The news from When Pigs Fly Farm 3.0

Now is the winter of our discontent

Made glorious summer by this sun of York;

And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house

In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;

Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;

Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,

Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.

Sorry, Will. I wish it were that easy with vegetable gardening.

It is the August of our discontent. The month where a growing season's imperfections and peculiarities begin to slap you upside the face. . . the month you realize there probably will be one lone lemon cucumber

Lemon cukes: All talk, no action.

and you should probably sign up for Remedial Radish 101 during the -- dare I say it -- winter. Ugh.

It is the month I see four bombastic tomato plants laden with, um, green tomatoes who have no apparent interest in ripening. . .

and one stinkin' zucchini vine producing one stinkin' squash a week.

Is it just me, or does this flippin' plant appear to be going "Bwahahahahahaha"?

(I know, I know. One zucchini a week isn't necessarily a bad thing. But it does put a damper on ricotta-stuffed squash blossoms -- one of last summer's gastronomic High Notes.)

August is the month of Why Didn't I's?

Why didn't I plant eggplant this year? (Forgot. Bubble over my date's head: "Thank god.")

Why didn't I plant more beets? (Because 4+ months of scarlet you-know-what is a bit discomforting. If you have to ask, you're not a beet eater.)

And why, why, WHY didn't I re-do the tomato tags because now I can't remember which green tomato is which? 

(This is actually kind of a big deal because one of my plants is an "Aunt Ruby's German Green" so I may have ripe tomatoes and. don't. even. know. it.)

#slightly embarrassing

Aunt Ruby. I know you are dead, but throw me a bone here.

On that happy note, let's move on. There are things to celebrate at The Farm:

One: There will be pumpkins. Meet the butt end of Percival.

He and his smaller brother, Paco, have tempered their meglomaniacal need for garden space somewhat (the operative word here is somewhat) and are concentrating on becoming Halloween-grade pumpkins.

Two: The When Pigs Fly Farm witness protection program seems to agree with Team Chicken. Now raccoon-free, the ladies are laying! You go, girls! And always remember what I said. . . .

And Three: As always. . . the reason we garden. . . there are new treasures to be discovered. Farmer Bob and Farma-natrix Kris are growing gift-wrapped tomatoes!

They conveniently let you know they are ripe by dropping to the ground.

Now would you fancy that?

Happy weekend from the opinionated plants
-- and perpetually hopeful farmers --
at When Pigs Fly Farm!

Memo to Team Chicken

M E M O

TO:           Team Chicken
                 When Pigs Fly Farm

FROM:      Queen and Supreme Goddess
                   Bermtopia

                   Citizen Farmer
                   When Pigs Fly Farm

RE:     Productivity

Team:

As we approach the end of your three-month probationary period, I feel it is appropriate, even advisable, that we reflect on your adjustment and contributions to When Pigs Fly Farm.

Although you are not my direct reports, I believe I can offer a valuable perspective as a farm elder (literally) and charter member of WPFF. Let me cut to the chase:

The golf balls are getting old.

We all have our roles at When Pigs Fly Farm. We farmers have been put here to be mocked by nature (radishes) and recalcitrant bamboo tee pees. (Still standing!) A chicken's raison d'etre is to produce eggs. And, to date, there have been no eggs.

(But I AM awfully glad you all have stopped jumping on each others' heads. Progress, ladies, progress!)

We at When Pigs Fly Farm have all gone out of our way to create a safe, comfortable, positive work environment for you. Speaking only for myself, I know I have set aside some of the more delectable morsels collecting in my compost bucket for you: Cilantro stems; dead-headed snapdragons, cosmos and petunias; beet greens; carrot skins; cucumber butts; unwanted tomato starts; corn cobs; and stale hamburger buns come to mind.

What do you want? Pate? (No, wait. Chicken livers. Scratch that. My bad.)

Let's try this again. What do you want? Bacon?

Bacon will not be happening. Farma-natrix Kate runs a vegan shop and I'm afraid bacon would be frowned upon. (And, while we're at it, those stale white-bread hamburger buns? our little secret, OK?)

The golf balls have been provided for inspiration, an egg-laying muse if you will. It's now time to listen to your muse. . . find the magic. . . go forth and lay! Your friends and family at When Pigs Fly Farm just want you to succeed.

Or else.

We care about your performance at When Pigs Fly Farm. We all do our share, and if you stumble, there are ways we can help you get back on course. WPFF prides itself on its thoughtful progressive performance program, which plays to each team member's strengths and redirects weaknesses (no eggs, in your case).

However, upon closer examination of WPFF Administrative Procedure 35.00.01 Performance 35.3 Performance Evaluation 35.3.35.35. Chickens, I think you will see the plan can be a bit, shall we say, draconian. It appears stew pots and fricasses are often involved, but don't quote me on that.

Ladies, you are i.m.p.o.r.t.a.n.t. members of the When Pigs Farm Team. Your success is OUR success -- so let's go out there, kick some serious GOLF BALL BUTT and get those eggs rolling.

Let's show the world what When Pigs Fly Farm is made of:

Chickens with the most
EGG-cellent EGG-itude EGG-ver!

High fives fours all the way around, ladies! And see you at the company picnic next week.

P.S. Steer clear of the spinach dip. Wattles are a real mayo magnet.

The news from When Pigs Fly Farm 3.0

The news is -- there is no news. Nada. Zip. Nein. Well, actually there is, but for the single-dimension vegetable gardener like me, there is no news.

L to R: Cress, dirt, radishes. You're welcome.

We're in that odd seasonal netherworld where cold weather vegetables (greens, radishes, carrots, beets etc) are in, and plunking along, but we're still a week or two away from planting the fun stuff -- heirloom tomatoes, cukes, beans, eggplant and, oh, the bazillion annual flower seeds Farma-natrix Kate and I picked out last December to help with pollination.

The weather pundits warn us to wait till after May 15 here Bermtopia before doing any of the "fun stuff ." That's historically when we have our last frost. Personally, I don't think anything REALLy big starts happening at the Farm until the nights sustain an average temperature of 55 degrees. Which generally occurs in August. For about 45 minutes.

And so it goes.

BUT I did stop by the Farm this weekend to deposit the contents of our compost bin -- and four bags of pine needles, which Farma-natrix Kate assures me they can use for mulch with their strawberries. That's a lot o' mulch, FK. . . .

But here is the big news:

Team Chicken is now residing in a quite elegant coop Farmer Sam built with his very own hands from reclaimed lumber. No more nights on newsprint in the basement, ladies! Your crib is stylin'! It's a two-story -- food, drink and a romper room on the ground floor, nests on the second.

The dining room.

I could hear the team's muffled clucking on the second floor so I took a peek, hoping against hope the ladies wouldn't try to make a run for it. Chicken wrangling wasn't on my to-do list that particular day, if you know what I mean.

The clucking escalated as I raised the nesting door. I lowered it cautiously. The natives were restless.

I tentatively lifted up the nesting door again -- just a titch -- the ladies seeming to calm. Then a little more, and a little more. Team Chicken was gathered toward the back of the nesting box, peering out expectantly at me, but in no way inclined to bolt so I a took a group portrait.

They appear to have stopped leaping at each other's heads
 and instead lay eggs. I'm thinking that's a good thing.

More than satisfied with my inaugural Team Chicken bonding time, it was time to move on.

Later, sistahs!

O.M.G.

One other magnificent addition to WPFF caught my eye -- a glorious contraption of trash can, bicycle tire rim and bright, shiny chains. My head exploded with its farming potential.

"What's the doo-hickey with all the chain?" I texted Farma-natrix Kate, my mind awash with its gardening applications. Combination trellis-compost bin? Zero-gravity drip system? Heavy metal scarecrow?

"Oh! That's a frisbee golf bin! Haha." she texted back.

The Great Cultural Divide bites me in the butt.

Once again.

And that's the report fromWhen Pigs Fly Farm.

The news from When Pigs Fly Farm 3.0

It's not as bleak as it looks.

The first organizational meeting of  the crew at When Pigs Fly Farm was called to order Tuesday night.

Our cast of characters citizen farmers has changed. Farmer Jim and Mrs. Farmer Jim have long decamped for the Life of the Downsizer, living the life in a view apartment and within walking distance of a 7/11 store, several fine dining establishments and one of Bermtopia's most storied bars. Booo, Farmer Jim. But thank you for teeing up When Pigs Fly Farm 1.0.

This year, we'll be digging in the dirt with Farmer Sam and Farm-anatrix Kate (FJ's daughter), Farmer Bob and Farm-anatrix Kris, Farm-anatrix Cathy (back for another triumphant year, but "No corn!") and Farm-anatrix Dan-Vi.

We really look like we know what we're doing, don't we?
That's my team!

And I must mention Team Chicken. This year, thanks to Farmer Sam and Farm-anatrix Kate, WPFF delves into animal husbandry with six chickens! They're Barred Rocks, although based on the odd, ominous quality of this aerial view of their pen, I think they could easily be mistaken for a Crime Scene. 

Colonel Mustard did it with a heat lamp in the chicken coop.

 They ARE chickens, people. Teen age chickens. And according to the University of Google, very friendly. Although this was difficult to discern based on their current proclivity for flying feet first at each others' heads. The jury is still out on "friendly."

Under the steady hand of Farmanatrix Kate, WPFF is taking a little bit of different tack this year. We're becoming quasi-socialists. (Some friends might say I've already gone way beyond "quasi" and arrived at "just plain crazy." )

Exhibit A: The Plan and Farmatrix Kate's steady hand

There will be several garden patches of high-yield veggies that are literally free for the picking (Exhibit A) for all us involved at WPFF. This is in exchange for pulling weeds and keeping Team Chicken and the compost bin supplied with (healthy) table scrapes. A fair bargain, I'd say. And, of course, we will have our own little patches of joy, fear and loathing, depending on the mood of our crops.

Cold weather seeds go in the ground next week, and thus the mad cycle begins. So sit back, and enjoy the adventures and misadventures of the six citizen farmers at When Pigs Fly Farm. It's good to be back.