Margaret, are you grieving? Over Brussels sprouts unleaving?

Baby Brussels sprouts are so adorable.

Temps yo-yoed yesterday into the comfortable 70s, so I spent several hours yesterday prepping the garden for winter. If I were a dedicated gardener, I’d be putting in one last round of cold weather plants.

Guess what?

I’m not a dedicated gardener.

It’s likely that the reason why my Brussels sprouts are so tiny is that I planted them too soon: Cabbage-y plants like the cold weather. These Brussels sprouts are never likely to grow much bigger even when the temperatures start to fall. They’ve been on the plant too long.

Claud was in the garden, too. He trotted by to show off a very improbable-looking swan-necked squash. He reeled off its name in French, Italian, and German.



We had a rousing conversation about composting techniques, which of course was thrilling—I do love tech talk! I wonder what his feelings are about postmodern literature and mapping symbolism in the works of David Foster Wallace?

Of course, putting the garden to sleep elicited deep feelings of melancholy in me.

But what doesn’t elicit deep feelings of melancholy in me?

It is the blight that man was born for
It is Patrizia you mourn for