Or maybe it's just due to the change in the weather, and the biorhythm shifts that come with it. In any case, in the last week or so, Doug and I began our annual ritual of getting ready for the garden in earnest, and nearly murdering each other over it. Straight rows, or curved? Tried-and-true traditional methods, or strike out with some new idea that hasn't been thought up in the last 10,000 years of agriculture? Plant winter squash even if "one" of us hates them mightily? (Perhaps you can see which sides I am on.)
The hardest fought battles end up being the most dearly beloved partnerships. This will be good to bear in mind later, when fights over the garden will be in the actual garden, and we're likely to be holding sharp, long-handled tools. For now, we're back on track. In sexist roles, and I am A-OK with that. Doug set up the big seed-starting contraption (full-spectrum lights rigged by ropes to be lowered and raised as necessary, warming pads, a tangle of extension cords I would enjoy working with about as much as changing a tire). And I've laid the first babies -- I mean, seeds -- into their flats. With not much else to do but wait for germination, we are headed out for a hike on this glorious day, with our little filly on a lead in tow. Maybe there will be daffodils. Or inspiration for the next blog out there somewhere, along the way.