I get particular satisfaction from these perfect, eight-pea pods, aligned evenly on each side. I love to watch the peas pull apart, sliding out from between each other like military men in formation. Sometimes I'll even open and close the pod several times to see how they fit together, marveling in nature's exquisite engineering.
Last weekend we had our first harvest big enough to serve peas as a side on their own. While Miss Chef steamed them with some butter, I went to the garden to harvest some volunteer dill. We planted dill three or four years ago, and haven't had to plant any since. This year we've wrestled the dill weed population down to one plant. Wish I could do that with the rest of the weeds.
I waged war on a small nest of fire ants by our front door this morning. For the past week, I've been slowly weeding our front bed, which was turning into lawn. Every weekend morning and some evenings--when it hasn't been raining--I plop my butt on the sidewalk and clear another two or three feet. Last night I was almost done when I re-discovered those blasted ants.
This morning I used an old wives' trick of pouring boiling water on the nest. It doesn't work instantaneously, I can tell you that much. But it did distract or damage them enough to allow me to pull those last few weeds that remained.
Then, as I stood up, surveying my finally cleaned-up bed, I spotted the flower whose picture graces the top of this post. I think it may be the most beautiful color I've ever seen. How's that as a reward for a job well-done?
I haven't been able to settle to anything today. There are multiple laundry baskets in various stages of cleaniness sitting in the living room; the kitchen counter is full of dirty dishes, we have a light swarming of fruit flies, and there is a lesson plan brewing somewhere very, very deep in my head. But all I can think about is growing things.
So I took my camera back outside.