have been battened down. Or, at least, the tomato plants have been helicopter mommied into the french door alcove in the garden so they don’t get hailed to bits.
Right after the tragic World Cup loss (I don’t want to talk about it, except to say that my dad always says if you’re not getting fouls you’re not playing defense, so get off your moral high horse), we had a series of freak summer storms, lasting Sunday night through Monday late afternoon. Continue reading
Typical Dutch: the word for “package,” of the brown-paper-wrapped-up-in-string persuasion, is pakketje. The -je makes it “little package.”
Sidebar. Funny story. Continue reading
een radijs.
After bickering with N about when to pull the sucker, gave in. Cut off bug-or-bird hole (durnit varmints), ate. (sorry, Nate.)
Review of growing one’s own radishes: 1) not as easy as advertised. 2) perhaps began too soon, way back in March (stupid alarmist kitchn post). 3) need deeper pots? To prevent deformity? 4) stupid birds! pecking at the stupid dirt! 5) hottest radish I’ve ever consumed. Planting more ASAP.
Two finished Steps blocks, two more in the queue, sixteen more to go.
One week ago, I was getting so much sun that I was headachy and fitful on Friday night. Today: inside quilting. Again. Dear Holland: THIS IS NOT GOOD FOR MY TOMATOES. Or my psyche.
I’m sorry, I hope the weather updates end soon too. Continue reading
I think it's the plants, yes?
Since we started looking at pictures of this apartment back in February, my biggest misgiving has been the kitchen. (I had been assured several times that the toilet was unshared.) There’s no oven, have I mentioned that? It’s teeny-weeny tiny. The fridge is half-sized. I have to light the stove with matches. Continue reading
