My friend Trisha clears her tables after each and every meal. Everything gets put away. She does have a lidded box on the kitchen counter (the only thing on the counter) which she fills with anything she finds that doesn't have a "spot". This is where we all (on vacation) look for keys and sunglasses and pill bottles. We are all "a certain age".
Strawberry season is over. Peas are coming in nicely. My tomatoes and potatoes have never looked nicer--just in time for alerts of late blight. Which will certainly kill everything. It's really hard to be a gardener. The line between success and utter despair is so thin, barely there. And I don't like green tomatoes. I have many small figs on my tree--like last year. I am hoping these ripen. I keep up with the watering and fertilizer. I'm not sure I even like figs. But G does love fig preserves. There may be enough for one small jar.
I am thinking of making Rhubarb Lime Fizz. Rhubarb syrup, lime juice and soda water. Perhaps some gin.
We are in that particular summer "zone" when I lose any incentive to do anything but take showers, dress in loose clothing and recline on the couch. I am fascinated with World Cup Soccer and have recorded the games to watch after work. Only two more games. It's like winter olympic curling. Odd choices for me. Unexplainable. Even to myself.
Work. Hot. Depressing as the summer plants go "past" and it's not time for the autumn. The perennials are blooming, needing deadheading, water and moving from back of store to front of parking lot. The difference between the new stuff coming from the mother store and our stuff is astonishing. We don't have fertilizer in our water. Our stuff is short. Theirs is so tall. Hours are being cut. Mosquitos. Sunburn. Temps of around 100 in the area of the potting bench--where I spend 80% of any day. So many returning customers. To see me. It is gratifying. It is also nice to be repotting a plant for the third time. It's still alive, still growing, still bringing joy to the owner.
I have a pile of 20 cent pants (from last year) to cut and hem for G. I stopped caring about the length and just looked for waist size. Twenty cents! Really, why be picky. None of them are "dress" pants. Just work pants for a retired guy. But before I can hem pants I need to clean space on the floor and cutting table in my sewing room. It's all piled HIGH.
I will be going out to pick (pull) rhubarb, check on my peas, pick parsley to wash, dry and roll for my freezer, pollinate squash, tie up tomatoes, check on the blueberries and blackberries, water the fig, check on the "jewels of opar" and water the hanging ferns on the front porch. By then I should have enough mosquito bites to make me itch the rest of the day. Then I will tackle the sewing room. Work on my 10 by 10 art.
Dream of ice cream later today. And a Rhubarb Fizz.