How Sweet And Lovely Dost Thou Make The Shame

Our poor garden started out so well! In June we felt so optimistic about our first serious attempt at organic food growing. Now I just have to admit that our first effort was truly blicky. The squash plants still dutifully churn out respectable offerings, but seem to have been afflicted with powdery mildew. I looked it up online and apparently a mixture of water, baking soda and a drop of dish liquid works best. I think my squash and pumpkins were too far along for the remedy to work however. Next year I'll just resolve to water in the morning and plant more sparsely. My poor broccoli plants were besieged by blicky worms that I had to pick off by hand in July. Sadly, they had completely gorged on the leaves before taking their leave.

It has been a great year of purple and green beans that the kittens have really gobbled up. The zukes and cukes have done beautifully despite being blighted and undignified. I should be ashamed of my tomatoes. By the time I figured out how to stake them they had to be traumatized and squished into the cone shaped wire things. Even then I was too stupid to realized they are supposed to be put in like ice cream cones and half of them toppled over. They look like a tomato patch and if plants could whimper accusingly, these most certainly would.

In short, as many a adequately guilt-ridden hardy New Englander will tell you, my garden is a measure of my moral character and I, apparently, am not faring well.

Speaking of moral character, I am in no way drawing any parallels between my beautiful, blighted plants and any political figure.

William Shakespeare, Sonnet 95: How Sweet And Lovely Dost Thou Make The Shame

How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame 
Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, 
Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name! 
O! in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose. 
That tongue that tells the story of thy days, 
Making lascivious comments on thy sport, 
Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise; 
Naming thy name blesses an ill report. 
O! what a mansion have those vices got 
Which for their habitation chose out thee, 
Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot 
And all things turns to fair that eyes can see! 
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege; 
The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.