Every year my folks have a garden. They typically grow tomatoes, squash, zucchini, cucumbers, pole beans, sugar pod peas, bell peppers, onions, and spinach. Dad always has a grapevine. This year they're also growing onions, a couple of different types of tomatoes, and several more varities of peppers. They usually share with me because they always have surplus. This works out well for me because I have a permanent black thumb.
Black thumb = problem. Big problem. Apparently I inherited none of their plant intuition. I don't automatically know how wet or dry the soil needs to be, how much sunshine the plant needs, or when to make googly voices at it while I stroke its leaves (unless it's "never"). All of my plants have either suffered from root rot from overzealous hydration or have dried to a crisp before I've remembered to water them. Over the years my garbage has been a sad graveyard for plants that I've managed to torture out of existence. (Now pets? No problem. At least, if I forget to feed them one day they always remind me to feed them by the time the second day rolls around. Always).
I am terrified anytime a new plant makes its unlucky way into my household. For instance, a lovely customer of the pharmacy gave us a plant to show his gratitude. Just about everyone forgot to water it except me and our morning cashier. It also developed a sort of gangsta lean to one side because the top of the plant was so much heavier than the root ball (and the pot it was in was too small for the plant to survive). Still, it managed to grow a few tiny orange blossoms in its environment of air conditioning and artificial light. It was adorable and sad. I felt badly for it and brought it home (dun-dun-duuuuuuuun). I found out it was a succulent called a Flaming Katy (probably because of the blazingly bright flowers it produces) and then named it Herman. I called Mom for pointers and she assured me that they're nearly impossible to kill, which is good for me. Bad for the plant, because this ensures a particularly long period of torture. Poor Herman should have been left in his too-small pot in his artificial environment with a cash register stylus stuck into the soil to prop him up. Even with a new clay pot to live in and fresh topsoil to stretch his roots into, he looks worse than ever. Somehow, the topsoil I gave him had gnat eggs in it. Those have all hatched and fly around him like filthy little sattelites, despite several attempts to squish them all or drown them to death. His flowers have since fallen off and his new offshoots have shriveled into themselves. I have no clue what all is wrong with him. I give it maybe another month.
Why can't I successfully grow houseplants? Why? My eyes send a signal to my brain that they're cheerful and terribly pretty. My brain then sends a signal down to my psycho serial killer black thumb to make this a quick one. We haven't got all week to wait for this thing to die.
I love vegetables, too. And this diet I'm on desperately wants me to eat organic, which is--sadly--notoriously expensive. (Have I mentioned yet that I'm broke? It takes over $50 to fill a tank of gas. I'm getting married in October and we're funding almost all of it ourselves. I will be paying off my student loans until I'm dead.) So I guess the more I can save money by eating free or cheap things, the better. Thank God for parents that grow yummy free things. And for farmer's markets that help support local farmers. They're not as cheap as free, but the money goes to an excellent cause. Not to mention produce from small farms tastes better than anything you could ever get at a grocery store or chain. All fantastic for someone like me whose thumb can't wait to choke the life out of another leafy potted thing.
With that in mind, when the Zombie Apocalypse starts I will be unable to help the community by raising crops or slaughtering animals. My contribution will be as marksman. Thank God I'm a pretty decent shot.
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