WTF Friday: The vegetable edition

So. In my brief years of vegetable gardening, I've eschewed growing squash. First, I don't like most squash species. Second, in the shared-garden gardening world, aka When Pigs Fly Farm and Think Outside the Box Acres, squash take up quite a bit of real estate. . . real estate I'd much rather dedicate to heirloom tomatoes, green beans, cucumbers, etc. etc. It's obviously a fair point of debate, given the volume of squash still available at our  community garden and farmers market.

 Just an observation: A lot of friends become scarce this time of year if you grow zucchini.

So. About 5 weeks ago, I noticed a new sprout in "front yard."  (I'm at a loss to actually describe the "front yard." Front slope? Front cliff? Front abyss? You decide.) I put my money down on "hollyhock." Holly-hardy-har-har.

As we quickly approach our first anniversary here in The Beav, I can report there have been surprises (mostly delightful and pleasant) almost every week -- including what grows (or doesn't) here on The Lane. The horticultural epiphanies tend to be the most entertaining.

Case in point: Our "hollyhock" has turned out to be a squash, courtesy, we think, of bird poop. Arrrgghh. You can run, but you cannot hide. Especially when it comes to squash.

It appears to be a pumpkin. Or so I like to think. It is much better behaved than last summer's Mr. Pugly -- my pumpkin project that essentially ate a 12-by-12 vegetable patch. Which is good. Well-behaved pumpkins help keep us on the grid in terms of good-neighbor-relationships-because-zucchini-isn't-involved. Or so I like to think.

It's not on the landscaping plan we submitted to our esteemed homeowners association. I'd hate to be drummed off The Lane because of a squash. But nobody has noticed this unintended squash-y squatter. Or so I like to think.

And we have a pumpkin. Or so I think.

It's shaping up to be a good fall.

The tip of the ice berg

It's August. And you know what that means?

In Bermtopia, it means anyone with a shred of sense is rolling up windows and locking car doors, latching screen doors, sealing mail boxes, checking unexpected UPS deliveries, and instituting mandatory purse and backpack searches at the front door. This just may be a rumor, but I've heard SOME Bermtopians have deployed armed security guards to patrol their property at night.

Yes, it's the official start of the summer squash season.

This is just the tip of the proverbial squash berg. And two are sitting on my kitchen counter. I gave away a third cousin to a pair of unsuspecting new neighbors who moved in across the street this weekend while we were away Viva Las Vegas-ing.

Do I feel any remorse about this sneaky move? Not one bit.

It's what we do here in Bermtopia during the summer squash season: We think of any number of nefarious ways to unload our summer squash and zucchini, which can approach the size of artillery tanks, on our neighbors, co-workers and friends. It should be an Olympic sport.

It starts out innocently enough. A little zucchini bread here, a summer squash gratin there. Ratatouille, sauteed squash with garlic, baked stuffed squash. And then it slowly dawns on you that you can't possibly consume all the squash that is hurling itself out of your garden.

I have one summer squash plant. It's shooting squash blossom out like bumpers on a Ford Fiesta assembly line in Detroit. It is mathematically impossible to address all that squash.

So let the games begin: Slipping a few baby squash in a bag of lettuce presented to my friend and workplace partner in crime, sporter over at Slow Read to Sunburn (you might notice a familiar face if you stop by today; it's me, the Queen and Supreme Goddess! I look like I'm saying, "Just buy their damn book in October, okay?") . . . the aforementioned "neighborly" hand-offs. . . leaving anonymous piles in the office break room with a sign reading "Looking for a good home."

It quickly disintegrates from there, ending in the late fall with frantic midnight deposits on neighbors' front porches -- and in the suitcases of innocent out-of-town guests.

You have been warned. It is a dangerous time in Bermtopia. . . it's summer squash season.

The End.