The dandelion situation is becoming nightmarish. When I consider adulthood and all of its horrors and responsibilities, I do not generally consider weed warfare. Alas, we have had to literally dig ourselves in. Tim spent hours today with a propane torch, combusting seed heads. Tomorrow I have to attempt to break up a patch of lawn for the potatoes. Imagine a writhing nest of vegetal snakes, glued into the soil with grassroots. I'm terrified that the act of hacking them up with a sharp spade will only serve to multiply them.
(Tim, reading over my shoulder, starts being a broom from the Fantasia Sorcerer's Apprentice.)
Today I avoided the backyard like the plague, only going outside to plant four more tomatoes in a half-barrel Opa brought over. Instead of yanking at fat, morbid tap roots, I made rhubarb jam.
It was my first attempt at real canning. To my surprise, all nine jars sealed, and remain unexploded on the window sill. Each successive small batch is darker and less sweet than the one before, so that there is a progression from bright clear red jelly to dark amber rhubarb butter. I'm out of jam jars, but there is still at least ten cups of chopped rhubarb in a mixing bowl on the counter, so I think that rhubarb syrup, and a rhubarb pie (with poppy seeds in the crust) are still on the agenda.