The Yellow House

I know, I know: enough with the squash already, woman! My only response is to humbly ask that you remind me, next year, in the event that my gentleman friend and I plant separate gardens again, to not both plant summer squash. On paper, in my garden notebook, it seemed a great idea to proudly only include native, heirloom varieties in my own garden, turning my nose up at the plain ol’ crooknecks Ben was planting. Now it’s summer, and I’ve got a changed heart and an armful of squash.

So! More squash.
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A very real danger looms that every post from now until the beginning of September will follow the same basic format: I will relate to you the account of a fruit or vegetable I found at the market or grew in my garden, and proceed to gush over it like a lovesick pre-teen doodling hearts in the margins of her notebook ( Sarah + tomato = <3 <3 <3 4ever).

I can’t help it. I want to fall down and worship at the altar of Demeter or Ceres or whichever deity you would like to consider responsible for summer harvests. Every time I discover a blossom in the garden that has started becoming a fruit or pod, I drop everything and run inside to grab my camera, snapping away like a doting mama. You know how parents are apt to show you picture after picture of their kids in various stages of, say, smooshing a first-birthday cake into their face? That’s how my photo library is right now, except instead of children, it’s pictures of orangey-gold squash blossoms and tiny, green cherry tomatoes no bigger than a pinky fingernail.


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