There are times I just don’t care about the damned garden. There, I’ve said it. It sits out there, all needy and weedy and parched, and I’d rather sit inside, in the air conditioning, and read about anything other than plants. There are raspberries ripening, and I haven’t picked them. The tomato is succumbing to blight and stink bugs, and I have not ridden to its rescue. The cukes for pickes and relish are hanging there waiting for me, and I just don’t care to do the work they want me to do.
The garden in January is all fantasy and longing. The garden in July can be a pain in the ass.