Edible Garden

For the past five months or so I’ve been stalking my neighbor’s garden two doors down. Five months, you query? Yes, five months. This includes those winter months when, according to my yard, nothing grows. This seemingly lonely dude with a very frisky calico cat has one hell of a green thumb and I can see the digit from my kitchen window. I’m the neighbor standing on her tippy toes at the kitchen sink straining to see what he’s up to in that bountiful Eden of his while unknowingly scrubbing the color off the dinner plate in my soapy hands. A couple of weeks ago I was inspired by his stately fruits and veggies so I went to Home Depot and took great care in choosing my small collection of tomatoes, herbs and a Serrano pepper plant. I put them in massive pots on a ledge so the dog couldn’t annihilate them as soon I turned my back. I watered them and cheered for them and already things are looking pretty bad. Brown spots, yellow leaves and little growth plague my sprouts. The neighbor’s garden boxes, on the other hand, taunt me from afar with their deep green color and bushy appearance. Why does it have to be this way?

On a positive gardening note, the tot and I spent the morning at his school working on a gardening project. We built a compost area, a place for melons and a lovely little area for veggies to grow. 12 kiddos or so ran amok with plastic shovels, hoes and watering cans. Although at certain moments it was like herding cats, we got a lot accomplished and in a couple of months they will be eating goodies they have grown themselves. Alice Waters would be so proud. Yeay team!

It Takes A Village

So this is the episode where I have to give mad props to all the mommies and daddies who are the kick arse parents of the kids in W’s class at school. Can I just say that I’m the luckiest momma on the planet to have such an awesome bunch for a) drinking buddies, b) open-minded, laid back, non-judgmental conversationalists, and c) measuring 11 on the 1-10 scale of total foxiness. Seriously, we should all pose for a calendar and I bet we would sell the hell out of it. We could donate some of the money to the school and spend the rest on wine clubs.

Friday, W had his first school program. They had been studying about Africa for 2 weeks and this was the apex of all their research. A small gathering of parentals waited like paparazzi for the tots to burst through the classroom door dressed in kente cloth vests made of paper bags and painted images and anklets made of pipe cleaners and bells. It was no surprise to see W sans kente vest and bells. I can barely convince him to dress in the morning. All of his friends paraded around in costume and banged on various instruments while W promptly put his toosh in my lap and watched. “I ain’t wearin’ no stinkin’ paper bag.” Yep, that’s my boy. He takes very much after his father.

Afterwards, I took W to my workplace to finish my day and pack up while he ate the dusty candy pumpkins perched on my edge of my desk as decor. I then wrangled the sugar-hyped tot and hoofed it over to the motherland, Central Market, where everyone from W’s class noshed and kibitzed as a PG-rated group. The wine bottles lined the tables like centerpieces, the kiddos ran amok and danced to the live music and we all had some good laughs at watching them wrestle, mosh, do yoga poses and hug. Good times, good times.