State of the Garden Address

The lilac hasn't done much this year.  The oldest (tallest) branches have produced clusters of lovely, fragrant flowers, but not as many as in the past.  Unless I missed it, the two (or three?) year old growth hasn't produced at all.  I'm not sure what's going on with this guy.  D wanted to chop it down last year, but I got him to leave it alone because the frost killed ALL of the blossoms last year. This year I promised to let him cut it back, because it's starting to look pretty shabby.  

The plants are coming up nicely, and just like last year, the earliest bloomers have been the dropmore catmint and the salvia eveline.

salvia eveline

salvia eveline

The garden feels pretty uneven at this point, because of the rearranging that happened after the other 2 poppies died, and I transplanted the old balcony lily next to the surviving poppy.  

beginning of  May

 I'm glad the lily has bounced back since it's rescue from the unblooming iris.  I'm just not sure I like it where it is now. 

But even if I were to rebalance the garden to go for more balance, with the lily and poppy budding, now isn't the time. 

fuzzy poppy buds

After the spring bloom, maybe I'll move either the lily or the iris, try for a more cohesive appearance.  I might need to consider trying my hand at dividing either the lily or the iris, which I've never attempted before.  I have a few naked spaces which are now options because the effing deer in our neighborhood ate my other lilies.  Or the squirrels.  Or the groundhogs.  Somebody around here ate my lilies. 

 The coral bells that I planted four years ago are still going, despite the best efforts of the hordes of uncivilized wild violet that creeps into everything.  I actually just took a weed-wacker to this bed a week or so before this photo.  It doesn't even pay to pull them by hand, not that I have time to pull them by hand because ain't nobody got time for that.

 These are the same coral bells that froze solid a few years back.  This past winter I lost three, but the rest have survived.  Best twenty dollars ever spent?  I think so.
 

ohhhh Yard Maintenance

You may recall that D broke up the concrete in the side yard because it had heaved into an angle unhelpful to the house.  Unhelpful in that it sluiced all rainwater right into the side of the house where it leaked into our basement.  The natural lay of the land has all the yards on a gradual hillside slope, and we get all the water from the neighbor's yard rushing towards ours, aimed right at our house.

We dug a trench and laid a pipe for drainage.  It has truly helped for all but the heaviest rains.  We usually don't have water on the north side of the basement anymore. 

In Process

Giant pile of spiders.  I mean rocks.

We hauled away two carloads of the bigger chunks, but there remained a sizeable, unsightly rock pile at the corner of the house. 

And so it was, for a few months.  Because we felt we'd done enough for awhile.

 Little did I know, the pile of rocks was eating away at my husband's sanity. I had no idea the sight of it so offended him.  But it seemed to speak to him, saying nasty things.  "Your yard looks awful."  And such.

Frankly, I hadn't heard a thing. 

So on Sunday the pile of concrete fragments and bricks were moved armful by heavy armful out of the yard.

And there were spiders.  There were ugly brown spiders.  And they tried to touch me.  I had the heebie-jeebies in a serious way.  And in disturbing the pile we also displaced scores, if not hundreds of little centipedes and pillbugs and all manner of creatures. 

Basically an entire ecosystem was destroyed for aesthetic purposes. 

Worth it.



and we made the pavers uniform, but clearly the alignment is all wonky...



My back is killing me. 

And so the offense has been removed.  Well, that one brick is still there to cover a hole that looks suspiciously like a snake hole.  The other brick is there to keep him company. 

Yeah, but for now, this spot is nekkid

As you can see, we managed to kill all the grass under the concrete pile.  But it doesn't matter,

the grass seed we laid in the fall has given us supergrass around the pavers.  It'll be back in no time.

I also transplanted coral bells from the side bed (formerly the den of vine orgies), where they were constantly getting trampled by the dog anyway.  They cheer up the spot where we buried Cricket.  Though the thought that I might disturb her remains gave me the heebie-jeebies, so I was careful to dig as far as I could from where I remembered her to be.  The photos I took this morning turned out awkward, so I'll post some improved shots later. 

Speaking of coral bells, I planted a line of coral bells at the side of the house after the drainage pipe was laid last fall. 



 



Last Fall





Today

  

I think they survived the winter pretty well, and they filled out quite nicely.  Admittedly this winter was crazy mild.  Even so, it gives them a leg up.  Now they'll be well established for real winter next year.  




Shazaam

  Most astonishing though, are the coral bells that I put in planters on the rickety deck. 
Remember when they froze solid? 

Crispy Heuchera

This leafy fella is indestructible.  

Soon our flowers for the front garden arrive.  Cannot wait!

Dinner Disappointment and the Sad Face of Procrastination

Maybe you all don't fall into this same trap, and in which case that makes you smarter than I so go pat yourself on the back.  I sometimes find that I have allowed myself to be led down a rosepath by something someone says on the internet (shocking, I know).  Not so much recently, as there are fewer and fewer sources that I fail to take with a huge helping of salt.  Especially where food is concerned.  I mean, look at some of the stuff out there.  Somebody called themself a genius and put this up as a recipe, a hot dog wrapped in a tortilla.  Oh, and the hilariously mocked Rachel Ray classic "late night bacon" recipe is good for a laugh (at least, the comments are).

The Pioneer Woman has a good track record in my kitchen, and usually doesn't steer you wrong for recipes.  With sites out there like Smitten Kitchen, Savory Sweet Life, and the Pioneer Woman, with step-by-step photographic instructions, I allow myself to be lulled into a false sense of kitchen security.  I can make anything with the proper instruction, I insist to myself.  I can be a kitchen goddess. (No, I cannot)   And likewise, they wouldn't post it if it weren't good?  (Yes, yes they would)

I've been burned by this sentiment before. 

Early in our relationship I invited D, then pre-boyfriend, over for a dinner.  I wanted to make something new and fantastic rather than something tried and true and less exciting (this I came to call Mistake #1). 

I found some blog on the internets touting this stew with red wine as one of the ingredients.  It looked good in the photos and I trusted it would come out looking like the photos (Mistake #2).  And I'd had hobo stews around the campfire for years on our family's canoe trips, so it was just switching out the beer ingredient for a wine ingredient, and therefore would be so much fancier.  And when it said to use the entire bottle of wine (Mistake #3), I tipped 3/4 of it into the stewpot, tra-la-laaa, congratulating myself on erring on the side of caution. 

I don't need to tell you about my confusion at the resulting purple swamp in the stewpot.  Nor my embarrassment.  Nor my urgent, panicked arm-flapping when D arrived expecting dinner and finding instead a mystery muck that wasn't even food-colored. 

*Like eating this, but less good

I was not unduly prideful about it, no, I insisted (post-taste-test) no no, we don't have to eat this, why don't we go out instead?  Poor D, opting for what he knew to be the chivalrous approach, counter-insisted that he would eat what was prepared for him.  While I gave it up as a total loss and I think I ate some carrots out of the fridge or something.  He wouldn't hear a word against the wine stew at the time.  He didn't just fall off that cliff, he took a flying leap.  Two bowls.  After he had this relationship thing nailed down he fessed up in detail about the resulting severe stomach and intestinal distress.  Two bowls. 

Fast forward to the present day; I have redeemed myself in the cooking department since.  D didn't really need to be cajoled into trying the recipe for Eggs Florentine with Goetta that I found on the internets.  All that was required was that I began my text to him with the word:  GOETTA. 




*Here be Goetta

 Though we have merely adopted Cincy as our home, rather than being born into it, D is probably more ravenous a goetta-supporter than some Cincy natives.  He tells me that Cincy is the biggest consumer of goetta on the planet now, thanks to folks whose families immigrated here generations ago.  And yes, we've been to one of the Goetta festivals here.  Not the other one though.  Maybe this year. 

But I digress.  D is a huge fan of breakfast-for-dinner (though not of dinner-for-breakfast).  An egg casserole-type dish using spinach and cheese and a meat just sounds hard to screw up.

For the time it took to prepare on a weeknight and unexceptional blandness, I was sorely disappointed in this recipe.  Granted, I didn't follow it to the letter.  Honestly, who has 18 spare eggs sitting in the fridge?  I had surmised (incorrectly) that it would just bring out the flavor of the other ingredients that much more if there were less eggs.  It appeared out of the oven looking quite lovely and smelling great too.  But it was so bland that we had to grudgingly go through the leftovers with HP sauce, with worcestershire sauce, with okonomiyaki sauce.  Disappointing. Perhaps if I had used 18 eggs instead of (ahem) 9, it might have been good.   Although I'm inclined to think it would just have tasted more eggy.

But a silver lining there was, in the wake of this culinary defeat.
(probably as a result of, let's be honest)

D has taken an interest in taking up his Alton Brown cookbook and teaching himself how to properly cook.  Which I applaud and support.  If this week's brussels sprouts were any indication, I shall enjoy my continued support of his endeavor.

In other news: 

My happy little heuchera friends kept waiting for me to bring them in to the garage (there's a window in there).  But the weather was so mild, and they seemed to do well enough so I left them.  And left them.  And when winter- real winter- finally hit, it hit with a sheet of ice.  All of the planters were frozen to the porch. 

This is the face of procrastination.

Poor guys. When D tried to pull one of the planters inside, he failed to dislodge it but succeeded in shearing the ceramic so hard it cracked.  So we actually had to leave them out there.

Even the grass froze.  

Not sure the heuchera can survive being literally (not figuratively) frozen solid.  Time will tell I suppose. 

*Crayon photo from: littlewondersdays.blogspot.com

*Goetta photo from: http://photogenicfood.com

Photos are used without permission.

*All other photos belong to me.

Our Asbestos Den

 These are the lovely heuchera I bought from the garden center.   

Twenty Dollah.  They love me long time. (ideally. they are perennial.)

  

Potted, Day 2, haven't killed it yet. 

 I was checking on the ones I potted the day before, you know, making sure I hadn't already killed them.  And I caught a glimpse of this over the porch railing, looming upward inappropriately.  Yikes.

What the... phallus?

Yes, it looks like our basement is blowing a condom balloon.  One more day of work and the contractors should be done. Today they are laying the solvent, and then we will be asbestos free, environmentally friendly. 

 

Yesterday this was the entry to our basement.  I can't wait to see what it looks like.  Although, it'll probably be gross.  If it is we are just planning to go to the Re-Store in Cinci to get some giant/ugly/cheap carpet remnants.  Or, if its hideous beyond all tolerance, we'll have to epoxy the floor right away.  Fingers crossed. 

Our Asbestos Den.  Won't you come in?



The cats were locked in the office all day with D, who worked from home. This morning it was stuffy and smelled like moist cat food this morning. Mm, liver flavored.  We give them the moist food when we feel guilty.  True statement.  Normally they have the run of the whole house, and the office has only one perch by a single window.  But yesterday, and today, they are unable to terrorize eachother with stalking and ambushing, as they are wont to do, plus the fact that they couldn't get away from eachother, it's probably like Meowshwitz to them. 

 

Meowshwitz

Hopped Up, Worn Down, but Environmentally Safe (or soon to be)

We met Murphy the dog.  He is a good looking dog, and he's happy to see you and jumps on you with his big paws and untrimmed nails, which isn't so pleasant if you have bandages all up and down your arms in an attempt to cover your gross rash compliments of a mystery allergen.  He's barking because he wants to play with you, with the dog playing fetch across the park, with the joggers, with the bird that flew overhead that he thought was a ball.  And it is a piercing bark.  Yes sir, it is. 

And he dashes back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, bounding with somewhat more energy than I'd have expected given the description "likes to pace."  He has a black spot on his tongue, like he has a giraffe in his parentage.  He's cute.  I'm nervous about him.  There's a lot of energy, he is not trained, and I'm concerned he'll bowl the cats right over.  Maybe he just hadn't had his walkies that day.  But it made me lean toward Bob the Prison Dog.  Of course maybe he's ADHD too.  You just don't know a dog until you meet the dog.  But I have to admit it.  I left the meeting with, dare I say it, doggie disappointment. 

As we ponder a home visit with Murphy the dog, we have been trying to empty out the basement in preparation for the great Asbestos Abatement.  Something D has finally come around to.  After all this time, we still had many boxes to go through, full of stuff from my childhood (thanks parents) and unbelievably, even more books.  Which makes no sense.  Somehow they all fit in our shelves in the apartment. (didn't they?)  Yet, even those same shelves made the journey with us, and even though we have made like 4 trips to Half-Price Books, and each time we went laden with like 40lbs of stuff we weren't likely to re-read, the books still overpower the shelves and have cascaded into small piles like prarie dog-sized monuments growing up from the floor.  Not that you can see them at present.  Oh no, they are buried. 

Because emptying out the basement was like bailing a sinking boat.  You bring up that chair, you heft up that rickety shelf, and there's always more.  The old trumpet.  The cat boxes.  Still more.  More and more and more in a tidal wave that has finally settled into every corner and space available for it to lurk passive aggressively at me. Boxes and plastic bins have filled up the guest room, the living room, the dining room, and the kitchen.  These formerly tidy spaces are now warehouses of stuff and nonsense.  Again.  Yes we've been paring down.  Dejunking.  Love the feeling.  Love it.  And yes, I'd like to throw this stuff out the front door too, but those are for christmas.  And those are for thanksgiving.  And those are winter clothes.  And that's the humidifier which we might need this winter.  And those over there were gifted to me by any of an assortment of now dead relatives.  So they stay in our brand new obstacle course until we can hide it all in the basement again.  The sheer volume of crap in front of my face is maddening. 

The walls of the basement need to be washed with TSP, to get rid of the mineral deposits and other unsavory things before we drylock it.  And now that its empty, I don't ever want to face doing this again if I don't have to.  So even though I was going to drylock over the winter, maybe its better to get all that nonsense out of the way in one fell swoop.  Opinions? 

I had asked a friend to fill in for me to teach a class last night, which got me down. Wednesdays are normally the highlight of my week.  But the asbestos crew was showing up at 8am this morning (they did turn up at 8, yes).  I wandered over to a garden center on my lunch break to cheer myself up.  Garden centers are all closed at 5pm here, and I work until 6, so I cannot even window shop after work.  I found a flat of heuchera for $20 bucks, which I thought was just wonderful.  This was the bright spot of my day, these silver scroll heuchera.  I love love love coral bells.  I've wanted to plant flowers, I have so wanted a garden.  I've email bombed D so many times with the kinds of plants I wanted.  I have had plans within plans.  But my desires to cultivate have been thwarted by groundhogs (ninja groundhogs, no less), vine orgies, and unhappy buried concrete surprises.  Now at last, I thought, I'd get some color and texture (in perennial form!) in my yard. 

D didn't feel like helping me work outside last night, and I didn't really have much time to spare (because the basement hadn't yet been unclogged).  So I had two pots to plant some heuchera in, which I did, excitedly.  And then there were no more pots, but that's ok because I knew where I wanted to plant the heuchera, by the deck which would shelter them from too much sun but would still give them a dose of rays without allowing them to scorch. 

But tree roots.  There are big tree roots.  Almost as thick as my pinky.  Foiled, but not defeated I dug elsewhere, in the far part of the sidebed.  Tree roots. Big ones.  And orange-colored ants.  But mostly big tree roots.  So I dug elsewhere, a little further away.  Tree roots.  I dug four holes in four different places and was presented with thick tree roots from the gdarn tree that his its limbs splayed like a big old yard whore.  And I fear damaging the roots this tree is massive and old, and could crush our house for vengeance. 

I have no idea what to do with the heuchera I bought.  Tonight I'll try to buy a planter for the front porch or something.  On the side of the house they'll get too much shade.  And be invisible.  On the front of the house I'm afraid they'll get too much strong sun.  So I threw my arms in the air, mad at myself for trying despite the trail of dead plants in my wake and all my ill-conceived plant plans.  I feel at a loss but I have to do something with them.  The planter is my only idea.  The tragedy is that they're perennials.  Most of them won't survive overwintering in a planter, I bet.  I wanted them in the ground to come back and play next year.  That's why you buy perennials in the first place.  But I've got to make do, and try to do right by the plants I purchased.   

I consoled myself last night with manual labor and medium lifting, breaking open the sores on my arms.  The basement looks like a yawning chasm once more, with asbestos tile in 70's colors.  Soon it'll look totally different, but clean and environmentally sound, and not prone to giving any of us mesothelioma.  I'm not real eager to repeat the process when we put it all back, but hopefully I'll be normal again by then (dermatologically speaking).  And I have tomorrow to look forward to, wherein I'll be cutting a check for asbestos and mastic removal to the tune of $Unholy Amount of Dollars because I am made of money, tra-la-la.  The steroids are giving me vicious moodswings, as I now recall not so fondly from the last time I was on them for about a month.  That was an epic red disaster there.  My heart races at random times during the day, and also when I try to sleep, and I have strange jitters.  My rash isn't gone, and though yesterday it got worse, today its not worse (nor is it better).  So I just have to be patient.  Patience.  ha haha hahahaaa.  omg I'm going insane.

Photos tomorrow.  Maybe. 

Coral Bells photo from The Primrose Path.