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Dudes! (Optimistic use of plural.)

After weeks of digging up a lawn bed and turning soil and generally busting our arse muscles (not to mention alienating friends by suddenly having conversational interests confined entirely to compost and the gluteus maximus): M and I finally got our shit in one sock and planted a vegetable garden.  We’ve got tomatoes next to the compost bin and a pumpkin keeping it company, but this? This is Serious Business.

*sprout noise*

And just one week after planting the seeds: look!!  I’m so excited I could puke. (I did not puke.) We planted a lot of things on the basis that we eat them a lot and would benefit from having them readily available — potatoes, carrots, onions, beetroot — but we planted some things on the ground that a little near-instant gratification would go a long way towards soothing the rising sense of “for this I wrenched an arse muscle?”.  Enter radishes.

Narrowly escaped being pulled out as clover

I’m so chuffed: it’s only been a week and my dirt box is pushing up radishes, if you know what I mean.  And you do. I mean it’s growing radishes.

Row of sproings!

I’m so proud.  It’s one (very awesome) thing to have a garden that bestows fresh free fruit and other glories upon you: it’s even more fantastic to take such matters into your own hands (and arse muscles) and tell it what to bestow. Radishes ahoy!

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