The Garden of Ultimate Evil

At the beginning of the summer, my father-in-law came to the conclusion (from my lily-white skin and distinct lack of freckles) that I ought to be spending more time in the great outdoors. He came up with the cunning plan to woo me into the back yard with my very own garden: a place I could grow all the vegetables I could possibly eat with my own, still-fair-even-now-because-I-stick-obsessively-to-the-shade hands.

At first, it went swimmingly. We tilled the land in preparation, built a fence to keep the beady eyes of the deer at bay and planted carrots, beets and cabbages in neat rows. Once a day, I would potter out to inspect the budding plants and gently water them with a bucket, nurturing their tiny little leaves and dreaming of plates piled high with salad.

As they grew, this evolved into Playtime With Hoses, during which idyllic quarter of an hour of each afternoon, I would drench my bean rows until the whole thing resembled a paddy field. Which action I defend by pointing out that it was over 100 degrees outside and we had no rain for a month.

I rejoiced when I picked my first crops, dutifully snapping the ends from my beans before washing, blanching and freezing them, collecting an ever-increasing stash of vegetable goodness to see us through the winter.

I presented both the husband and the parentals-in-law with piles of lettuce at dinner time, overloading everyone’s plates with salad that looked an awful lot more edible than the pathetic excuse for a spring mix that Safeway has been selling over the summer.

I marvelled at how attractive the fruits of my labours were, as well as tasty. Until the first radish crop came in, that is…

The bunch above might look worthy of the front page of a gardening magazine, but I would in no way recommend taking a bite. Somehow, I achieved growing radishes that were both utterly tasteless and so fiery that my jaw almost literally dropped off.

When the above monstrosity of a radish unearthed itself (pictured in my husband’s man-hand for full appreciation), I began to wonder if my garden was preparing to fight back, and/or take over the world. Possibly by squashing everything else in it.

It got worse. Above is a two-foot green bean that somehow managed to evade my notice and begin creeping ominously towards the back door. I cannot speculate as to what it planned to do once it got there, only that Mutant Bean had nefarious intentions. By way of fair warning, this is probably how the apocalypse is going to begin: in my vegetable garden, through the medium of disgruntled shrubbery. My squash plants are almost certainly Triffids in disguise.

I am writing this post by way of an apology, before the inevitable happens and my harvest turns on us all. I’m sorry for inflicting the Mutant Vegetable Army on the world, and for whatever consequences my selfish action has. I couldn’t help it, I had no choice: my tomatoes are about to ripen and grilled summer squash tastes really, really good.

Pictured: Triffids

The gift of tea

I’ve often wondered whether an animal can have a nationality. My dog doesn’t bark in a particularly American accent, nor does my cat show any obvious signs of craving chili dogs. On the other hand, the latter pet has been spotted on numerous occasions, scampering across the carpet with a teabag between her teeth. This is also the cat, I should point out, who steals lettuce leaves on a regular basis and has no interest whatsoever in catnip, so it’s possible she’s not the best example of sanity in the four-legged.

Despite all that, I have become convinced she is at least 50% English, something I assume she has achieved by absorbing my genes through Satanic rituals while I am sleeping. Or possibly by drinking my blood each time she gnaws my ankle when I have the cheek to move my leg across the mattress.

Here is my proof:

Several mornings ago, my cat sent me off to work with a carefully prepared gift. At first, I thought it was a very different gift of the ‘accidental poop’ variety, but it turned out to be a damp, used teabag. Most cats bring you mice and squashed spiders, but mine (sort of) understands that no morning should start without a nice cup of tea.

I’d have probably preferred a Twix, mind you.

“You’re welcome.”

A Good Time for a Resolution

It’s the new year, as you might have noticed, and I’m told that’s an excellent time for a resolution. I decided, while suffering from “being on a plane”, 15 hours into a 24-hour journey back from England, having not slept for almost two days, with my arse wedged into the least comfortable seat in airline history (an achievement in itself), that mine shall be thus:

I shall hereby cease to be a lazy blogger.

The first person to mention that I’ve waited until halfway through the month to begin my resolution, which is very lazy of me, gets one of those annoying party whistles up the nose.

Resolution 2: I shall hereby begin using American grammar and spellings. Not quite yet, though. Soon. Maybe in the next post. I’m still partly convinced that, if I can only sneak in a few extra vowels and properly placed commas now and then, I can infect the United States with Proper Grammar. My editor at the newspaper has yet to agree, but that’s a minor obstacle.

Resolution 3: I shall hereby learn to properly use the spanking new camera we returned from England with and cease posting shots of a blurred cat on an indeterminate surface. Just as soon as I’ve finished reading the instruction manual and have worked out what the difference between setting P and setting S is.

Regarde!

See? You can totally tell she’s sat on Hubby’s work bench. You just probably don’t care.

I am resolute and determined… bring on the year.

 

Roving and Reporting

A quiet and seldom expressed dream of mine (because my professional experience has slowly led me in a different direction) has always been to become a proper, newspaper journalist. I have vivid memories of cuddling up with Pappy (my grandfather) at about the age of six and discussing who I’d like to be when I grew up. I toyed with doctor, but didn’t like the idea of blood and guts, and was then dissuaded from “member of the Battlestar Galactica bridge crew” (on the basis that it would be difficult to work so closely with Richard Hatch, my first crush). My third answer, and the one that has secretly always remained the only answer, was Kate Adie.

Intrepid, trustworthy and dominating the news during my formative years, Ms. Adie seemed the voice of all that was interesting in the world. I’m not sure whether it was the influence of my father, who always encouraged me to find out as much about anything and everything as I possibly can (although he was probably not referring to cakes and science fiction), or the sheer pull of the knowledge that woman must possess, but I adore her to this day.

The meandering trail of my career took me back and forth between magazines, books and websites and sometimes tantalisingly close to newspapers, but never close enough for my liking. I had all but given up on that quiet dream… and then I moved across the ocean and essentially rebooted my life.

Today marks the end of my first week as the reporter for The Sundance Times, the local newspaper I’ve had my eye on since I began considering the idea of a transatlantic move. During my twiddly fingered down-time, while waiting for my green card, I dreamed up several potential ideas for columns and articles that might interest them, once I was able to begin the pestering process.

I didn’t have to. My uncle-in-law (to whom I shall be eternally grateful) poked me with a heads up that the reporter post had become available and, after a frantic update of my resume, which didn’t have my new name on it, let alone my most recent work at Amazon and FlowMotion, I called, emailed and crossed everything my body would allow me to cross, including my eyes. I was invited in for an interview, and given the job on the spot.

I have my own office (something that seldom happens in England, as we tend to utilise our lack of space with open-plan mischief), my first article is almost complete, I have attended my first meeting of the City Council and pitched a full 10 articles from what I learned – I am in heaven.

To be the staff reporter for the newspaper that published my wedding announcement as my first job in the US is a dreamlike experience. I know my father is proud, and Hubby wore his Superman pants in tribute to being married to Lois Lane (not over the top of his trousers, disappointingly), and I would like to think that Pappy, too, is looking down and smiling, and probably muttering that he told me so.

For my part, I should like to alter the claim I made in my last post that my American dream is to wake up in a pizza-sheet tent, chewing on a cookie pillow. It turns out that my American dream is also my lifelong dream, and has come true.