My garden is over.

The tomatoes are finished. Not by their own accord mind you. I ripped them from the ground yesterday, their little roots screaming as a blanket of fresh air beaconed their demise. But I don’t care, I’m tired of it. I’m tired of watering. And tired of waiting for their fruits to ripen! And so they are gone. The butternut squash remains. They’ve guilted me into taking care of them until the harvest. They’re so close. It would be like catching a goat and only trimming 3 of its hooves. Or having enormous tomato plants and ripping them from the ground while still laden with heirloom goodness.

As the seasons change, so must the garden. If this was my own house, I wouldn’t mind letting the plants produce and wilt until Thanksgiving. But people demand gorgeousness. People demand seasonality. In September, people demand pumpkins. And cornucopias.

Next year, we’ll have a much larger garden. With tomatoes and peppers and corn. It’s like I’ve already forgotten the pain of watering. And weeding. And growing vegetables that no one will eat. I liken it to the curse of the puppy. Everyone loves a puppy, but they are a headache. But somehow, when they become full-grown, you suddenly find puppies so adorable and wouldn’t mind having another. It’s like they have a mind-erasing machine in their eyes. And they love eating cucumbers. Our rabbits love the herbs. And the groundhog loves the cabbage, the brussel sprouts, and everything else delicious I tried to grow. He won’t get me next year. I’ll be ready.

While the tomatoes wait to be transported to the burn pile, a cold London rain descends on Orchard House. The llamas are in cool weather heaven. The goats just want some food. The peacock wants her freedom. And Bob Evans is looking at me with his big-boy eyes and I’m thinking about how cute puppies can be. I need puppies. Lots of puppies. And I will housebreak them on my Persian rugs.

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