Abduction

… Is the only possible explanation. Extraterrestrial, supernatural, parahorticultural—something freaky is afoot at Fencebroke.

Ebony Pearl is missing. She's a—was—a beautiful, unusual Rhododendron with dark, sultry leaves formerly planted about a foot from our front door. Then she vanished. Overnight. In her place, there is … nothing. No severed stem, no leaves, no hole in the ground where once her roots held tight. There is no evidence of a struggle. She was not dug up, cut down, ripped from the ground, or stricken in place. She was not in poor health, did not give any indication of dissatisfaction, malaise, or impending doom. She did not, as far as I can tell, even die. She's just not there.

It is as though she never were there. Like I had merely forgotten to plant something in that conspicuous 3x3 foot space I walk past on the way to my car every morning. Like the last year and a half's worth of fond gazes in her direction were nothing more than a recurring dream or drawn-out deja vu. Already her memory fades.

Did I imagine the whole thing? Did I ever have a rhody called 'Ebony Pearl'? Or is this yawning void in my garden indicative of some deeper, deleterious force at work in the fabric of my own being?

Probably not, but, you know … wow. What if?

And if she was, in fact, abducted—then by what hand? What agent's idiom could possibly include the surgical excision of rare plants from beneath a gardener's watchful eye. And to what end? Aliens probing for horticultural arcana in Fencebroke's borders? The astronomically improbable manifestation of quantum uncertainty on a macro scale right between the witch hazel and heather? Government experimentation in targeted teleportation run amok? Jealous neighbors? Rats?

Yeah, maybe just rats. They probably gnawed off the trunk just below the soil line and hauled off Ms. Pearl kicking and screaming into the night. Okay, fine, but 1.) How? 2.) Why? And 3.) What the hell, rats?

I'm getting kind of worked up about this Ebony Pearl thing. In my time as a gardener, I've killed lots of plants through neglect, ignorance, misfortune, and spite, but I've never yet lost one to … this. Whatever this is. I feel powerless, exposed, and confused. Not to mention paranoid. Didn't there used to be a plant there? How about there? Whatever happened to that cool Nandina I planted last year?

What if it happens again?

What if they come back for me?

That's it, I'm getting security cameras.

The (dis)satisfaction of a job well done

“Hey, check out all the bulbs I just planted,” said no one ever.

What'd be the point? You spend hours hunched over, on your knees, stabbing at the obdurate earth in an increasingly wild, spiteful, and unproductive manner, stuffing the ungrateful bulbs into their new home, only to step back and face the demoralizing realization that you have apparently accomplished nothing at all. There is no evidence to vouch for your toil. Most of gardening offers at least some small visual or aesthetic reward for a day's labor and pain. But with bulbs, the stupid things are buried, invisible, and forgotten as soon as you pop your spine into some semblance of a hominid and stagger off in search of ibuprofen.

Here, by way of example, take a look at Fencebroke's newest bed, along the sidewalk in our front yard:

Imagine it like this, but better. And maybe I buried treasure, too.

A lot of work went into this. Removing sod, fighting tree roots, laying compost, choosing, arranging, and planting plants. But with every step, there was clear visual affirmation that the place was changing as a result of my moving around and doing things—little psychological high-fives when I stood back and looked. Bare dirt: high-five! The dark stain of good compost: chest bump! The composition of plants: <catcall> looking good, baby! The plants sunk and watered, a landscape improved: vuvuzelas!

Bulbs planted: waa-waaa …

Trust me, they're there. Lots of fragrant Narcissus, Muscari, and Hyacinth. They'll be beautiful. Maybe. Who knows. Check back in Spring and we'll see how many weren't dug up by squirrels; or lost to rot; or skewered by my own shovel when I forget that I planted bulbs there because there's no way to tell!

<sigh> here's to a job well done.

The Hive

bzzzzZZZZZZZ—

—Ahem! Attention! The following proclamation comes directly from the inner sanctum of Her Majesty Queen Aurea, supreme ruler of the Sod Pile Hive and proud mother to all faithful yellowjackets of Blue Fence Land:

Let it henceforth be known that on this day, the 20^th of August 2015, all lands bound by the Blue Fence have been seized by and claimed for the indomitable Sod Pile Hive and H.M. Queen Aurea's golden banner.

After months of unprovoked aggression on the part of Blue Fence Land's human occupants towards the Sod Pile Hive—which atrocities include, but are not limited to: nightly chemical attacks; baited traps; torrents of water; disparaging, foul language; and the irritating, meddlesome cultivation of ornamental plants known as “gardening” in lands infringing upon the Sod Pile Hive's peaceful, industrious claim—the courageous workers and warriors of our proud hive have at long last driven the offending primates to madness, to tears, and to retreat.

No longer shall we suffer the lumbering apes' sprinklers, lawnmowers, and other machines of war. No more shall our brave drones go about their honorable tasks under the shadow of irresistible, deadly traps, whose clear walls display the corpses of their brothers in barbaric glee. No longer shall the mere buzzing of our wings in flight serve to incite the wrath of our overlords. No more shall we be swatted at! No more shall we be trifled with! No more shall our hive live in fear!

For today, Victory is ours!

BZZZZZZ!

Cookbook to Come

There has been a pronounced trend of late whereby famous chefs write gardening books and famous gardeners put out cookbooks. Although the connection is not a new one, this repeated treatment of produce=food as a startling, profound, and radical insight would have you believe that prior to the last ten years or so no gardener had ever deigned to cook a potato and no chef had ever planted a carrot.

To be sure, until I recently dug into some great books and articles, I would never have thought the summer harvest had a place in the kitchen. To think, I've spent my whole life crippled by the belief that garden produce must be consumed on the spot wherever it is plucked from the earth. Not that I didn't enjoy gnawing on raw collard greens and rutabagas, but I was moved to the point of tears that the great minds of our time had finally figured out a way to apply fire and flavor to home-grown vegetables.

No longer must my oven be reserved for frozen pizzas and chicken nuggets; no longer does water boil for tea and noodles alone; no longer shall salt be set aside in case of frozen sidewalks. The kitchen welcomes you, cauliflower; you as well, green beans; squash: let's see what you can do in a microwave. The possibilities are endless!

My own cookbook should hit the shelves soon, but for now, here's a teaser from the first recipe I've painstakingly developed. I call it: Put Some Vegetables In the Oven.

Put Some Vegetables in the Oven. Step 1.) Put some vegetables in the oven. Step 2.) You'll just have to buy my cookbook!

I'm still experimenting, of course, but additional recipes will likely include such brilliant culinary oeuvres as: Broccoli Suspended over Boiling Water; Kale-in-a-Pan; and Not-Raw Potatoes. Oh! but I've revealed too much ...

Eruption

One of the primary squash flows off of Mt. Sod.

I'm sorry—this will have to be brief, we don't have much time before—oh God! It's right outside the window!

We have to evacuate—Baby, just leave the seed catalogs, we can't save everything!—but first, I have to get word out that Mount Sod, the long-dormant compost heap towering over Fencebroke North, has erupted. Seemingly overnight, the peaceful mixed bed over which it presided has been buried beneath a moving wall of squashes, melons, and other cucurbits. So far, the ejecta has been far more gourds than magma or ash, but the destruction is nothing less than complete all the same.

If we don't make it out before the—NOO! Anything but the plum tree! It was so young! Maybe I can dig it up before—aagh! A Japanese cucumber wrapped around my arm! Cut it off! Which one … ? The cucumber, the arm, I don't care, just get me out of here!

Get out of the way, Globe Thistle! Save yourself!

Whew, that was close … next time I might not be so lucky. Anyway, if we don't make it out before all escape routes are snarled in climbing Italian summer squash, please contact FEMA and have them evacuate the neighborhood.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to at least try to save the tomatoes. Wish me luck.

Baby, hurry! … Bring me my Felcos!

Fencebroke Promontory Waterpark

That's right, in the true spirit of Summer, everyone's favorite promontory is diversifying its revenue stream once again!

Wading pools! Sprinklers! Drip irrigation! Watering Cans! Why not come on down and see what all the hubbub is about?

Well I pretty much just told you what it's all about … but, you know, um, still come on down, otherwise our revenue stream won't diversify all that much. As it is, most of the outflow of said stream has been redirected straight out of the garden hose in an attempt to keep the most critical of Fencebroke's crops from wilty mutiny in what has been an extended and premature dry spell for the Northwest.

So as long as we've got the hose turned on, why not pay us money to join in the fun!

Run through the sprinkler as we struggle to keep alive a doomed patch of spring-seeded lawn! Take turns watering veggie seedlings—don't stop, or they'll die! See how many watering cans you can carry to that one bed the hose can't quite reach! Whoa, don't give up yet, see if you can beat your own record! Dip your feet in one of our two—that's right TWO! luxurious kiddy pools. Or dip one foot in each pool because … well, the pools aren't really that big. Or take a trip down the water slide! I mean, it's a water slide if you put water on it! As it is, it's just a slide. OK, it's Daisy's slide, and usually she's on it, but I'm sure if you ask nicely she'll … well, it's Daisy's slide, I won't speak for her.

Let's see, what else is there? Oh—hoses! There's no more refreshing way to cool off than trying to move a dripping soaker-hose from the berry bed to the fruit trees! Whoops, looks like you've got a few kinks there. Yep—and there … don't worry, it's all part of the fun!

What a great way to spend a hot summer day. If you're looking for a bargain, swing by for our early bird special pre-dawn watering. It happens every day before I go to work! Bring coffee and don't talk to me. For an even more immersive experience, come for the early bird watering and then tag along as I go to work and spend another several hours watering there! Be entertained as I hilariously attempt to justify this exorbitant water use by taking shorter showers myself. Ha! Then stick around and place your bets as I … reveal the monthly water bill!

How high will it go?

You'll have to come on down and see!

Rutabaga Debate-a

I'm sure you've all been here before, but it's a new one for me.

At long last, having plucked that most elusive specimen—The Perfect Rutabaga—from the garden, after too many seasons of hand-wringing, worm-ridden failure, egged on by the halcyon aftertaste of sweet earthy flesh on the tongue years before and the coy promise of more to come, I am torn by indecision.

Do I eat it or save it?

Preservation concerns aside—I'm sure there are any number of readily available cryogenic/taxidermic/embalming options out there for the root enthusiast—I am faced with a narrow window in which to make the prudent decision. I mean, this rutabaga is beautiful, is it not? (A more manly man than myself might deny the tear in his eye when beholding its lumpy perfection, but not your humble narrator.)

Like staring into the face of God.

So do I add it to Fencebroke's trophy case, to hold court for posterity alongside other such priceless horticultural treasures as The Spiral-Carrot, The Two-Headed Raspberry, The Tom Waits Potato and The The One Squash That Didn't Get Powdery Mildew—or do I subject its purple splendor to the torment of slicing, cooking, mashing and all the other disgraces of being food, just so I can taste what my eyes know to be true, that this is indeed The Perfect Rutabaga?

Plenty of painful deliberation to come.

Also, does anyone know how do cook this thing?