So all this year I have been fretting about my lemon tree, because it is only tiny and last year it fruited quite heavily and this year it has done nothing at all: no new growth, no leaves, no blossoms. Many bare and ravaged twiglets. I thought it was curling up its little self and dying on me.
This morning's good news? New leaflets! Yay! Baby steps, but hey. It's only a baby.
It's actually quite remarkable how delighted I am. About the whole garden, actually: I have little tomatolets on my tomato plants, and half the veggies are flowering in a purposeful way, and most of the sugar snap peas and all of the edamame are surviving and putting on growth, and half the boysenberry canes; and the sage and rosemary are conspiring to take over the world, and I have blisteringly hacked back the oregano, and and and. I love my garden.
If all I had to do was grow stuff and cook it, sometimes I think I could be quite happy that way. (Also, I came back from Santa Cruz this weekend with a copy of Silvena Rowe's Purple Citrus & Sweet Perfume. This is just the ultimate in gastroporn, and I want to cook everything.)
Except that then I go and dream a dream about writing a YA fantasy, where my girl protagonist has penguins for her familiars. Penguins. Is there no escape? (In my dream, Karen scorned the notion. In fact, when I told her about it this morning, she was all over the idea.) (No. I am not going to write about penguin familiars. No.)