There's nothing better than squatting two hundred and twenty one times in one-foot furrows inbetween growing-dry beans to de-weed prostrate pigweed and purslane first thing in the morning. Crouching in near fetal position while straining as many bodily muscles one could muster at eight in the morning, it was as if I entered an arid forest abyss. I was Tarzan, extending my long limbs, one at a time three feet in front, to grab hold of the next antagonists, all outsiders to the jungle bean ravines.
I was soon a father bearing toddlers, holstering copious rows upon rows of growing tomato vines. In a process called the California weave, our only instruments were tight rope and eight-foot stakes situated six feet from each other in the crop beds. The tomatoes spat all over themselves, leaving me as the parent to clean the mess. I'd tie the rope using a double half-hitch knot at the stakes' bottoms, wrestle six feet of rope underneath the viney understories, and tie at the next stake - tautly, or else it'd spit its gooey flora all over again. Like any parent-child relationship there are moments of plight. You want it to do one thing, but its resistance would push you back, and at arduous times, they'd slap you right back in the jocular.
I'd find tracts of bodily mishaps on my children. White powder covered its bottoms, still remnants of the organic sulfur sprayed as a pest management mechanism towards the renettes mites that infested my children two weeks ago. By the end of such wrangling, my finger tips had accumulated this glaucous olive green. I was a parent turned The Indredible Hulk. Good thing these youngin's didn't cry.
Soon enough, the babysitter inside me rescued baby basil that had been tormented by the automatic tractor machine unable to transplant and care for the little ones. The transplant bottoms hadn't even entered the soil, let alone the roots. The nitrogen-pelite-peat-induced roots had spent the last two months gently nursed in the greenhouse. I was not going to let these orphaned young ones obliterate in today's triple-digit temperatures.
Babysitting ran late, as I soon was student to soil management, nitrogen cycles, and incorporated manure and compost - a situation I've been comfortable with, yet becoming more reluctant to settle in, for now seventeen years.
Many roles lead to many thoughts. Many thoughts lead to many ideas. Ideas become reality. Reality is what we live in.
And who knew there are ideal foods to eat under particular temperate conditions? Fats have maximum melting points. More saturated fats (i.e. animals) have greater melting yields than unsatured fats (i.e. plants and vegetables). Thus, in direly heated times as this, I should be eating more coconuts, meats, butter, pastries, hard cheeses, and lard as opposed to vegetable oils, fish, fruits, and vegetables - items aplenty here in Davis. I'm just a melting glob of liquid.
I was soon a father bearing toddlers, holstering copious rows upon rows of growing tomato vines. In a process called the California weave, our only instruments were tight rope and eight-foot stakes situated six feet from each other in the crop beds. The tomatoes spat all over themselves, leaving me as the parent to clean the mess. I'd tie the rope using a double half-hitch knot at the stakes' bottoms, wrestle six feet of rope underneath the viney understories, and tie at the next stake - tautly, or else it'd spit its gooey flora all over again. Like any parent-child relationship there are moments of plight. You want it to do one thing, but its resistance would push you back, and at arduous times, they'd slap you right back in the jocular.
I'd find tracts of bodily mishaps on my children. White powder covered its bottoms, still remnants of the organic sulfur sprayed as a pest management mechanism towards the renettes mites that infested my children two weeks ago. By the end of such wrangling, my finger tips had accumulated this glaucous olive green. I was a parent turned The Indredible Hulk. Good thing these youngin's didn't cry.
Soon enough, the babysitter inside me rescued baby basil that had been tormented by the automatic tractor machine unable to transplant and care for the little ones. The transplant bottoms hadn't even entered the soil, let alone the roots. The nitrogen-pelite-peat-induced roots had spent the last two months gently nursed in the greenhouse. I was not going to let these orphaned young ones obliterate in today's triple-digit temperatures.
Babysitting ran late, as I soon was student to soil management, nitrogen cycles, and incorporated manure and compost - a situation I've been comfortable with, yet becoming more reluctant to settle in, for now seventeen years.
Many roles lead to many thoughts. Many thoughts lead to many ideas. Ideas become reality. Reality is what we live in.
And who knew there are ideal foods to eat under particular temperate conditions? Fats have maximum melting points. More saturated fats (i.e. animals) have greater melting yields than unsatured fats (i.e. plants and vegetables). Thus, in direly heated times as this, I should be eating more coconuts, meats, butter, pastries, hard cheeses, and lard as opposed to vegetable oils, fish, fruits, and vegetables - items aplenty here in Davis. I'm just a melting glob of liquid.
1 comment:
Hi Hai! Just wanted to pop in - your writing is beautiful. Sounds like you're learning a lot up there, and eating quite well. :)
Post a Comment