Spring stream

Occurred to me that Vernal would make a right proper name for boy and girl alike. In the nickname department, the boy could go with Vern of course, and the girl with Nally or Nal for the tomboy, one of the guys type. I’ve been saying things like “right proper” lately for no reason my senses register, so it’s probably the spirit of Farmers everywhere dropping by and leaving hints hanging in the trees and messages in fowl languages as well as channeling the correct approach to pulling off the whole “farmer” mystique.

I would submit that it is for this reason, and this reason alone that you may hear me use this utterly misappropriated colloquialism. Probably a form of rehearsal for the next potential “income stream” in the PermaRiver called what I do. The intent is to bring a tweensy portion of the world to our patio. The focus would be an “infotour” followed by a scrummy meal.

Imagine, if you will a fresh caught tilopia, bout the size of a big mans hand glazed over with some kinda wicked yummy sauce whipped up after seeing an ad for honey mustard spin offs. This is all sizzling on a little cast iron skillet shaped like a fish with the scent of rosemary and mustard melting the air while the honey raises the humidity.

But wait. Nestled  next to the sizzle is a glass platter in the shape of an anthurium flower and a coconut shell resting on a small coconut shell stand. The platter hosts, in repose on a crimson chard leaf, a pie shaped slice of thick frittata, prepared with eggs and veggies picked by the greenhorns. Resting in the coconut shell, in glorious fresh, a small bouquet of greens wrapped in red russian kale and tucked in with nasturtiums peppery glory. The very same greens contained and cooked into the frittata here on display, for a compare and contrast sort of moment.

Garnishes would include the hot pepper medley, green mango chutney, balsamic papaya seed dressing and Newman’s Own Mama Mia Sauce. B.Y.O.B.

We are canvasing the public for dessert ideas and would go so far as to name any dessert we use after its creator. You’ll be swept up in a flurry of fame.

Preceding this gustatory adventure I would do my schtick and manifest my best impression of me being right proper, with sweat stained “peace on earth, the human approach” baseball cap, wrap around shades and eyes in the back of my head. Always have had fun walking folks around the place. A settling yet exhilarating ride through the evolution of a thirty year romance with Mah. Seen my share of “Aha” moments flair up in the eyes. The banter on its own is worth the price of admission which, with any luck will be acceptably exorbitant.

It is the scent of mango flowers that dominates the lower orchard. A riot of flowers and a fragrance that hangs low and defies you to like it. It is the little too far gone place, where the nose senses a message of doom. Hows that for a way to describe mango flower scent to the greenhorns? They’d eat that shit up.

Anyway, this may be the reason that it is overwhelmingly the common house fly that does the pollinating on the mango’s. Could it be that they get the sense of something rotting, or about to? Neat trick. Fuck the bees. Little pussies can’t even handle nicotine. I’ve seen flies consume beer soaked cigarette butts. On a really hot day.

There are a number of other fairy like fliers drawn in and intoxicated by what must be an epiphany of olfactory bliss.

The January flowering and fruit set was light to fair and always has one shrugging shoulders and hhrrumphing over the prospect of a lean year with only moderate face stuffing and limited revenue.

I am now crossing every finger and toe on my body while attempting to convey that the April flowering and current fruit set is looking___________( you’re choice of awesome adjective here. I don’t want to jinx it.)

Looking back, the reality is that I can only remember two “bumper” years. Fruit trees have their yes and their no. Very little way of knowing where they’ll go. Hhrrumphing less with the luxury of being able to hang out with these young adults and their spectacular offspring and try to hear to first “words” of the smallest mango’s you’ll ever see, singing some pheromone sonata, waiting to jam. Nice to know that I still don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. Keeps things fresh.

In other orchard news, the Malama avo, barring acts of ungodly behavior has, in fact set in above average to whopping good fashion with fruits gecko to quail egg size, practically guaranteeing their march to maturity. Homer Simpson would drool.

White sapotes appear to be hap hap happy with minimal wasting from the pernicious poking of the fruit piercing pecker head. Above average fruit set and high brix. Citrus and loquats getting hit in a noticeable way. Loquat fruit rot and citrus which when squeezed send juice streams squirting hither and yon. The greenhorns love to see the tragic melded to the comic.

We have pushed out into a previously untouched hillside on a north facing slope. Two new mango and two new avo varieties along with Rollinia deliciosa and Canistel. The pathway linking the trees is lined with papaya about every twelve to fifteen feet.

As a new system develops the remaining spaces call out for form and function and so it goes when you are at play in the yard, hauling pond water, pullin’ weeds, brainstorming. Eager little wwoofer faces, “what’s next unky Jp?” Heck if I know. Let’s just do somethin’ that”ll be right proper for the Aina, by cracky.                          Too far?

News in brief: mighty metaphorical storms brewing most everywhere. OMG moments of crushing despair can be reduced by following these simple steps: 1. Upon awakening and after splashing cold water in your face, look in the mirror and while staring, slap yourself hard and swear that you will always believe in the miraculous. 2. Stop caring. 3. That thing about dance like no one is watching, sing like everyone’s deaf. 4. Oh, and the more you show, the more we’ll grow. Peace, Jp

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