If My Cats Could Talk

(A tribute to/riff on If My Dog Could Talk from small victories)

Me: Nothing. I just stood up.
Me: Yes, I’m literally walking just six feet away into the —
Me: I just fed you ten minutes ago.
Me: That’s too bad, I —
Me: You’re going to have to wait until lunch.
Me: Well, no, you’re five. You’re done growing.
Me: Well, yes, equatorially, which is exactly why you do not get more food right now.
Cat #2: Pardon me. If I could have just a moment of your time?
Me: I’m just here to make coffee.
Me: You wouldn’t like coffee. You didn’t like coffee last time.
Cat #2: Forgive the intrusion. I could not help but notice that you are in the kitchen and yet you are not currently involved in any particular occupation. May I humbly suggest —
Me: I mean it —
Cat #3: *stomp* *stomp* *biff* *pow*

Part 2

Me: Hey you.
Cat: WAT
Me: Were you just on the counter?
Cat: NO
Me: I heard you jump off of the counter.
Cat: NO
Me: Were you licking that pan?
Cat: NO
Me: Did you knock that can on the floor?
Cat: NO
Me: Are you lying to me?
Cat: NO
Me: Are you sure?
Cat #2: That is a despicable and outrageous accusation. I protest in the strongest possible terms.
Cat #2: You ignominious troglodyte. I demand satisfaction.
Cat #2: Cretin. Prepare to die. *swat*
Cat: *swat*
Cat #2: *swat* *swat* *swat*
Cat: *swat* *swat* *WHACK* *WHACK*
Cat #2: *NINJA LEAP*
(wrestling, yelling, fur in the air, running away)
Cat #3: Oh, hey, there you are. Whatever you had in that pan was gross, and there wasn’t much of it. While you’re here in the kitchen could you open another can?

Kishu Mandarins


Four years ago I ordered a Kishu mandarin orange tree online from Four Winds Growers, at great expense, and it showed up at my house as a tiny little stick tree in a long thin box.

Kishu mandarins are like other mandarin-style oranges — small, seedless, easy-to-peel, and tasty — but they’re only about the diameter of a quarter.


I can’t for the life of me remember why I bought the Kishu mandarin in the first place. I remember that I wanted to grow a mandarin orange tree. Those boxes of small tasty Clementine-Style (“cutie”) mandarins had become popular in supermarkets, and I buy a lot of them when they’re in season. And I think I had a friend who had mentioned finding the Kishus at a farmer’s market in SF or Berkeley and loved them. I’m always up for growing something unusual, so I took the chance on this tree.

Citrus trees do very well for me in pots on the porch. Dwarf varieties are easy to manage in pots, but they still bear heavily with regular watering and fertilizer. In case of especially cold nights I can pull them under the roof overhang or cover them to keep them from getting frost damaged or killed.


I planted the Kishu mandarin that first year in a small pot, and then a few years ago moved it to a larger pot. The first couple years I only got a few oranges. This year there are a lot.

The kishu is a good orange, but I can’t say it’s a significantly better orange than other mandarins I’ve tasted. And the small size means that, proportionally, you have to peel a lot of them to get the same amount of sweet fruit that you would with a larger mandarin.

When I was buying full-size mandarins at farmer’s markets I liked the Murcotte and Page varieties. I’ve been eating some Satsumas this month that are amazing. I probably won’t abandon the Kishu, but I might buy another tree. There’s still room on my porch.

Dear Pink High-Top Converse Chuck Taylor All-Stars


Dear Pink Chucks:

I bought you when I was a teenager. You were on sale at Filene’s Basement for practically nothing, because back then the only proper Chuck Taylor All-Star sneakers were red, white, and black. Chucks also were for boys, which explains why no one wanted you, the pink ones, and I got you so cheap. But I was a huge tomboy at the time, and pink Chucks were just the sort of cross-gender irony I thought was fun, so that was OK.

Chucks were for the weird kids, the wannabe punks and artistes and the Jonathan Richman fans. I had a crush on a boy in high school who was all of those things, with dark eyes and floppy hair, and he wore Chucks, black ones, high tops like you. There was that night we went out to the park at midnight and swung on the swings, the scuffed white toes of our sneakers pointing up into the moonlight as we swung. The boy with the dark eyes and floppy hair — Mark? Ben? Jason? Andrew? — told me he was excited to go to college, excited to learn more about art, and told me that I should listen to more Jonathan Richman. He talked so much about himself that we never got around to talking about what I was excited about.

I wore you with wool socks, leggings, miniskirts. I wore you with my leather jacket and studded bracelets and huge t-shirts. I wore you in all kinds of weather, although you really weren’t much good at all in snow. I painted an apartment in you, and the paint I splattered on you never scrubbed off.

I haven’t been able to wear you much for years now, because your flat soles provide no actual support for older feet, and you hurt. But I’ve kept you around in the back of the closet, and once in a while I pull you out and put you on. Like I did just now.

Dear Pink Chucks: You remind me what it was like being a teenager, and a tomboy, and you remind me of being a wannabe punk and artiste, and you remind me of cute boys with dark eyes and floppy hair. I had written this as a eulogy because I really had planned to throw you out this year, but now that it’s done I seem to have talked myself out of it.

You win, pink Chucks. See you again next time.

Seeds for 2016

Vegetable seed shopping is always a hazardous time of year for me. I have a bit of an obsessive collector’s urge about seeds, and I always spend too much money on things that look interesting or things that look like they might be improvements on what I already have.

I prefer seeds that are that are heirlooms (older varieties) or open-pollinated (sets seeds and breeds true), but I’m not a fanatic about it. I will happily grow a hybrid seed if it works better than the open seed. “Better” can mean better disease resistance, or bigger and more fruit or other edible parts. In any given year I’ll probably grow 50/50% heirlooms to hybrids.

I do save some seeds from year to year, if it’s easy, which mostly means tomatoes and green beans. A lot of the stuff I grow in the garden readily cross-pollinates and produces weird mixtures (squash, peppers), or needs a full two years of growing to set seed at all (all the broccoli-types, carrots, kale, chard). Neither of these things are ideal for my garden, so I just don’t bother. Seeds are pretty cheap as far as hobbies go, even if I do get carried away.

The seed catalogs (“seed porn” as Eric calls them) come out in late December, which are always fun for browsing over breakfast in the dark days of the year. But since I like to start some seeds in January, I try to get my orders in earlier than that.

I usually order from three stores:

Peaceful Valley Farm Supply: Good, basic organic heirloom seeds at good prices. They also carry Renee’s Garden seeds which have more interesting varieties.

Baker Creek Heirloom Seed Co: Huge variety of heirlooms, including really unusual and rare varieties. They also usually give you an awful lot of seeds per packet.

Johnny’s Selected Seeds: More expensive, but the best source for high-quality hybrid seeds in large garden or semi-professional amounts.

This year’s seeds arrived last week:


Here’s the list of stuff I got for this year, in no particular order:

Beet Mammoth Red Mangel – huge beets, the chickens eat them
Beet Chioggia
Beet Golden Detroit
Rutabaga Helenor – hybrid
Onion Stuttgarter
Onion Evergreen Bunching
Onion Ruby Ring
Leek Gavaria
Brussels Sprouts Hestia
Broccoli Di Ciccio
Carrot Negovia
Lettuce Mix Allstar
Lettuce Speckled
Squash Sweet Meat
Watermelon Hopi Yellow
Cucumber Delikatesse
Sorrel Green De Belleville
Pea Penelope

Out of Gas Update

IMG_0782 Woot! The gas truck arrived late Sunday night, so all is well. We have a (mostly) full tank of gas now, which will give us time to investigate alternative propane providers.

Out of Gas

Because we live in the outer borderlands, we use propane gas for making things warm in the house: heat, hot water, the clothes dryer, and the stove. The propane is stored in this astonishingly ugly tank just outside the kitchen door. It’s essentially the big house-sized version of those little tanks you use for BBQ grills.


We’ve had the same propane provider for the entire 20 years we’ve lived here. And it has been all good. We run low, they send a truck, and sometimes they send a truck even before we know we’re low. Except for that one time the truck ran into my car in the driveway and bashed in a tail light, all has been fine. (To be fair, it was a really small car.)

Until now. There have been rumblings on our local neighborhood email lists that people in the area were having trouble getting propane deliveries from this company. Some people were running out of propane entirely for weeks before they managed to get a delivery. The rumor was that the local company had lost a bunch of drivers at once and could not keep up with demand.

Nervously, I checked the tank, and it was below 5%. We needed a delivery.

This whole week I’ve been calling the propane company, and every day they’ve been saying that they’ll send a truck, definitely today, this time for sure. The truck never shows up.

Today, we’re flatline.


We’re not totally 100% out of gas, but we’ve turned off the heat and we’re trying to conserve the hot water. I have a little electric space heater parked next to me at my desk. And sweaters. Lots and lots of sweaters.

It is surprising how on edge this makes me. I keep listening for a truck that never comes, distracted by the slightest noise and hoping, hoping, hoping, maybe that rumbling noise is the gas truck. I am cold and unhappy and I would like to be able to do take a shower and do laundry.

Eric finally got through to a human on the emergency line this morning and they said the truck would be here this afternoon. I’ve heard that before. We’ll see.