I got a bit obsessed with plant-based lifeforms this year: the trees in the ravine, the garden, the pot herbs on the deck (aka perbs), the kitchen herbs (kerbs). So it seems as good a way as any to begin the countdown to 2011.
I may or may not do other retrospective posts this week; it depends on how Hild goes. But, hey, today is fresh and young, so here, for your delectation and delight, a selection of posts about green things. I've done it in chronological order, with one a month--apart from May, when I took 3 weeks off the grid, and January, when I was plugged into the grid so hard--building the structure to build LambdaLiterary.org, and then actually building the website--that my eyeballs almost melted. To make up for it I've thrown in a couple of extras.
Enjoy.
The perbs are dead, long live the kerbsIn which I ponder the biochemistry experiment (with photos, of course) that is our latest project: hydroponical herbs in the kitchen.
In which I play with Crapcam, that is, the awful camera in my wonderful iThing. In the course of one day we go from luverly snow to sheeting rain, and all the leaves fall off. That's Seattle for you.
Probably one of my favourite photo sets: sunshine and rain at the same time, in what turns out to be the last day of colour (roses, day lilies, spiders, bamboo) in our part of Seattle.
On my birthday this year, our cul-de-sac turned into the kingdom of the spiders. Everywhere: fences, hedges, doorways, stairways, porches, windows...
It's August, the lawn is a little parched, but the perbs are running wild. I get carried away and made extravagant promises about transplanting some of them. Instead, I just harvested them and munched them up. Then started the kerbs.
A kind of photo essay about the secret green growing places I don't normally show on this blog, including a view from the neighbourhood commons and the super secret north garden.
Loving shots of each perb. This? Basil, of course. And very tasty too.
It's April and the torture tree--always the last--finally starts to green. This is when I know the season really is turning. Beautiful time of year. Apart from, y'know, the pollen.
In which the eating of chocolate (much chocolate, lovingly detailed) engenders a weather miracle: brilliant sunshine and the sudden explosion of lilac. In March.
I'm back!
In which I reclaim my life after Lambda Literary and the utterly irretrievable meltdown of my PC hardrive, and celebrate with a new Mac and these delicious photos of, well, whatever they are in my garden.
Sunshine and rain on the deck, and chat of Mersault, my ex, and a great non-fiction book about the north of England, all rather perversely illustrated by the torture tree lurking in the mist.
