November 2, 2011


 This weekend, I... depotted? repurposed? killed? all my annuals. Hot pink and white periwinkles, a whole flat of them. Purchased at the beginning of June, when I went into serious nesting mode just before Micah's arrival. They thrived all summer and made our porch look way better than our neighbor's (which is, of course, all that really matters).

I enjoyed the ritual of watering them every other day, right after getting home from work. Pinching off withered blooms. Noting new growth. Constantly repositioning the pots. It makes me think I could perhaps be capable of tending to a small garden next year. Nothing fancy, just a few vegetables and herbs (though I'm sure that's what everyone says, right before they get in way over their heads). Daydreaming about that has been my cure for the growing (no pun intended) dread I feel about the lack of produce diversity during winter. The farmer's market becomes a sea of root vegetables. I forget what fruit looks like.

Thank God for Thanksgiving and Christmas. They distract me through the worst of it, and then, poof, all of a sudden it's next year, and spring is closer than farther. And I can start thinking about annuals again.