The news from When Pigs Fly Farm 3.0

July feels like the Awkward Adolescent Month of vegetable gardening.

The cold-weather veggies -- lettuces, radishes, beets et al -- have been harvested and/or gone to seed. I have finally accepted my carrots' chronic under-performance and now bill them as "delicious baby carrots" even though they are 3 1/2 months old. . . or about 105 in carrot years.

Perhaps the package really said "Owen Meany" instead of "Little Finger"?

The stars of the Big Show -- beans, cukes, summer squash and tomatoes -- are stirring and beginning to make a run for it. Well, I did have to have A Little Chat with my growing-from-seed lemon cucumbers and introduce a couple store-bought starts for motivation.

And my pumpkins are rolling.

What's that? Why, yes, I said pumpkins. I am giving pumpkins another whirl.

Perhaps you remember my last foray into pumpkins. It was a thrilling tale -- full of bold land grabs, grisly amputations, tender ministrations and horticultural triumph over self-inflicted adversity.

I had you at "grisly amputations," right?

It was so much fun, I thought "Why not do it again? This time from seed?" and so I planted two mounds of pumpkin seeds, watched as a little colony of starts appeared, selected the most robust seedlings and pared things down to two "power pumpkins."

Darwin would be so proud.

Turns out robust is an understatement when it comes to pumpkins. And I think Darwin would be faintly alarmed.

Pretty much anything on a south-by-southwesterly path of The Boys should be.

Darwin: Faintly alarmed.

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A moment of silence for three fallen WPFF comrade-ettes. Yes, we have lost three members of Team Chicken-- victims of a heinous raccoon attack about 10 days ago. Our two surviving ladies have been moved into a witness protection program till further notice. They are missed at The Farm.

Raccoons. Bastards. Do not be charmed by these critters' whimsical Lone Ranger masks and adorable little ET-phone-home forepaws.

They are sick, twisted opportunistic urban scavengers and not shy about taking apart a hen house, your family cat or the household trash can with equal, methodical equanimity.

I think custom WPFF 'coon skin caps are a totally dope idea for the holidays (already have the label: Genuine When Pigs Fly Farm 'Coon Skin Cap: We Trap 'Em and Cap 'Em!), but Farmer Sam and Farma-natrix Kate are weighing the humane trap-and-relocate to hell idea.

I think that's an admirable idea.

(But about those 'coon skin caps? Now taking orders.)

Amputating a pumpkin -- Finis

P3 is off life support, discharged from ICU and has been reunited with his family. They do make a handsome trio, don't they?

27 days till Halloween and counting.

Amputating a pumpkin 1

Today, I managed to sever Pumpkin 3's lifeline to the mother ship. In other words, I accidentally cut the vine that connects it to the rest of the GD plant. I was bushwhacking my out-of-control heliopsis (or "yellow flowers" as they're more commonly called) and, oops, it was clipped. Dang. And it was starting to turn orange as fate would have it.

After a few choice words, I accepted P3's mortal blow. Accidents can and do happen in a garden. It is, after all, a jungle out there.

And, of course, even without accidents, a plant's life is essentially transient anyway.

With an silent apology, I gently placed P3 next to the garden waste I would dispose of later and went back to work.

And of course got to thinking. Was it even remotely possible P3 might go from green to orange without root and water? What would happen if he just sat quietly in a warm, sunny spot for a week or so? (Once Junior started to change color, the process went FAST.) Even better, what would happen if P3 somehow stayed hydrated, nourished AND sat in a warm, sunny spot for a week or so?

Curiosity, along with necessity, is a worthy mother of invention. Out came a coffee can, in went water with a generous pinch of plant food. A small flower pot was commissioned to serve as hospital bed, and voila! I started a pumpkin IV. A narrow concrete walk in a sunny corner of the backyard (all the better to absorb and store sunlight) is the temporary ICU.

Pray the rosary. Send a memo to the deity du jour. Make a small sacrifice to the pumpkin gods. For my green pumpkin on life support.

Turning into a pumpkin 5

I knew it.

I just f-ing knew it.

I KNEW there would be another pumpkin. Hidden in the mess of pumpkin vines, cherry tomatoes, sunflowers, lady's mantle and yarrow we now call the northeast corner of our backyard.

And. lo and behold, there it was. Brad discovered it yesterday while watering.

Sissy is smaller than Junior as you might expect of an August cum September latecomer. But she's perfect. Still green, but ahh, we have a few more warm days and nights ahead of us. Enough time to find her orange pumpkin vibe.

Sissy's little bench awaits.

Turning into a pumpkin 4

My somewhat newly discovered pumpkin is turning orange at an astonishing rate. It was only about 10 days ago when I first detected a faint trace of orange gracing Junior's crown. A check this morning reveals more orange than green. It's sort of an awkward combination, a little unattractive, really. But I know from years of as a purchaser of carving pumpkins that full-on Halloween orange is just around the corner.

As is fall.

It's the middle of August, and true to form, the last two mornings have had a distinct chill. The air is clear. The lazy haze that days in the 90s leave behind each night is gone for now. My roses have perked up, enjoying a respite from the heat.

Thankfully, there will be more days in the 90s before the leaves (and snow) fall, but a cool warning shot has been fired across our seasonal bow.

There are other little signs. My sedum blooms are beginng to go from chartreuse to dusky pink on their way to a brick red that melds nicely with autumn colors. A rogue sunflower has taken up residence in what use to be my night garden. The goldfinches' bright yellow feathers are giving way to a darker, more somber tone more in keeping with winter.

And there's my pumpkin. Turning orange. Just in time for Halloween.

P.S. And see what I mean about our cherry tomato plant?

Turning into a pumpkin 3

I. HAVE. A. PUMPKIN.

I REPEAT.

I. HAVE. A. PUMPKIN.

Amazingly, I wasn't even aware of its presence till about a week ago. I'd been carefully coddling a couple of other blooms that were showing the baby beginnings of pumpkins when one morning, out watering, I pushed back a leaf and there my pumpkin was in all its green glory.

Nearly scared the crap out of me.

Sometimes horticultural success does that to you.

And truth be told -- there may be more. Between the pumpkin vine and the most wildly robust Sweet 100 cherry tomato plant we've ever had (the damn thing's taller -- and wider -- than me and loaded with tomatoes to boot), it's kind of hard to tell what exactly is going on back in that corner of the garden. Time will tell.

Meanwhile, we have Junior is resing comfortably on a plastic footstool so he won't stress his vine too much (I read that in a book somewhere.)

And I shout to the world -- I. HAVE. A. PUMPKIN.

Turning into a pumpkin 2

It's been a little over two weeks since our little pumpkin plant went to ground. And it's not so little any more.

Leaves are peaking -- well, almost leaning -- over the sides of the whiskey barrel and it's slowly but surely spreading out, testing its boundaries. And we have the start of blossoms -- at least five or so.

I'm proud of my pumpkin nurturing. At the recommendation of a dog-walking friend, I water about every other day (seems the cherry tomatoes are liking this too) and will give it another round of plant food tomorrow. So far, so good, and so much bigger.

However, I must confess to a little mental "gulp" this a.m. I stopped in and had a quick cup of coffee with friends while walking the dog. They regaled me with the story of their year of the pumpkin-- when one plant took over a flower bed, grew over a fence and proceeded to take up residence in the neighbor's yard.

I'm looking at my pumpkin plant with new-found respect.

Turning into a pumpkin

A departure from our usual spring traditions: We are NOT planting tomatoes this year. (Well, at least not the big boys -- cherry tomatoes, Sweet 100s to be exact, did made the cut.) Based on the dismal results of summers past, we are conceding defeat -- the growing season is too short. . . our "tomato spot" isn't perfect. . . and we can support the local economy by buying fresh at farmers markets (not too mention mooching off generous family members with far better and extensive vegetable gardens).

But what to do with that extra whiskey barrel? Damn. An empty patch of dirt in my garden is truly an offense against nature.

The answer presented itself at a local nursery last Sunday as I was picking up bedding plants for my pots -- of course! why not? eureka! A pumpkin. What could be more satisfying than watching this humble, tiny little plant transform itself into fat blossom and sinuous vine, then robust orange orb ready for carving at Halloween? Sold.

Until I hauled out my Sunset Western Garden Book:

PUMPKIN (cucurbitaceae)

"Fruit varies in size" -- Uh oh. Note to self -- check tag. Do we have a "Wee-B-Little" (please, God) or "Atlantic Giant"? Tag is no help whatsoever, so on to the Internet. A quick search tells me "Orange Smoothie" is an award-winner, children will be infatuated, weighs in at 7 to 11 pounds -- and one plant produces 3 to 4 pumpkins. Perfect -- two for the front porch , with a couple left over for 7- to 11-pound hostess gifts this fall.

"A single vine can cover 500 feet" -- Uh, right. We're talking a whiskey barrel here, tucked in the far corner of a urban backyard -- not a naval shipyard. This could be interesting.

"Vining pumpkins -- plant deep in hills 6-8 feet part / Bush pumpkins -- plant in rows 3 feet apart" -- Ha! How much space does one little old plant need? I say, Pull up your pumpkin party pants and be happy in your 36-inch wide barrel.

"Pumpkins are ready to harvest 90 days after sowing, when shell has hardened. Pick after first frost kills the plant." -- Ooh, the pumpkin end game is kind of harsh. Plant dies, hack off the fruit, bake it or carve a face in it. Somehow, this feels right for Bermtopia.