I cannot keep plants alive. When I purchase a houseplant, I sing a little durge in my head for the poor creation. I over-water, over-sun, and generally stare at them too much. Minda said it right when she said, “I love them to death.” Yes. Death by affection.
The thing is this: my husband and I really want a small-ish, raised garden in the back yard. One of the big difficulties we face is our housing situation. We live on an Army post, so all the yard work is (thankfully! blissfully!) taken care of for us; this also includes all sorts of “sprays” several times a year. They spray for bugs and weeds and mold, all of which run rampant here on the east coast. I, however, don’t want poison on/in my salad. The housing office says the spraying will continue. I’m not willing to move. What remains is (and here, Congress take note!) a compromise.
I will grow the veggies I want to grow in containers which can, with relative ease, be moved indoors on the days when The Spraying will take place. I don’t mind telling you that I have a lot of trepidation about this. My superpower is halting the production of chlorophyl. What I’ve started so far, though, are some lettuces and some spinach. I suggest you pray for those little plants. Also, store up some indulgences for what will be planted next: cilantro (lots!), tomatoes (more!), and thyme (easy-peezy!).
…if you hear a faint and feathery voice crying out in the night, just know it’s my plants, calling in an air strike on my location. Don’t worry, it will be in self-defense, I’m sure.
Eating in a healthful manner can be down right dangerous…