Green-fingered Eccentricity
Wishing you a fabulous, safe and happy holiday season.
Cheers from Crazy Garden Lady, Crazy Car Man, Crazy Garden Lady’s Mum (Carmen Miranda), Crazy Garden Lady’s Sister from London who escaped the cold for a hot Chrissy and of course, the Happy Sunflowers x
(no sunflowers died in the making of the Happy Santa Sunflower – Ma N chucked another tanty last night and like the Red Queen called ‘off with their heads’ and so it happened. I managed to save the corn though)
No, not me. I know it’s the season of over-indulging, but I’m at work until Wednesday and so can’t really indulge in an ‘over’ kind of way until then. Ask me at the end of the week, though, and my description of myself may more resemble the above. Or I may just be too bloated to get off the floor to answer the question.
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Because I love them and they’re starting to look like lions!
I know that a plate of snails swimming in garlic butter is a delicacy in some countries, and it is something I do plan to try at least once in my life – merely as payback for the things of mine they have eaten – and while I knew that garlic and snails went together really well, I didn’t know they went together really well.
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I came home from work today feeling a little bit hot, a little bit cranky, a little bit looking forward to a glass of New Zealand’s finest grape juice for big kids – I pulled up in a cloud of dust (I don’t know why, but the little car really likes to skid to a stop) and hauled out my grown up handbag (honestly, it’s bigger than the bag I take with me when Crazy Car Man and I travel – how I can get through months on the road with my worldly possessions stuffed into a 30 litre day pack and yet feel the need to carry enough luggage for a family of five with me when I go to the office is completely beyond me). I was, to be perfectly frank, in a mood.
And then I saw this….
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You know you’re either hardcore or mad when you spend your Saturday afternoon outside in the rain planting beans. Or maybe just desperate. Desperately hardcore or madly desperate, it’s all one and the same when the third sister needs to go in.
I wrote here about turning my Field at the Front into an experimental North American Indian field of food planted in a most companionable way. The corn went in and Ma N pulled the plug out of the great bathtub in the sky resulting in the corn seed being washed out of the earth and promptly eaten by birds. I shook my fist as the sky (a futile gesture but kind of satisfying in a Scarlett O’Hara kind of way) and railed at the birds for acting in a bird-like way (totally unacceptable behaviour when it’s to my disadvantage) before sighing in resignation and buying some more seed and planting it in tubs to ensure germination.
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We went to a One Hundred Years party last weekend. Longevity runs in the family, I’ve seen how I’m going to look at 97 (a little wrinkly, a little hunched, a little deaf, but with full control of my bladder and all marbles accounted for), but this one was not for just one person. My Aunty was celebrating her 60th and my cousin had hit the big four oh, and in true mad relly style it had to be celebrated with a fancy dress knees up.
The party was held at their local RSL club in a real country town and I feel a few unsuspecting farmers got the shock of their life to find themselves standing at the bar next to the Grim Reaper, or a crocodile, or a Whoopie cushion (a weird costume but a great one if you have a predilection for being poked in the stomach, or alternatively are talented at farting on cue – my uncle can do both, at the same time…..he’s ruined the excuse of not being able to multi-task for all of the male species).
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