Ventricle Garden

My in-laws think we are living with them because our condo isn’t ready yet. Well nope. The real reason we are living with them is as follows:

Tomatoes
Corn on the cob
Bell peppers
Chili peppers
Cucumbers
Potatoes
And Pumpkins

hic

We are just using Ryan’s parents for their garden, and oh baby, you should see it. WHEW WEEEEE! The tomato bushes are dripping with gorgeous plump fruit, the corn on the cob tastes like buttery candy, and the peppers… well, you know how I feel about those bad boys.

I’m in heaven.

Armed with plastic bowls and evil intentions, Doug and I have been taking daily tours of the garden. Our mouthes water as we rip the fresh juicy offspring from its mother-bush and plop it into the shadowy tupperware of doom. Those little veggies don’t stand a chance against the likes of us. (Correction. My Mouth waters. Doug's mouth does not react to anything that is not deep-fried and dipped in ketchup.)

We prance giddily through the vines and wisps I prompt Doug to say “vegetable garden” over and over. I laugh every time because he pronounces it “ventricle garden.” I told Sierra about Doug’s pronunciation earlier this morning while visiting her at her new apartment. She colored slightly and asked “Isn’t a ventricle…er… part of male… erm… anatomy?”

No Sierra, no.

Anywho, I have been backstroking in homemade salsa, fresh salads and tender white corn all month long. And not paying rent. And it’s been fantastic.

Oh, and to the Lee’s: We do love your garden, but we don’t love you for that reason alone. Your homemade whole wheat bread also kicks butt.