We've been in the new house for almost a week and a half, and I haven't put a single dish, a single bottle of vinegar, a single pot into the kitchen shelves. We still haven't decided what should go where, so we just spend a lot of time sitting on the patio in a dreamy state.
Of course, in that dreamy state, I've developed strong ideas about where the tomato plants should go. Well, I will confess that in that dreamy state, I'm sitting out there, watching the pattern of the sun as it crosses the yard. So, it's part dreamy, part science.
Also part emergency. Sourdough Monkey Wrangler dropped by our old place on the day movers were there, taking out the big stuff. We hardly had time to visit. But this thoughtful lad had brought us a pair of housewarming presents: Two tomato plants raised from seed by his father-in-law. And they needed to get planted pronto.
Well, pronto took a week and a half, but this morning I directed Cranky as he went into peon mode and scraped a goodly square of grass off the "lawn." (Quotation marks, because it's dinky, although Bean Sprout can't complain.) He labored with a pick axe, and then we dumped soil amendment all over the dirt and stirred it in.
Quick aside: When we bought the soil amendment, I asked the nursery man for a sack of steer manure. Cranky blurted, "Cookiecrumb! I thought you were going to ask him for a bag of bullshit!" The nurseryman, unfazed, said, "Chickenshit is better."
Anyway, the furniture may not be properly arranged and the sheets and towels are not yet in the linen closet.
But the tomatoes are in the ground.