Finally, there's little to do in the garden, but look around and wait. The weeding is low, the summer planting all done, spring's harvest complete. To eye the garden without a sense of work is a relief.
It has been a galloping year with the beginning of a distant, small farm, two solo painting exhibits, teaching, the day job, and somehow the notion that all this can be blogged. The beach farm an island, now, away from all those activities, its potential transferred from sea into air into mind at most a loping amplitude.
So, we watch tomatoes.
Milano plum.
Speckled Roman.
San Marzano.
Indigo Rose (black, blacker, blackest. Ripe?)
Pineapple, Hillbilly, or Brandywine I cannot say.
Black Krim.
Black Russian.
Beam's Yellow Pear and yellow wilt.
Miniature White cucumbers.
Milkweed that survived the whack job.
Those that did not.
Foeniculum vulgare. The sweetest young greens you can imagine.
White eggplant.
Larry's leftovers broccoli (I can never take all that he has, but would if I could).
A small patch of Nantes carrots.
And our small patch of the ocean.
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