In need of a Nile

I shouldn't discriminate.  It's not even based on anything sound.  They're just everywhere.  Like they somehow demand a right to be there.  In every suburb, every home.  Bloody Agapanthus.  They don't even come in a singular version, there is no word for a singular Agapanthus.  Just like Tim Tams, you can't stop at one. I should like them because at the moment they are the only thing thriving in our very dry garden, and that's without any attention from me.  As chief provider of water to screaming thirsty plants, I admit to skipping the Agapanthus in favour of the geraniums.  It's wrong I know, favouring one child over another but they are overly represented across the State's stone walls and driveways.  Google tells me they're of Greek origin (blue and white, the flag, of course...) and perhaps they consider our piddly Tasmanian 29 degrees not even warm compared to a blistering Rhodes summer and so wave their long arms in defiance.  I should be grateful that such a robust plant can survive the lack of water.  Considering their other name is Lily of the Nile, and given we're sufficiently short on Nile, it's more like Lily of the dry brown paddock really.  Perhaps they are just misunderstood.  Still won't water them.

'A' Reserve Ticket Holders Only

We've run out of perches.  It's a bit like running out of seats at a football stadium.  The ones we have are all prime seating with a good view of the paddock and they're even tiered so nobody misses out on the action.  The perches start to fill on dusk every night by the same crew, our first batch of chickens.  The older chooks tuck themselves in first and Cyril usually gets seated last, being head rooster.  The newer and younger generations of chickens are later to bed.  They have no reserved seating and are forced into the general admissions area which is just a flimsy bamboo stick poking through the corners of the wire cage.  It was a bit of a quick fix on my part but seems to hold at least two or three.  I know it's going to split at some point, I just hope they get some warning.  Unfortunately we've had to put some goats in the same paddock as the chook pen recently due to their ability to levitate over fences.  And the goats like to snuggle up at night so the chook pen seems to them like a good alternative.  So the poor hens have had their house invaded by two goats that chew up all the straw and stomp around all night keeping everyone awake.  No wonder I haven't had any early morning crowing these last couple of days.  Nobody has had any sleep.

The no chicken diet works for Minnie

Most farms have a farm cat.  We're not really a farm (like real proper like..) and therefore Minnie our outdoor cat fits our improper mould.  She's chief mouser and generous with gifts on the back door mat given the occasional missing head she thought would go unnoticed. If there's a lizard, skink or bug behind a pot she's onto it.  She's even onto the heavy russling in the forest of daisies along the driveway.  Although we think it might be the same echidna that appeared last year which was great to see but confused Bennie and Minnie no end.  You could almost see by the look on their faces what was going through their minds, 'You touch it', 'No thanks, you saw it first'.  Minnie's job description includes rodent control but stipulates, no interaction with free ranging chickens of any size or proportion.  And that she does.  To the point where a mother hen can walk a two week old birthday party of toddlers right past her without incident.  Our theory was always that to deter her, we would feed Minnie well during chicken raising time.  Unfortunately chicken raising time has extended into months and months as the number of chickens has expanded rapidly along with Minnie's waistline.  Whilst we've been unkind in our jokes about her causing the cracks in the pavers and no longer being able to climb trees, we intend to cut back on the food but the plan is working at the moment.  She's upholding the mouse hunting and still keeping chicken off the menu.  It's like she's done a deal with the hen house.  Keep producing chicks and they'll keep producing the Fancy Feast.  Sweet.

How do you take your tea? One strawberry or two?

Phew. Looks like the season has finally started to change.  The wind has hightailed it out of here for the time being and a short burst of rain briefly reminded us of what it felt like not to have to water.  Our recently planted box hedges had been sadly forgotten and were gasping for water hidden under an unruly bushy rose.  I don't buy into the, water only in the early or later part of the day theory as my English box hedges struggle with an Australian dry summer any time of the day.  They scream for water NOW as they start to resemble less a green hedge and more a pile of burnt popcorn.  Elsewhere in the garden the strawberry runners hang like creepy tentacles from their baskets in the green house.  I thought they might have complained about being confined to indoors but seem to be enjoying it enough to not leave my tea cup around should they plant in there before I've finished.  It really is a fruitful time of year when you can't even give away your zucchinis and everyone has enough tomatoes to conduct their own Tomato Throwing festival (a zucchini throwing festival just wouldn't be the same).    Tomato soup, pasta sauce, soup and pasta, pasta with zucchini and tomato soup and so it goes.  I just wish opening a can wasn't so damn easy.

God created apples before man

One apple.  Just the one.  With plans for apple espalier trees somewhere in the garden, our Spartan Apple tree with arms out stretched waved us over to show us her one single apple.  A beauty.  Not a grub, bite, peck or blemish.  Our single apple was kept on the tree as long as possible, in watchful anticipation.  Last night temptation got the better as I ventured into the garden of Eden and picked the solitary specimen.  A quick execution half expecting a biblical talking snake offering eternal damnation or worse an actual snake in this somewhat weedy and neglected side of the shed very unlike Paradise.  Eden probably wouldn't have had stinging nettles, nor out of control daisies. I'm sure there would have been a gardener.  And a slow drip watering system, and a Bunnings somewhere.  We're keen to put our espaliers somewhere in the garden where the gale force winds won't take the blossom, and possibly the whole trunk with it.  We're also considering that possum would consider espalier trees just a new aisle in the supermarket, 'Roses, roses, APPLES, where's my trolley...' So before we suffer from either a major weather event or some marsupial discovers paradise, we decided to harvest. Like proud parents we sat and looked at the apple and planned our taste test.  The occasion, a few slices of cheese and some crackers, a walnut half or two, maybe a grassy white wine paired (ahem) along with a sliver of paste of either plum, quince or whatever else they manage to squeeze into paste these days.  A most satisfying event.  Fig leaf optional.

Dazed and confused

I feel very bad, however she's really brought it on herself.  In order to end brooding season, they tell us you need to remove the brooder, ie., hen sitting on eggs, for those of us not in the know, for a period of time until she well, gets over it really.  Whilst up until now we have left them to their own devices our hen population has spiralled somewhat.  And when they decide to brood, it seems they just go into a dazed coma.  It's like they shut down completely.  We had a chicken that dedicated so much time to sitting on unhatchable eggs she developed a facial tumour and eventually died.  So rather than risk this occurring again, we made an executive decision.  And as far as the unhatched eggs go, well it's just further bad news for this little lady who burrowed herself into the long weeds under the apple tree. I just didn't have the heart to tell her.  She's been sitting on apples - not eggs.  All this time she's been depleting herself of sunlight, food and water for the sake of hatching a bunch of granny smiths.  Tragic. I'm surprised she didn't wonder why they were so green?  Anyway, hopefully she'll forgive us.  We just won't give her any of the left over apple crumble for a while yet.

No fault fruit

I'm reading Grown & Gathered at the moment, a guide to growing, cooking, preserving, trading and living well.  The authors Matt and Lentil (I have high expectations already with someone possessing that name) live by a creed that if you listen to nature, it will tell you what to do.  They prescribe to the view that seasons are, when seasons commence and not when the calendar on the fridge says 'plant borage today'.  I've never actually met anyone who planted borage anyway.  I've got a lot to learn from this book and I love their philosophy on traditional growing, as opposed to the enforced growing when the synthetic fertiliser tells you to grow.  I was pleased today to reap the rewards of our harvest with some warm ripe berries from the hanging baskets in the glasshouse dangling like Christmas baubles.  The blueberries are ripe when they catapult off their stems and the tomatoes are starting to look shiny and ready for a summer salad.  We've had some successes this year and also some monumental failures.  My new reference book tells me that plant failure is most likely human fault and rarely the fault of the plant.  Not wanting to point the capsicum at anyone, I would however like to point out the no fault clause here in my planting contract.  It's right there under section 125(b)(iii) titled, The Clueless Gardener whereby it states 'should said Clueless Gardener fail in their inherent requirements to produce a tasty tomato, a straight carrot or an eggplant (just the one), then that said Clueless Gardner will be deemed exempt from any fault or liability upon the garden.  So yes, I will continue to 'listen' to my garden and not try and drown out the screams of 'I'm squashed in', 'I'm thirsty' and 'This soil is full of shit', and plough on with what the seasons will present.  Whenever they are. 

The Goat Houdini

Some say it takes a village to raise a child.  Some might say that it takes a hardware store to keep goats.  This box of tools is only some of what's needed to keep Houdini and his brother tethered and inside their fences. On Saturday I looked out the window to see a curious sight of a goat in the driveway.  Billy (the younger of the two) had gotten off his lead and gone over the fence.  His brother Harry was screaming blue murder.  Usually you can tell when one has escaped as the cries from the other will be a dead give away.  I run outside and Billy stands there with a big grin on his face and a mouth full of apple tree.  As I walk up to him he leaps into the air and jumps back into the paddock where he's supposed to be. Not possessing any resemblance of this kind of agility I walk around to the gate and into the paddock.  By the time I've got there he's out again.  I walk up to the fence line and he jumps in again.  It's like 'I'm in..I'm out.  I'm in....and now out'.  Such fun.  I look around for a branch to bribe him with and struggle to break one off the almond tree.  They both give me a bit of a pathetic look.  Eventually curiosity gets the better of Billy and he comes over to assist with the tree pruning.  I grab him by the collar.  Back on the tether you go.  Not even slightly bothered he puts his head down and continues eating next to his brother.  It was only a temporary fix as the tether broke and the hardware store was visited, yet again.  They must make a fortune out of goat owners like us thinking just one more trip to the store will fix it.  They probably know that the only real fix are leg irons and electronic ankle bracelets.