The Yellow House

Our friends got married up in gorgeous Vermont last weekend. I picked bucketfuls of black-eyed susans and queen anne’s lace, jack-knifed off rocks into not one, but two swimming holes, sipped whiskey-with-ice, and crashed under a full moon.The happy couple invited folks to come several days early and help with prep, which was a nice way to save on cost and do-it-yourself and a good way for guests to get to know each other. By the time you’ve chopped vegetables next to someone for several hours, you feel like old friends when it comes time to party. (Also, the fact that there were so many of us coming early to help is a testament to how great these two are.) » Click to read more

As I write this, I’m keeping vigil on the back deck. Every once in awhile, I venture from the glow of the laptop screen and descend the three stairs down into my little city garden, and peer down at two dishes full of beer nestled in a cluster of greens.

I should explain. About a month ago, I checked on my fledgling collard greens, which up until that point had been the most verdant, happy plants in the garden. Overnight, the biggest leaves had been turned to lace—-munched away so that only the veins of the leaves remained. The next morning, two more leaves gone. And again, the following morning. After some desperate consultation with the garden experts (Louise and…Google), I was pretty sure I had a slug problem.

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