Tired of tomatoes

Summer was short and tomato season was short, along with the tomatoes themselves. The successful plants in my garden were all cherry and grape tomatoes that came up from last year's seeds. I ate them in salads, gave the split ones to chickens and a few to the dogs--but not many because the high acid content can upset even iron-lined Airedale tummies--and added them to recipes from my new cookbook.

That's Tuscan bean stew from the book. Some of the green stuff is organic kale from the grocery store because I didn't have time to get to the market. Never again. A handful of leaves from the neighbor's poplar trees could not have been more tough and chewy.
I think even the chickens are tired of tomatoes because when I threw a handful into the pen this morning, they cocked their heads instead of rushing to eat, going, "What, those again? How about some leftover parrot food instead?"

I also turned Alanis into Fuzzdog by brushing her out. After you get an Airedale all brushed and fluffed, the first thing she does is go to the water bowl and drench her face so that she can walk away dripping from chin dreadlocks and ruining the photo op. In dog language, that's a relaxed dog, tail and ears neither high nor low, muscles loose. Standing or lying on the grooming table while a person brushes, plucks, trims and--horrors!--Dremels the toenails must be hard work.

Serving beer to under-aged drinkers--

--and hoping they won't live to feel the hangover in the morning.

I didn't have much of a slug problem this year until I planted microgreens for a fall crop. You'd think I'd planted the greens for the slimers alone.

That shows only a bit of the damage. Ordinarily I wouldn't waste good ale on slugs, but my son left a glass unfinished last night (20-something male? Unfinished glass of beer? Rare but it can happen). He was going to pour it down the drain. "No! Stop!" I pleaded, throwing myself at his feet. "Give it to the slugs; they haven't had a drink in years."

Actually, my attitude is more like Sleeping Beauty's stepmother with the apple. I dug the plastic bowl into the ground so that the lip is level with the dirt. Those mollusks will slip right in while going, "What is that heavenly and intoxicating smell? I must investigate." I expect to find some drowned slugs tomorrow but will spare you the graphics. Slugs are gross at any time and even worse when swimming in beer. But I will have my revenge!

Note: I came across this film, made in Oregon, of racing slugs. Especially enjoyable if you're into aliens and slime.

Remembering better weather

We've had days of glum wet dark humid rainy weather, a promise of much more of the same to come. Miro and I are doing lots of "fetch" indoors while Alanis, not understanding the concept of running after a toy, much less bringing it back, stands in front of me wagging her tail. Miro gets praised for bringing the toy back--sometimes I don't even have to pry it out of his mouth!--and Alanis gets praised for standing there.

Here's the real reason for this post. I was recalling sunshine by looking at photos from a couple of weeks ago in Victoria's Butchart Gardens.

This is part of the sunken garden, a former quarry.

And Krispy Creme, the honorary Indus Airedale, in her "rub my belly" pose.

Thieves!

After a too-wet spring destroying blossoms and reducing pollination, this has been a poor summer for growing anything. My plot of everbearing strawberries produced a couple of handfuls of blueberry-sized strawberries. This berry was one of the few normals, which I found on the front porch rail. Here's why it was not on the plant:

The thief didn't even have the courtesy to eat the whole thing.

Possibly the thief was the same squirrel who destroyed the single squash on one of my winter squash plants.

Not the work of slugs--those are teeth marks.

I'll just have to heap more compost and chicken fertilizer on the garden and hope for better luck next year.

Not for dinner.

The tragedy of the ants

When I was cleaning up the yard after the recent storms, Miro helped by eating all the yellow grape tomatoes left on the vines. He cleverly left the green ones, taking only those that were ripe.

All summer I had watched hundreds of black ants moving little twigs at the foot of some steps made of railroad ties. It took weeks to figure out that they were building up a berm, for reasons unknown. From the number of them, I guessed that their tunnels extended a long way into the slope; but I resisted the temptation to dig in and find out. It didn't seem fair to disturb the tremendous amount of work they had done.

When I checked on them today, I saw holes instead of their little mound.
The entire mound was flattened.


The neighborhood flickers had discovered the ants and bored down like the anteaters they are. A few ants wandered above ground--too tiny for my camera to capture--like the dazed survivors you see in the movies after an apocalyptic event. Months, whole ant lifetimes of work, gone in a few days of rain and birds. Really, it reminded me of the time my computer crashed and I foolishly hadn't backed up weeks of files.