Last night, Pete and I went out to dinner with Sharkey and old friends from that bar where we all lived. Pete recognized most of the faces from another bar half a mile away from the first, where we also all lived. There were third, fourth and fifth bars where we all lived and a dozen more in New York, but several of us are still in denial and some of us still get the shakes when we hear the magic words: Are you with the band? In any case, I brought up gardening.
Pete’s been planting up a storm in trays in the basement complete with grow lights, while I’ve been waiting for a visit from Homeland Security where I explain no one has as yet outlawed herbes de Provence. They’ll listen to me. I’m a little old lady with a clean rap sheet and a filthy blog. So we’re going to need an excellent lawyer if we don’t in fact get to transplant the tomatoes that are growing in one of these contraptions (left). Tomorrow, I’m going to transplant a mesclun mix into a window box, also in the mini greenhouse, if I am not unfortunately incarcerated for growing salad. In any case, I described this outdoor furniture thingy as like shelving wrapped in the pelts of plastic sofa slipcovers. Everyone looked confused. I switched to horticulture jokes.