Despite the fact that this year’s garden looked like its boyfriend just broke up with it and it got a bad haircut the day after it failed the chemistry midterm, and despite the fact that it suffered further abuse at the hands of the chainsaw for the sake of our firewood, and despite even the fact that all my actions these days are either performed one-handed or with a 12-pound squirrel attached to my chest, there was still a modicum of a harvest.
Putting the word “hands” so close to “chainsaw” feels like tempting the gods, somehow. Please, users of chainsaws the world over, mind your bodyparts.
As for the blackberries and ferns that have taken over the rest of it, it’s the blowtorch for you. Good thing you’re not literate; there’s no one to warn you. Suckers.
You’d think that as someone concerned with the visual internetted proximity of the linguistic symbols representing human appendages and tools capable of cutting them off, I’d be less-than-willing to entertain the idea of blowtorching-while-babywearing. Internet Child Protective Services Agents, take note. It’s a metaphor! I think. We’ll just use gasoline and a match. She doesn’t have much hair yet, anyway.
My garden didn’t fare much better, and I didn’t even have the excuse of incubating large squirrels. Though there’s nothing like rampaging sheep to put the kibosh on a garden. (They don’t eat ferns, though. Otherwise I’d offer to loan you a couple.)
I could hear Sinead try to rap while reading this post. Ah, the ’90s.
My garden has had a similar struggle this summer without the valid excuse of a new child.