In which the Casa de Kirby is struck by a case of “careful what you wish for.”
Rewind several months, back to March, when a young, uh, youngish, erm, what-ever, gardener’s heart warms after the winter that would not end. Me and husband critter are wandering around Lowe’s. We stop by a display of seeds and gardening supplies.
“What should I try this year?” I say.
“Well, how about squash? And peppers. And tomatoes. We have to have tomatoes.”
I peruse the display and take several seed packets. Frankly, I’m a little unenthusiastic about vegetables. Our official “garden,” the part that is protected from marauding rabbits by an adobe wall, is at least 2500-sq ft of flowering plants and shrubs. If it’s not edible, I can grow it.
Vegetables? Not so much. From seed? Fuggetaboutit.
But every year, I try.
This year I tried something new. Raised beds.
Fast forward to September. We’re drowning in squash. This despite an army of squash bugs who treated my garden like a cheap hotel, spending the hot summer afternoons fornicating in the leafy shade. And spawning a whole new generation of squash bugs.
Husband critter, a.k.a., the family chef, scowls as I come in the house, another load of squash in my arms. “More squash?” he says. He’s run out of squash recipes. We’ve both reached the point where if given the choice between starvation and squash, we’d … well, we’d eat the damn squash, but we wouldn’t be happy about it.
“Maybe we should give them to the homeless or something,” says my beloved.
The notion immediately conjures up the following scene: I’m driving. I stop at an intersection, red light and all that. There’s a homeless man standing by the road, holding the obligatory cardboard signage with “Hungry, please help.”
I roll down the window and he hurries over. He reaches out and I plunk a huge zucchini in his hand.
I drive away, fast, before he can gets a chance to throw it at me.
