Tuesday, April 26, 2011

The beginning of fruit...


That was Easter.

In the night, at 1.14am, I went out to the terrace because I could hear birds. Songbirds. It made no sense. I stood on a chair, skin wrapped in the cloud that had dropped softly on the city, looking around in the night, up at the faint orange glow above, reflecting off the bottom of the low fog and heard high, minute calls, pick! pick! pick! I decided that it must be a migration, that the cloud into which all buildings and lights had disappeared had made the little birds fly lower than usual, and that perhaps they call to each other in flight. I kept looking straight up, half expecting to see a flying bird-body...But nothing, just the pick pick! above and to the east. It lasted a good ten minutes. It was wonderful.



We had about half an hour of clear skies on Monday and bright sun before a fog bank pulled in and muffled us in new cloud.


I have so many strawberry flowers. I counted over 100. Overexcitement.


The roof farm - not much going on, I'm afraid. I lost e v e r y single cucumber! Everything else is hanging in there, but I see some instant, juvenile vegetables in my future. Not sure if growing them from seed is worth it for me, mostly because of the space taken up for all those weeks before they are planted out, and because I'm not prepared to protect them on the roof. I need seedlings who are marines, soldier!

The seed-growing is a lot of fun, and very distracting, and satisfies the urge to garden when a garden is not possible yet. But established seedlings are perhaps worth waiting for, and buying from a good grower. We'll talk in a few weeks. Maybe I will have changed my tune. Some good news - the broad beans are up and the roof squirrel appears not to like them. Oh, please note the addition of livestock...It's my Guard Sheep, brought to Brooklyn in my carry-on from Cape Town. To further perplex marauders it has around its neck a beaded Coptic cross from Ethiopia, given to me by a wild painter-girl many years ago, when I lived on Flatbush Avenue and she felt I needed strong muti against Troglodyte landlords, Mexican boyfriends and French restaurant owners.


Count on the microgreens. Very micro, but green. 


The climbing Iceberg on the terrace is covered in buds, and on the street, spring is busting out all over. I am the impatient gardener.
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