When it comes to the planting and growing of stuff, I harbor a little bit of a spooky lifey anti-choice fundamentalist nut. (Not that I’d disclose anything about my political positions…)
But I spend so much time preparing and starting seeds for the weaker and spindlier seedlings to be chucked in the compost bin. Then I had what I thought a glorious idea.
I see all over the place these hanging tomato and pepper plants for sale, and agree with a lot of the logic of it: one should let vines be vines, rather than obsessively working to defy gravity. If they’re off the ground, they’re less susceptible to succumbing to frost and blight. This all makes sense. But I don’t like doing things the easy way, so I spent a week chugging soda, then after recovering from the resulting birth of twenty pounds of intestinal bile, I whipped up the mighty ghetto creations you see in the photo above.
The single Hungarian wax pepper you see here is this year’s only product of this experiment, which probably has something to do with the notion that I am, after all, populating them with the weakest, barely fit for survival seedlings. It might also have something to do with the fact that these get planted long after the rest of the garden goes down. And there’s the issue of water, and while we get plenty of water hanging out in the ground, these guys actually need care. But still, it was a mighty pepper, living the American dream, making something even though its opportunities are limited.
On the theme of limited opportunities, yesterday marked pig-slaughter day, a day of great Neanderthaloid pleasure, from my vantage. While I hadn’t expected anything resembling solemnity, a modicum of respect for the animals whose flesh they were taking, or the local vegetarian who took part in raising them, might’ve been appreciated. Later, after the day turned to party, because such days should always turn to parties, the butcher was asked to have a turn shooting skeet– because such parties are more fun with recreational bangery. “I already got to shoot today!” boasted the butcher with mouth swollen into the expression of pure joy. Now, were I a fighting type, there would’ve been fists, but it’s a good thing I’m not, because that does not add much fun to most parties. And so I’m seething at you, dearest internet, because while it’s rare and great to enjoy one’s work, the part of the work involving taking a rifle to the head of an animal really needs to be treated for what it is. Otherwise, the pigs might as well have been factory-farmed, and the dishonored rednecked knuckle-dragging discredits your entire operation. I’ll have no part in this next year, and expect My Native to be able to butcher his own meat (Hi, baby.).
Finally! A righteous and angrily rantish blog post. I knew I could do it!