Thoughts of Downsizing

​                                                        Labor of love, our garden divine, 
                                                     At times, a curse .  . . let me expline:

Earlier this week, we delivered three coolers full of cucumbers to our neighbors--one cooler full-sized and two a bit smaller. Jim made the delivery run and had clear, and clearly hopeful, instructions: "Come home empty-handed." Thankfully, our neighbors are good folks who welcomed our overwhelming garden wealth and emptied our containers. Now, four days later, our single row of cucs is again out of hand, yielding both the pictured 14" whopper, that I somehow missed in an earlier harvest, and the sink full of slicers and picklers. In addition to cucs, and bushels of zucs, tomatoes, and yellow crook-necked squash, the basil has flourished in these dog days that so debilitate us; plus, our corn is ripe.

That last has us on red alert. Weeks ago, we covered all 8 rows of corn with orchard netting and surrounded them with electrified netting, our best effort at thwarting ground attack by raccoons and aerial bombardment by red-winged blackbirds. The birds--those ear-peeling, ever-so-smart, gluttons--are winning. They fly in from the side, peel down husks on every ripe ear, feast on the juicy, much-anticipated kernels, and leave behind only the bottom third of each ear. As a parting gesture, surely intended to insult us, they embellish each ravaged ear with dollops of poop. We are now on a crusade to save what remains of this earliest corn, as well as the later-planted, yet-to-ripen corn. Weed and I dash out often to whoop, clap, and pop harmlessly at them with pellets fired from the air pistol. As I write, Jim is hanging shiny foil pans above the stalks, as suggested by online sources. I fear that our efforts will neither daunt nor fool the gathering hordes. Their beady observance of and canny response to our ineffectual sorties suggest that we have much to learn about blackbird wisdom and their ancient traditions of raiding and plundering.

"Overwhelmed" is understatement, but we've not yet surrendered. Moments ago, I ground my second quart of pesto, sans cheese but heavy to basil, and both are tucked into the freezer for future times when weather and chores demand hot, carb-heavy pasta meals. Quart and pint jars stand ready for an evening of dill pickling the pictured sinkful of cucs, and we have feasted on a favorite cuc/black bean/cilantro salsa that can be loaded with vastly more cucumbers than called for by the recipe. As for tomatoes: I eat them with cottage cheese for breakfast, we have consumed gallons of salsa in the past two weeks--tomato/corn/black bean & cilantro--and every meal includes a favorite, open-faced sandwich, toast topped with sliced tomatoes and melted cheddar. 

Each year at this time, when our garden wealth nearly buries us, we harbor thoughts of downsizing. Such heresy is cured anew each morning on our early stroll through the glorious, exuberant, veggie jungle that is our long-held tradition. We continue to delight in sharing our fresh abundance, and we revel in pantry shelves overflowing with our preserved bounty. Were we truly charitable, we would plant two corn patches, one for the black birds and raccoons and the other, already envisioned for next year, a totally thief-proof wire enclosure. Until then, bring it on, redwings. Let the garden games continue.