The most glorious moment until the first tomatoes come in late in July has to be the annual attempt at ILP humor when I attempt to grow corn starts. Everything has to be evicted except for the actual tomatoes I intend to plant for myself. I baby them until the first of June indoors like spoiled Paris Hilton chihuahuas. To compound problems, the Strawberry Fields is in high gear out front. Global warming throws everything out of kilter. Too much food and too little time.
This is what 900 Silver Queen babies look like. Leave no kernel behind. Not on a jungle trail, Not on a desert trail. Not on a garden trail.
As for the Strawberries, the call has gone out. So far the score is ” If you’ll come dig clams off my beach, I’ll come pick your strawberries. We’re both in the same predicament–too much of one and not enough of another…” Well, boooy howdy is that ever a fair trade. Some of the corn starts go towards my trading for free-range chicken eggs. Imagine trading plant starts for eggs? Who would of ever thunk it? I must be in heaven man. Now imagine that 365 a year inside a warm greenhouse. I know how Bruce Dern must have felt in Silent Running. I wonder if ILP would cover a Huey and a Dewey too?