Do you want to talk about poop?”
“No!” he said. “I don’t!”
And neither do I.