response to a question re whether to plant herbs alone or together, in ground or in containers (obviously I’m trying to make this decision today, and will prob. do a mix of in ground and in planters based on this)…

• Posted by daisyduckworth Aust (My Page) on 
  Sat, May 23, 09 at 19:55

 

I was once told by an old and very experienced horticulturist that ‘God didn’t make pots, and he didn’t make houses, either!’. Which was his way of saying that neither is a natural ‘home’ for plants. I’ve learned that he was right – up to a point. Herbs WILL grow in pots, as long as you remember that pots are high maintenance. They need special potting mix, not garden soil which will compact down to rock-hardness very quickly. They need more water, more fertiliser and occasional repotting either to replace dead soil, or to allow the plant to spread a bit more. You see, keeping plants in pots is not unlike keeping a canary in a cage. It doesn’t have the space to spread out as far as it would do in the garden, and that means it will rarely or never get to optimum size, and it will never become truly independent of your care. Now, my experience is that those multiple-planted pots you see in plant nurseries are very nice for gift-giving, but they are only very temporary arrangements. Plants, like people, like their own space, especially when it’s limited, and they’ll fight for it. One plant will always out-compete another over time – either by its roots choking out the others, or by more successfully accessing the water and nutrients. So it’s something I never recommend. For a beginner, especially, you need to learn about the individual requirements of all your plants – things like room to move, sunlight, water, fertiliser etc. This is easiest to do if you have one plant per pot. Another thing is that most beginners are surprised to learn just how BIG most herbs can get! Take a look at this picture (link below), with my rosemary in the background. It has grown considerably since the photo was taken, and gets a regular drastic haircut to keep it to manageable size in my very small garden. My basils get almost as big. Plants have an effective way of telling you when they’re not happy. They sulk, then they die, just to spite you! Watch them, and listen to them as individuals. One might be perfectly happy in a pot (for a while), while another will hate it. One might be very comfortable on your back porch, while another might really yearn to be out in the garden doing its thing. You’ve started off wisely by giving them large pots. The babies might look a little lost at first, but you’ll be rewarded in the end by much happier plants. Don’t force friendships between them, however – keep each plant in its own separate housing arrangements! The plant world is a very competitive one, and they fight to the death!

 

Here is a link that might be useful: rosemary

As her instructions note, the grains will behave differently in a new environment. To give them a kick start, I used bottled mineral water (2 c.), deleted 4 T. of white sugar and 1 T. molasses in it. Added a touch of fleur de sel for more minerality to aid the kefir’s processing of the sugars. I put that in a container, covered it with cheesecloth and will check in on it this time tomorrow.

Hello, kefir adventure!

Fellow revelers, anyone else into this stuff? Why/why not? How do you take yours? Any tips to trade? Go ahead… Gimme the dirt!

But this one was much closer to the real thing. The one from before, I finally concluded it was a harmless-enough spider that had some red markings but was much too small to be a black widow and was described by others with enough proximity to mine that I did not rush Lil Bit to the hospital.

But, as for this one. Also a probably not. But still. Maybe just a maybe not. But still. I only took the pic because the image of the spider there on the porch wall I share with my neighbors was striking. I thought it looked like a shadow and was playing camouflage (not very well) with the other shadows. But as I walked into the house, I realized it looked kind of familiar. Last time, I spent several hours analyzing spider images on the web. Tonight, I had one of those moments – like when you pass someone on the street and only recognize after it’s too late that it was Steve Buscemi. Or something like that. I knew I had seen that spider somewhere before. (No offense, Mr. Buscemi, you’re kinda kinky weird and all, and even have a bit of a spider look about you, but I would never assume you had much in common with a black widow. If you do, I don’t want to know. I like you with just the right amount of weird you have now — no more, no less).

So, although my partner thinks this is not a black widow because it doesn’t have the telltale markings, my renewed online search instructs me that the markings on the female (the more dangerous of the genders, at least twice the size of the male) are typically only on her belly. This particular spider wasn’t flashing me. Side note — c’mon, amazing wonderful Internet — isn’t there some other way to recognize the world’s deadliest spider for pete’s sake? Mcbrooklyn blogger at least points out that if you’re close enough to see the red, you’re closer than you should be. At least the NYT has a post online about how to recognize when you’ve been bitten by a black widow. Running a pic along with that article might help. Being that I couldn’t see this spider’s underbelly, I don’t know if it was or wasn’t a black widow. Apparently there was an influx of the unwanted tourist last summer. And this one was spotted by an old wood log that was deteriorating in the crook between my neighbor’s porch and my front yard — which describes precisely the environment black widows love.

After coming across one article about a woman in the U.K. who almost died by being bitten by a false widow spider, I’ve decided I’m not as fond of spiders as I once was. I used to believe they were a good omen, and even let one remain rent free in the web it wove on my patio door. But now, I’m removing my welcome mat. What’s left of that wooden log that once looked so charming in my yard (yes, I am having one of those what-was-I-thinking moments) is as good as gone. And now I’m scouring the Internet for natural spider repellants. I’ve been on a lemon kick lately (one glass of water with the juice of one lemon gets me halfway to the two glasses that I hear will kick start your metabolism and help you burn fat all day, the lazy way). So I’ve got lots of lemon rind in the fridge and freezer just waiting to be put to use. According to this WikiHow, they’ll make the perfect natural spider repellant. So, take that all you faking me out maybe being deadly predators spiders!

How about you, revelers? Any other sightings? You know how it goes … go ahead, gimme the dirt!

I’ve known this day was coming for a solid six weeks.  I’ve known since early last year that it may be on the horizon.  And even before that, there was talk.  The job — a contract position — was supposed to last only six months.  But they liked me, and I liked them, and the work was there, and so it went.  Six years later, it is, ironically, the longest job I’ve had continuously.  For awhile I was considering taking a permanent position at the bank and was in talks but those things move slow.  Before anything was finalized, my unit (I still call it “my”) was moved to a less expensive city.  And so my job is one of many casualties of this still soft economy.  I’ve seen lots of other soldiers fall.  Some packed up and left the city.  I was invited to the less expensive city to keep doing my job, but I guess I have expensive taste.

I had a dream early this morning that I called my boss.  He was on a phone meeting, and he couldn’t hear anything but soft static on my end.  I did him the favor of hanging up.  I then picked up the phone and overhead my sister (who doesn’t work in the field) talking about filing suspicious activity reports in Ireland, and my partner (who also doesn’t do this work) on filing in Austria, and then strangers in small Middle Eastern countries, each conversation drifting off, each one a snippet I was listening in on.  I suspect I’ve been doing this work long enough it will continue to occupy some mind space even once I’m not in the day to day.  Kind of like dreaming in a foreign language when you know you’ve arrived.

It may take a bit to get out of the habit of being there every day.  In these six years, I’ve had an office on 11, 2, 29, back to 11, 7, and now 38.  Some of them had the Bartleby brick wall across from my window (except mine was the back wall of the Stock Exchange).  Others, like 38 now, have open views to all of downtown Manhattan.  From here I’ve watched the Freedom Tower rise from what was Ground Zero’s dirt crater.  Several times a week I catch the sun set, back-lighting Lady Liberty.  To exercise my eyes, I leave my computer and watch boats bobbing in the East River.  My eyes cannot scan at once all the tops of the smaller skyscrapers that pattern a hodgepodge grid extending out from each side of Wall Street at the edge of my building’s footprint.  On the other side of the building, facing west, I pass Trinity Church every day on my two-block walk to the subway that takes me to and from my home in Brooklyn.  I usually am not walking too fast to nod to the grave of Alexander Hamilton, a fellow I feel a particular kinship to, and who watched our weekly meetings for years from his portrait on the conference room wall.  As workplaces usually do, this one has become home to me.

I don’t know where I will work next or where my work will take me.  I wouldn’t be opposed to seeing something else of the world.  For now, I’m taking a break.  And I’m going to work very hard at not thinking about suspicious activity at all.  I think some seeds, a shovel, and newly composted soil will help.

And, as for this week, the beginning of the end, I’m keeping very busy, training others, finishing my work, doing all the little administrative stuff that comes with a job’s end.  And saying good-bye.  You know, the hardest part.

p.s.  After I wrote this this morning, I got an email from someone in the bank who I only recognized by name asking if I used to work on 2.  Suspicious of unexpected queries, I asked the reason.  This person, it turns out, heard I was leaving the bank and wanted to find out if I was the person she remembered, and had gotten to know from occasional conversations struck up in the elevator bank.  It was, indeed, me.  We talked like old friends.  This morning, in writing my post, I did not mention the friends I’ve made at work.  Being a contract worker, I leave without a parting monetary gift.  That comes with the territory of “temporary” work, and is something we know going into it.  It’s balanced with other benefits, some tangible and others not.  I do not mind accepting the friendships as my separation package.  They are among the best things I have.

A middle,

And an end…

And if the story is good enough, there just may be a sequel. But that’s another story.

May your Valentine’s Day be hot, hot, hot!