Here is my baby, my guerrilla garden. I am terribly proud of it. I admire it, give it soft, loving words, and then I eat it.
Peas which I ate off the vine yesterday. So sweet.
I ate the main crown of this broccoli with some pasta. Then it grew these precious wee sprouts.
I was too late to devour this one, and it flowered.
I'm most excited about this pepper plant now. It was planted by an anonymous gardener, who expanded the garden area to fit this pepper transplant and his larger companion. Someone guerrilla gardened my guerrilla garden! All is going according to plan.
This is my amaryllis, in my apartment. My mom gave it to me for Christmas. It comes all easily packaged in a little box with its bulb and "growing medium," which was pressed into a coin shape. When I got it home, I opened the box up and looked at it, then put everything back in the box. Fast forward a couple of weeks later, I'm cleaning my apartment and the bulb has already sprouted a few inches of green. I'm like, "Hang on, overachiever! Let me get you in a pot." It has continued at a freakish rate of growth that would excite small children tremendously, and then bring them false expectations of all future planting experiences. Trouble is, it's tremendously phallic. And now that it's about to bloom, it's going through a brief hemaphroditic period. All blushing and pink up there.
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