April showers bring may flowers, and we all know what Mayflowers bring, but this morning I discovered that March showers bring March garlic.
The bulb that I split up and planted back in November has finally raised several green flags down in the kitchen garden, heralding the return of the kind of weather that couldn't kill you.
Speaking of which, I cannot believe that this tuft of French sorrel survived the winter:
That's because from mid December until a couple of weeks ago, the yard looked like this:
But those few, fragile leaves somehow emerged triumphantly after being buried under feet and feet of snow, ice, and fox pee.
Now I survived the winter too, but the difference between me and the sorrel is that it didn't have a coat, hat, gloves, snow tires, hot toddies, oil heat plus an electric space heater, wool socks inside Tibetan slippers, gourds upon gourds of mate, a freezer full of meat, carpeting, an apartment, and a girlfriend.
Now doesn't it seem unfair that it's me who gets to eat it?