[ If you literally knew how many times a day I think, “I should write about that,” you’d be even more critical of the fact that I never actually do “write about that.” ]
[ (This post is going to be the most random, disconnected string of unrelated content and thoughts that you just might wish that I opted not to “write about that.”) ]
Never mind. I am undeterred. It’s on my list of things to do today and I will check this box, dammit. Because checking the boxes on my to-do list is my absolute favorite thing to do. (Oh yeah, and the title? It’s all I could think of and I’m writing this after I wrote items 1-6, so I’m calling this one # Zero:)
Glamauge is the name that the Morgan family (my family) has always used for a mixture of things. A medley. An assortment. Specifically we used the word to describe scrambled eggs with a bunch of other stuff added in. I have always loved the word. And yet, no spell check ever seemed to recognize it. I figured it was just an oddly spelled word so, one day, I set out to figure it out.
Turns out “glamauge” is actually supposed to be “melange” and my brother simply got it wrong that fateful day. So, turns out that all these years we’ve been using a made-up word. Which I actually far prefer to the correct word and therefore, continue to use it.
(Remind me to tell you the story about Marlo Andretti someday.)
There was a frost this morning. As it happens, I just might be a prophet of frosts. Because yesterday I said to my mom (I have a witness, though not an impartial one), “It feels like there might be a frost tonight.” Now, you may point me to any number of resources that SAID there would be a frost last night, but I was unaware of those. I even checked Weatherbug on my phone (literally the worst weather app out there, but still my favorite because, like –am I wrong about this? — EVERY weather app is “literally the worst”) and there were no alerts. The low was forecasted to be 42. However, at 10 pm the temperature at *my* house was already only 40 degrees. Mind you, I predicted the frost at about 2pm. Just saying.
Let’s be clear: I am not sad about the frost. I am ecstatic. I am free. I can now rip out, without remorse, everything in my garden that will not ripen. Hope is gone, but with it is replaced vengeance. And resignation. And anticipation for those early sunsets that I get to sit on my ass in a chair in the living room with my blanket starting whenever it gets dark with no guilt. No running around outside at 8:30pm, no weeding or picking up, no taking the dog for a run. No anything. Because it’s dark outside. Permission granted. It’s the season we all get to sit in our favorite chairs with blankets… for the next six months. You are welcome.
I made banana bread this morning. I hate making banana bread. I don’t know why, I just do. I love to eat banana bread though and so I make it when the freezer gets too full of frozen bananas. (I have the most awesome recipe.) But here is the question I pose to you today. Who? Who are the cookbooks fooling when they say, at the end — as every one of them does — “cool in the pan 5 minutes. Remove loaf and cool 30 minutes before slicing. Serve warm or at room temperature”?
Do you see what I’m talking about? “…cool 30 minutes before slicing?” Has anyone ever waited this long? “That is complete ridiculousness,” said the woman who just ate two nuclear-hot slices of banana bread and isn’t sorry.
My garden sucked this year. I was going to write a September “Round-up Post” on the garden and I even took pictures in preparation for doing just that (see below for a glamauge of pics). But I never did it. Why? Because I’m ticked off, that’s why. Actually, it isn’t really all that reasonable for me to be ticked. I knew, that by writing a Round-up Post, I would be forced to admit that my garden didn’t actually suck that bad. And I don’t want to hear about it. Not from me or anyone else. I want to wallow in my self pity and be left alone. I want to believe my garden sucked and be done with it because….
Midwest gardens are are judged entirely, 100%, upon the success (or failure) of their tomato crops. And my tomatoes sucked.
Do you get it now? Nothing else matters but the tomatoes. Who really CARES that I harvested about 200 pounds of cucumbers? NO ONE CARES. Or that I actually have brussels sprouts on my brussels sprouts plants (trust me, the opposite can — and does — happen)? NO ONE CARES. Or that the aphids on my edamame plants were not *quite* as apocalyptic as usual? NO ONE CARES.
What they care about is the tomatoes. And I cannot wait to pull their diseased and desiccated stems out of the ground with their vile-smelling, rotting, dripping-with-disease tomatoes with them. Who was I kidding when I left those plants in, thinking, “Maybe that green tomato higher up on that mostly dead plant will ripen and be the pinnacle of summer essence.” It wasn’t. With the first frost comes permission to end the charade. Thank you mother nature. Next year I promise to grow some hybrids as well as use that bombastic tool plastic “mulch” to hold off the early blight. I shudder as I write that, but I’m so tired of crappy tomatoes.
Minnesota — or at least my piece of Minnesota — is under some freakish wasp/hornet plague.
My friends want to duct tape my mouth shut they are so sick of hearing me go on and on and ON about the bees. But what the HECK? I mostly write this so that anyone else out there who is googling the crap out of “Why are there so many hornets this year” and “Wasps in Minnesota” and “Do wet years produce more hornets?” and “How to find hidden bald faced hornet nests” and… OK I’LL STOP. I just want us all to be on the same page (literally on this page) so we can commiserate. I cannot pick apples or raspberries without taking my life into my hands.
Speaking of raspberries…
Have you heard of the Spotted Wing Drosophila? No? Well google it if you are interested. But basically what it is, is an invasive fruit fly that cuts a slash into ripe raspberries and lays its eggs which hatch into larvae that are undetectable to the human eye if you are over the age of 40. So, unless you want to be eating worms, you better be wearing your reading glasses when you pick raspberries. Or, if you are Dave, you simply say, “Raspberries are dead to me.” And ignore their very existence. Or if you are Morgan’s hippy boyfriend, you find a raspberry crawling with worms and pop it into your mouth to prove that “worms can’t hurt you.” Or, if you are me, you simply obsess all day and night about all those raspberries going to waste.
The Spotted Wing Drosophila is here to stay from what I gather. Picking the raspberries daily before they are too ripe is the solution. Daily. Every day. Without fail. Before they are totally ripe. Every. Damn. Day.
Kill. Me. Now.