Husband can flip pancakes in the air and play music by ear. He can drive a fork lift and run a marathon. He can even make a decent cup of tea. So it should have come as no surprise to me when he woke this morning and declared that on Saturday we would be putting in a garden and growing our own vegetables this year.
"Nothing too big," he promised. "I'm thinking just potatoes, peas, carrots, lettuce, beans, tomatoes, corn, broccoli, pumpkins, squash, kale, spinach, beets, onions, garlic, sweet potatoes, leeks, asparagus, peppers, turnips, watermelons, zucchini, Brussels sprouts and cucumbers. Just a small garden, really."
I should point out that for Husband the use of the word small in that sentence is not the least bit ironic. After all, he left out soy.
I confess, though, I am excited about this endeavour. I have witnessed first hand what can happen when Husband decides to do something his way. Clothes don't fit his length? Now he makes his own skydive gear. Ultra light too drafty? Now it has a fully enclosed cabin. Closet door squeaks? Now there's a giant gaping hole where the door used to be, but the squeak is 100% gone.
One of my favourite things about Husband is his child-like enthusiasm for his projects. I know he has spent hours on the Internet searching out tips and schematics and optimal soil conditions. Yesterday I saw him Googling "Poop+Ultra+Fast+Fertilizer+Monsanto+Radioactive". I am certain he has been laying awake at night picturing himself standing on a giant pile of food at harvest time, proudly wearing muddy overalls and a huge grin.
What is this girl to do? Dig, of course. Dig, water, weed, prune and do it all again the next day. Would you want to disappoint someone that wonderful? Or, at least, someone who apparently plans on growing nuclear beets?
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