My little garden has begun to produce. I've had so many cucumbers, I made two batches of bread and butter pickles. I've been eating tons of eggplant parmesan, and this week I also made a batch of baba ghanoush. Last night I made a pepper and tomato stir fry. Soon I'll have piles of sweet potatoes. My basil was a big treat when fresh, and now it's hanging to dry in my garage smelling sweet. Next year I'll have strawberries, too!
My only disappointment has been my zucchini. I planted it on the other side of the house, away from the other vegetables, and it did not get enough sun. My harvest has been rather dismal from those plants. I had lots of beans with my first planting so am trying another. But I'm now fighting off rabbits with various fencing techniques. They ate off every leaf after my first replanting effort sprung up. I've shared my cucumber poem. Here's one for my eggplants:
Tasting the Mad Apple
Yours is purple he
said
over salmon loaf and canned green beans,
a Wednesday dinner aura reading
like my rusty mood ring
or the Magic 8 Ball
that fell on the sidewalk,
ink spilling over white concrete
like squid escaping on a cutting board
in the back of the Othello Inn.
Blue-black streams beard out,
irises with rhizomes
clinging to jagged cracks.
Rounding out like eggplants,
the glass halves root
in the grass beside the walk.
I hear these so-called mad apples
have nicotine centers,
second-hand smoke
in a basement bar
where drunks padlock belt loops.
Nothing royal.
Nothing more than dried blood.
