Tomatoes

 

Still green and hard but my tiny tomatoes aren't so tiny anymore.  They even have friends now, more little green tomatoes hanging out waiting to join bacon and lettuce later in the summer.  The biggest one is about the size of a walnut.



 


Speaking of walnuts, I pulled up a black walnut seeding today in the garden.  Evidently a squirrel stashed a walnut in the bale by the cucumber.  I saw the "weed" and pulled it.  Imagine my surprise when this came out of the bale.  No, I didn't transplant it to a better spot.  I tossed it in the compost pile.  Well, it isn't an official compost pile but I have a spot in the back corner of the yard when I pile weeds and trimmings so they aren't in the trash and can go back to nature.



Here's a better shot of the potato flowers.  Aren't they pretty?  I don't know if every variety of potato flower looks the same, I've only ever planted red-skinned potatoes.  Maybe the flowers are pink because the potato skin is red?  I suppose if I really want to know I could look it up but right now I'm not motivated to make the effort.


I made a shopping list for next week's Investment Cooking spree.  I am happy to report that I have all of the meat I need but will be deep in produce on my next shopping trip.  I might be overly optimistic because I picked out seven recipes to make, a full week's worth of one-a-day cookery but then I'll have 32 servings of suppers in the freezer.  More if I make one recipe's portions smaller, which I might do because it's a lot of food following the directions.





Today I finished June Preemie Hat #3.  All I had left to do was the little cord at the top so I didn't feel like I'd failed by finishing it on July 1.  July 1!  Already.  Time has both dragged and flown this year.  

01 July--Barbara Malcolm, Tropical Obsession. 

Looking like a handful of zebra seeds, the Zebra Nerite shells cluster in the shallows at Pink Beach. Each one different from the others, like fingerprints or snowflakes, they appear to be small modern sculptures arranged in a gallery of black rock, turquoise water and a dome of sky so blue it should be classified as a separate color.

Feeling like the whore at a church picnic, Mona carried her woven beach mat and tote bag holding her bottle of water and paperback novel as far down the beach as she could go from the happy families and napping tourists. Mona was overdressed. She had packed for one for the more cosmopolitan islands where her six-hundred-dollar swimsuit and cover up worn with gold leather thong sandals and two-hundred-dollar sunglasses would put her squarely in the middle of the female pack. Instead she found herself alone on an island where the best dressed wore khaki cargo shorts, Polo shirts, and Teva sandals. She couldn't have stuck out more if she'd worn a sign. She would go home except Detective Inspector Rooibos had asked her not to leave the island until he finished his investigation. That, and the unpleasant realization that she had no home. She had spent the last seven years with Jack in a series of apartments and hotels. All she had was the contents of her three suitcases--and a little emergency money stashed in a safe deposit box in Chicago. She was stuck.

           The little black bird with the bright yellow breast stood on the glass-topped patio table, its delicate feet spread, its bright eye seeming to judge how far Mona could be trusted. It turned its head from side to side, long tongue flicking in and out of its curved narrow beak, working up the courage to scoop up the grains of sugar Mona had spilled when sweetening her tea.

           “Come on, little bird,” she said, “I won’t hurt you.”

            She picked up her cup, which caused the bird to fly to the safety of a nearby palm, sitting on a frond chattering its displeasure. But fear didn’t keep the small Bananaquit from getting what it wanted for long. She made up her mind to be more like it from then on.

It's so hot and humid lately that I've been estivating (the summer equivalent of hibernating) although there has been enough of a breeze for me to sit on the patio and write the prompt in the afternoon.  I know it's summer but this is Kentucky or Florida weather, not Wisconsin weather.  I need to speak with the management.  I won't be mowing until this heat breaks or until the humidity abates at the very least.
--Barbara