22 June 2006


I always thought the appeal of all the apocryphal meteorology witticisms attributed to Mark Twain was their unspecificy -- except the coldest winter = summer in SF equation. Just last week I was explaining how cold it is here. But wait a minute: it will change. It is hot as balls now, to use an unfortunately popular local expression. The paper is proclaiming that it's hotter than at any time in the last 2000 years. And the garden feels like fall.

I cut down the favas a week ago, except for a single stalk supporting a sweet pea that I fear is not long for this world if it stays this hot. The other stalks, some taller than 4', had toppled over. I saved the seeds for next year -- they'd been too big to eat for a month. It did not take them long to dry out.

But it's not just the favas: the Leucospermum flowers have fallen of their own accord, rolling around like tiny tumbleweeks; and the Calochortus looks dead as a doornail, seedpods threatening to dehisc (they were still blooming just last week).

It's days like this that make you appreciate the resilience of mediterranean plants, especially the ones that don't go summer-dormant. It's not going to rain for at least 3 months.


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