For zucchini, they look almost good enough to eat.
They’re heirlooms. Of course the downside is, any zucchini still tastes like zucchini, even when it sports jazzy zebra stripes. These have a very fancy name; I don’t know what it is – but I’m sure there’s a “de la” in there somewhere.
One can’t just grow a plain old pumpkin anymore. It has to be “Field Hybrid: Muscade de Provence.” These days we trade little gram-weight envelopes of seeds as if we were trading – well, you know. And out of the earth, the very well treated earth, stuff, edible (though not always eaten) stuff, pops up.
Oh wait, this one's not edible. Don't be deceived by the vegetable coating.
I lived in thirty rentals or borrowed or otherwise-owned houses from the 1980's to the mid new century, and if a flower, a blade of grass ventured out of the dry cracked earth, I never noticed. They went their way, and I went mine. Actually, for all I know, maybe the earth wasn’t dry and cracked, maybe some lushness existed at one place or the other. Just didn’t notice at all.
But in the middle of this current decade, all flush with brand new pride-of-ownership, an insidious addiction took hold. I fell in love, the mad kind. The flora kind. The house wasn’t much and stayed that way, but nothing was too good for the garden.
I eschewed Home Depot, and ordered plants from Oregon, Napa, Wisconsin, but mostly a Florida nursery that specialized in exotics. Moringa Oliphera, Canonga, Boronia Megastigma.
Waves of infatuation followed. Old world roses, weird fruit trees, Australian natives, succulents, cacti, and finally, fragrance. Aglaia, osmanthus, clematis, six different kinds of jasmine, magnolia coco, Burmese honeysuckle, and more – so very much more.
Then one day I woke up and the spell was broken, the urgency dissipated. I installed automatic sprinklers, rather than carefully watering by hand. I stopped pampering the tropicals and let them face their own facts (as in, we have no humidity in Altadena). I was now both sated and even a little disinterested.
Passion is funny that way. Passion is funny in a lot of ways. As in, if I could have consciously chosen my passions, my life would have been very, very different. No judgment implied.