It's a Miracle My Dog is Still Breathing

My jewel box of an apartment is many things--beautiful, perfectly situated, priced right. What it is NOT: large. Or possessing garden space.

This summer, though, as it's the best summer Seattle has had in three decades (NOT an exaggeration, for once) finally propelled me to seek out garden space where I could find it and attempt to grow something. And so I found a sunny spot by a garage wall, bought soil, and planted seeds. Everyone else in my family appears to be able to grow things; my dad has his dahlias, my grandmother has blueberries, apples, and pears, and my mother is really gifted with plants, coaxing tomatoes from nothing.

Apparently I don't have the gene. Results have been mixed: my arugula (so I can offer the Prez his favorite salad green if he comes over) is growing like crazy, and I have one--ONE--nasturtium bravely making an appearance, but everything else was apparently DOA. I pointed this out to my mother on a recent visit to my apartment.

"Hmmm," she said, peering over my little plot. "How often did you water in the geminating stages?"

"Uh...once a week?"

She stared at me. "Daughter! You have to water them EVERY DAY!"

Me: "WHAT? How is that possible? I only have to oil my bike chain once every other fill-up!"

Mom burst out laughing. "I think you chose wisely when you stuck with engineering," she said, still chuckling.

No wonder people left farming behind as soon as they could. That's just ridiculous. At least Titan can tell me when he's hungry. I strongly believe that plants should just...grow. Apparently they don't agree.