It’s depressing me to have that last post be on top of the page, here. Instead let’s all admire the latest arrival at Casa Mir:
I’ve been trying to grow melons in my garden for years, and this year—the year my garden surely should be dead of neglect—is of course the year that they took. We’ve had a lot of rain, you see. (Also: irony.) I have trellised the sugar baby vines and dutifully constructed pantyhose slings for my budding fruits, and although my reading told me all about how fruits should reach at least eight pounds and sound hollow and blah blah blah, this morning this melon had made an executive decision and broken free of both its vine and sling.
At six and a half pounds even, it may be a little premature. But it sounds hollow, so who knows. My boys arrive home tonight after being away for a week; I’ll save it for them. We’ll cut it open tomorrow and see if it’s any good. And if it’s not, well, I’ll try not to take it personally. (If it is, I won’t take that personally, either.) It’s just a melon.