Oops. I positioned the pots on this side of the roof, with the wall behind them, to stop them from blowing over, but the wind doesn't always blow from the same direction. Does it? So. No harm done, and they did it again in the tornado-watched night.
Danielle, our new neighbour, came over for supper, and I went up to the roof to pick tomatoes for the buffalo mozzarella I brought home. She's going to catsit while we are in Rockport next month. She seemed to take the beshirted cat in her stride. Her cats seem quite normal by comparison. Maybe it's us.
I have a squash. Who wants it? I find squash deeply boring, unless they are butternut or pumpkin. Good for stuffing. Um. Farcie. If the squash get big I'll stuff them with lamb bits and currants and pine nuts and rice.
Many dead leaves were taken off the tomatoes. Many.
Three more cucumbers.
The black cherry tomatoes are starting to show some colour at last. Interesting that they are so slow.
And that's about all there is to say. One can only say so much about cucumbers and tomatoes.
On the hottest of Saturdays, we make our way in the early evening to Queens, heart of, for a wedding. From Brooklyn. There is no straight line subway. Subway tunnels and platforms are like stifling hot wet death. In wedding outfits. Maybe we should just wear bathing suits and change there.