The yearly garden is always an experiment. Quite literally, if you think about it, given that you're never quite sure what the dirt is composed of. Where you got the compost, who made it, where did they get all the sand, anyway, how much clay, how much rain...

We're past tomato time, the vines went from producing to yellow and dying. The cucumbers continue to bear, and they've hit their stride in terms of flavor, too. Green beans, there it looks like I've another couple of quarts to take up, and lord help us the sage has gone ape this year. Peppers, too, it looks like we'll have a fair few quarts of those. I haven't tasted those yet, it'll be interesting to see whether we're "Hmm..." or "Holy shit" with jalapenos this time.

And something there is that loves bok choi this year. We got a few young greens in March, and I've just let them have it ever since. Same thing with the tomatoes, I'd estimate we might have had one in three or four that weren't buggered by some little bug before we ever got it.

But we've had rain consistently since February, in a rhythm and a rhyme we've not had since we moved in. A sign perhaps of the decadal oscillation patterns in the Pacific, I'll take it gladly and say thank you.

My story garden has grown, as well; I looked through my list of works awaiting in the queue this morning for the first time in a bit. It tickles me, that list. And it reminds me of the work ahead, but for today at least I look at what I've done and am proud.

And I finished a story this morning. So I think I'll go and let my smile stretch a mile, and get ready for an evening on the patio, with hot dogs and charcoal and the sounds of the neighborhood. May you, dear reader, enjoy your own evening in such a way.