I had given up on its blooming. It seemed healthy enough, but it's been growing much more slowly than its cousin, which has been blooming for about two weeks. It's not in an ideal spot — less sunny as it is closer to the porch, slightly shaded by a forsythia, and much wetter — I found out recently that part of our downspout drains into that bed — so I had reconciled myself to only one blooming calla lily this year.
When I bought the bulbs (they came in one package), I had thought that they were going to be full-size callas, but it looks like they're miniatures. Which I prefer, in any case.
The basil is also blooming. I know I should be plucking its flowers to encourage growth, but as it's an annual and will die off anyway (and I've got more than enough leaves to use this summer), I can't be bothered.
Besides which, I am hoping that maybe it will seed itself into the plot and grow back after all — although I doubt that, in this climate. But perhaps I will be able to salvage enough to pot up to last me through the winter.
...
Also, and I should have mentioned this yesterday, Tuesday turned nine years old.
We didn't do anything special to celebrate (uhm, she's a cat), but I thought I would note it for posterity. Happy Birthday, Cat. You are just as adorable and annoying as you were eight years and ten months ago, but I love you anyway. And I can't believe I've spent the last almost-nine years dealing with your fur on my clothes.
No comments:
Post a Comment