The Protoplasmic, Oozing Council Of Delicious

The ten people that actually read this blog will not care about this post.

This post is in the poor taste of autarkic selfishness that penetrates the Internet daily. Even those of you with gardens and vegetable plots of your own will gaze at my offerings like I was some Aztec shaman, newly ascended to the ziggurat to offer you the heart of a wheezing, syphilitic midden cleaner, or some sort of perverted root vegetable that was wrapped in minute steak to give the impression of a blood pump.

But still.

My bulbous radish, crowning like a squeezed left nut.

Beetroot, chard and radish, creeping forward. I did consider a more ordered paean to Plants vs. Zombies, but these delectable specimens protect me only in my dreams.

Carrots. I think they may die. Apparently flies can smell their sweetness from hundreds of feet in the air. And, as I planted them, they must be puffing honeyed zephyrs straight up into their bristled little mandibles.

I also saw a rabbit today, about as large as any of those wheezing housebound varieties one can torture for a number of years. He was lolloping down our drive, one eye rheumy and weeping, I think looking for a quiet place to die. He was gone when we returned.