Sprouts

Or seedlings, or whatever the correct term is. The first bright day of February, the urge came upon me, and I dug out the little window-sill greenhouses.

The garden herbs in the newest greenhouselet (greenhut? greenhovel?) are doing well — but the greenhouse came with some special dirt that’s apparently just what the little green beggars need.

The year-round lettuce is doing markedly worse, in last-year’s little potlets, with ordinary dirt and a grain or so of artificial fertilizer. A bit pale, and I guess I should repot the sprouts already, but life is a little hectic, lately (1).

The ‘raapsteeltjes’ or turnip tops are doing well — in their larger ice-cream box.

And now I’m waiting for the weather to pick up, to get consistently to at least 18 degrees centigrade, so I can go and fix the fence, dig some manure into the soil where needed, make little boxes to keep
the cats out(2), and perhaps plant some other stuff. Clean the ‘lawn’, talk earnestly to the vine, compliment the honeysuckle and soak up some fresh air.

(1) Combining writing a novel, studying theology, hacking on Krita, teaching the kids how to use a brush, visiting my mother who’s rather ill, earning my monthly envelope and preparing for Easter makes for quite a full programme, and I definitely have the feeling that this year’s Lent has not been as good for introspection and spiritual growth as last year’s, even though I’m keeping the rules of fasting rather better. Anyway: Irina today baked the kulich for the parish, so it’ll probably be Easter in a few weeks after all.

(2) And the fact that the lung specialist insisted quite forcefully that if I didn’t want to go through life with permanent pneumonia, I should cease living together with a cat, let alone three cats, is giving us grief, too. I need a breath of air now and then, so the cats had to go. Two of them have already found a place, and are reportedly quite happy. Now it’s just Hendrik, the subject of Rebecca’s oil painting, who’s left. He doesn’t miss his sisters… I do, though.