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Garden Update for September 12, 2010

12 Sep

The garden was in stand-up condition when I visited today. Nearly all the seeds that we planted this past week have sprouted and seem happy enough, particularly those in the southernmost portion of the bed, which seem a little larger and heartier than those in the sunnier, more northern portion.

The plants from the initial planting look to have grown since my last time at the garden, especially the Shishito and bok choi. The tomato plant has grown to an invasive extent; some of its vines had overtaken a bok choi plant, so I moved them away from any of our sprouts.

As to watering: The hose’s spigot still leaks high pressure water when turned on. I used the “spray” setting to approximate a shower on the plants, spending roughly twenty seconds on each plant or square section of plant. While allowing time for the soil to absorb that water, I watered the compost heap, which still looks like a pile of rotting stuff. I finished by repeating the showering circuit on the plants, making sure that the soil was well wet up to around my first knuckle. Some rotting stuffSome sprizzoutsThat soil is MOIST

The Modern Prometheus

6 Sep
My father has always been somewhat of a culinary scientist, exploring heretofore untold reaches of the food world. Often, his experiments yield exciting and delicious results; fine stews thickened to dish-unifying sauces, sweet and savory flavors waltzing wonderfully across the plate, popping garnishes transcending simple toppings. Some scattered, dark moments in his career, however, result in horrifyingly bad concoctions whose reversal of expectation rise to Frankensteinian proportions. The Strawberry-Cream Cheese-Bacon Fry-Bread is one such moment.
One night as I lay half awake in my bed, stomach rumbling, I was stirred by the sounds of my father cooking something in the kitchen. I rose and followed the inviting aroma of frying meat to the stove where my father was busy cooking himself a midnight snack of bacon and grilled bread. I knew that his was the last of our bacon, so I asked only for a couple of pieces of the grilled bread. He kindly obliged and sent me away to wait while he prepared it.
My mouth watered at the thought; light, cripsy, grilled bread, tasting golden brown of a thin covering of butter. The ultimate conclusion to my nagging late night hunger. I heard a stillness come over the kitchen, footsteps drawing nearer. He was done. I watched with eagerness as he met me on my couch with a plate of- what? To my horror, he carried in his hand a plate of some darkened slices of bread covered in an unnatural pink glaze. Taken aback, I asked, what was this THING that had replaced my grilled bread? He happily replied that he had put to use our aging strawberry cream cheese. I cringed. The mere thought of the rich and creamy strawberry cream cheese mixing with the innate richness of the bread curbed my hunger. I expressed my fear, but he encouraged me to try it. It would be good, he assured.
How gullible I was. Biting into the stuff revealed an even greater disappointment: he had grilled the bread in the leftover bacon grease. I swallowed reluctantly, the concoction’s hitting my stomach raising immediate alarm. I politely told him that I thought it was a horrible mistake. He scoffed, but upon trying it himself, knew that I was right.
To this day I don’t let my father live down that monstrosity. In a way, I think it keeps a necessary check on his sometimes over-eager culinary creativity. There are just some things in this world with which man shouldn’t meddle. Bacon and strawberry cream cheese are just some examples.