I spent some time in my garden this morning. Traditionally, here in Kamloops, the May long weekend is the time where it’s deemed safe to plant your garden. I pushed the envelope by planting my peas in late March (and they’re doing wonderful, thank you very much!) and radishes, lettuce, and carrots in late April (they’re up and doing well!).
I had put a few of the tomato plants I started from seed (thirty plants; four varieties) in the ground a few weeks ago a few weeks ago and surrounded them with my walls o’ water to keep them safe in case we got a late frost. I planted the rest a week or so ago (supplementing them with aspirin, fish parts, and eggshells in the holes) and today decided to remove the protective walls.
In addition, I have planted five pepper plants (which I started from seed a couple of months ago), spaghetti squash, crookneck squash, mojito mint, basil, nasturtium, borage, rainbow Swiss chard, and a couple of other varieties of radish and lettuce. I keep meaning to take pictures of my plot in the community garden. I will. Soon.
This afternoon, Gerry and I went out into the back yard and played croquet. Yes, croquet. Just the two of us. Just because we felt like it. I joked that we should don our finest attire and brew up a spot o’tea to enjoy while we played (a la Downton Abbey) but we decided to forgo the English finery for today.
Then, I spent a pleasant hour on the upper deck reading. I just started a book I picked up from the library this morning: May Sarton’s At Seventy: A Journal. I love her appreciation for simple things: tending a garden, a simple breakfast of bread and homemade jam, a yellow goldfinch; many of the same things I find myself finding pleasure in these days.
I enjoyed one of Sarton’s earlier books a few years ago, Journal of a Solitude, and look forward to this one too. Her first words in Solitude echo my own experience:
“I am here alone for the first time in weeks, “to take up my ‘real’ life again at last. That is what is strange—that friends, even passionate love, are not my real life, unless there is time alone in which to explore what is happening or what has happened.”
Now, it’s almost five o’clock and I’m thinking about the new pork recipe I’m planning on supper. Cooking is much different these days than it was when I was working, when usually the last thing I wanted to think about at the end of the day was preparing a meal.
These days I’m trying new recipes, browsing Pinterest for inspiration, watching the Food Network, and having a blast. I even bought a new Jamie Oliver cookbook today with a gift card I’ve been saving for something special. I prepared a couple of recipes I saw him make on TV last week that were a huge success (Mothership roast salmon and, with the leftovers, Salmon filo pie. De-lish-ious!) . Plus, I really like his food philosophy.
Other than this blog post I didn’t get any actual writing done today. (Although it’s said among writers that even when we’re not physically writing we’re thinking about writing and so, in some ways, we’re always writing.) I’m pleased with the progress I’ve been making on the synopsis and outline for my current project. I have good intentions of getting my tushie into my office for focused writing time every day but some days, gardening, reading, and now it seems, croquet, just get in the way.
And I’m A-Okay with that.