today is the harvest moon and i missed the harvest. i usually work fridays at the farm but got today off for being the farmstand-wonder-queen dutiful worker for 11 days in a row. it was blissful to sleep a bit but i feel left out of the farm fun.... it's probably the last warm sunny harvest day we'll have and, you know, it's the harvest moon and all. not that we'll be out there at moonlight, but we could be if we wanted. and i want another turnip.
i am seriously preoccupied with pumpkins and sqaush and am getting a little worried about it. last night on my DATE i found myself talking about squash a lot and then took the poor guy to my car and gave him two squash. cause i drive around with squash in my car. and today i chopped one open to bake and it was so beautiful that i considered going out to buy a disposable camera because mine is broken and i simply HAD to document its beauty. i stopped myself, but almost regret it and might get a camera to document the next squash i hack open. and yesterday, while sitting at work and loathing the moment that 5,000 lbs of pumpkins would arrive, i found while moving them that i loved each and every one and didn't care that i was, once again, moving tons of squash around. hey're so pretty and orange and round!
i've got problems.
4 comments:
We all just admired the beauty of the harvest moon, and noted that it was indeed bright enough outside to harvest, if we had anything to harvest, which sadly we don't.
Did the DATE appreciate the squash?
That sounds like some sort of Seussical question.
why isn't there a dr. seuss book about squash- it's the perfect source for seussy silliness! you can eat it in a boat. you can bake it in a coat. now comes the great challenge to find words that rhyme with squash.
wash.
josh
mosh
bosch *as in hieronymus"
slosh
posh
frosh
nosh on squash!
i have the feeling that a certain someone will rise to the occassion of writing the perfect seussian squash poem.
the date liked the squash, yes. good boy.
In the far-away farmland of the red wheelbarrow farm
Sat Wyatt, self-anointed, seed slinging king, short on charm.
A nice little farm-stand. It was clean. It was neat.
There was plenty of sunshine. There was PLENTY to eat.
The farmhands had most everything farmhands might need.
And they were all happy. Quite happy indeed.
They were…until Wyatt, the king of them all,
Decided the harvest was much too much small.
“I’m ruler”, said Wyatt “of the crops that I see.
But I’m way too uptight, that’s the trouble with me.
With this squash for a throne, I look down on my farm
But I can’t see beyond, thus I am quite alarmed.
This squash that I sit on is far too close to the ground.
It ought to be higher!” he said with a frown.
“If I could sit high on a custom posh and squash thrown
What a king! What a ruler! All my farmhands would moan.”
And Wyatt, the farm king, barked a command.
He bade to his farmhands, bring him more squash
And, pile them high with aplomb and panache.
He made each farmhand slosh pumpkins forward and back
And pile them precariously in a big pumpkin stack.
And then Wyatt climbed up. Placed his rump on the pile.
“I can see all of Denver!” he said with a wry smile.
“Mine O mine!” Wyatt cried. “Behold all that I rule!
I’m the king of all produce! Good lord I am cool!
I’m the kind of all turnips! And all organic food!
Of all things delicious both sautéed and stewed
I’m Wyatt the farm-king! Oh, marvelous me!
Perhaps the next season I’ll plant sugar snap peas!”
And all through the morning, he sat on his perch,
Giving sermons to patrons in his produce like church.
Until just about noon, then he heard a faint me-ow.
“What’s that?” snapped the farm king and he stared down to see
Way way down at the bottom a farmhand named Shley.
Just one of his farmhands, who, would no longer be quite,
Looked up, and said, “um, beg your pardon, king Wyatt
You’re a pain in my ass, my back, and my knees –
How much more squash must we slosh through the mud, tell me please?”
“SILENCE!” the farm king barked mercilessly
“I’m king, and you’re just a farmhand named Shley.”
“You slosh through the mud, I’m the king of produce!
I’m the almighty turnip and zucchini Zeus!
I’m the king of all veggies and organic food!
You just slosh through the mud, there is no time to brood.
My squash throne shall be higher!” his farm-fresh voice thundered,
“So pile more squash! I want more then two hundred!”
“More squash! Much more squash!” he hollered and yelled.
And the farmhands worked harder and sweated and smelled.
Just so the farm kings shrill voice would be quelled.
From all over the farmland, the farmhands they came,
Each carrying squash – their poor joints were aflame
And all of them sloshed mud all over poor Shley.
As they piled the squash to three-hundred-and-three.
Then Wyatt, the farm king, was seated so high,
He could see past the mountains that just touched the sky!
“Hooray!” bellowed Wyatt. I’m the king of field greens!
I’m the king of the squash! I’m the king of green beans!
I’m the king of the bees, as they buzz through the air!
Oh, joy! What a wonderful pumpkin throne chair!
I’m Wyatt the farm king! It is great to be me!
I’m the splendiferous squash god! He said with great glee.
Then from far down below, came a disgruntled plea,
From that plucky young farmhand, whose name it was Shley.
“Yo, farm dude, beg pardon…but I think you’re insane,
Do you know that you are causing your farmhands great pain?
I know, up on high, you are our great farm-stand king,
But we have enough squash here to last until spring!
We farmhands can’t take it. Our arms are like brie!
And besides, we need food!” said the farmhand named Shley.
“You hush up your yap!” Snapped the mighty king Wyatt.
“You’ve no right to talk, pile squash and be quiet.
I rule from this mountain of squash, all I see!
There’s nothing, nay, NADA, quite as high as me!”
But, while he was howling, he realized with surprise
That the full harvest moon was now on the rise
And its perigeal light would soon fill the skies.
“What’s THAT?” chortled Wyatt. “Tell me what IS that thing?
I just don’t have the time for celestial bling!
I can not allow it! I must go much higher!
Heed my words lowly farmhands, lest ye be fired!
Get the led out you farmhands, stack these squashes to heaven!
It should only take five hundred thousand and seven!”
But, as Wyatt, the farm-stand king, lifted his hand
And started to bellow and give the command,
That plucky young farmhand who had let out the plea,
That plucky young farmhand whose name it was Shley
Decided she’d had it. And had it she had.
She was tea kettle screaming and boiling mad.
And that plucky young Shley did an uncouth little thing.
She burped!
And her burp squelched the pumpkin squash throne of the king!
And Wyatt, the self-proclaimed-farm-stand king of produce,
That zealot organic-mad zucchini Zeus,
That king who sat high on his posh squash pumpkin stool…
Well, that was the end of the farm-stand king’s rule!
For Wyatt, the farm king, that king short on charm,
Fell off his squash throne, with a thud, to his harm.
And today the great Wyatt, that splendiferous he,
Is king of the mud. All because of the Shley.
And the farmhands, of course…all the farmhands are free
As all farmhands and, perhaps, all squash should be.
Ha ha ha ha! Man, all we ever talk about at my farmstand is ancient religion and German and good recipes for rhubarb. And how fabulous tomatoes are.
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