It's mid-May. The sun is high. I should be watering the tomatoes. But alas: there are no tomatoes in my garden this year, no peppers, no eggplants. This year we have put in only sugar snap peas and lettuce, early crops that went in before we got The News About the Decision to Sell the House, and will peak in production by Solstice, and surely we will not have vacated the premises by then.
We are not actively looking for another house to rent, though it feels like a reconfiguration of our situation is on the distant horizon, inchoate and shimmering like a desert mirage. Our landlord has been mute on the subject since that call last month, just after the deadline for filing taxes (Coincidence? I don't think so), when he announced in somewhat of a panic that he was putting the house up for sale. Is he proceeding with that plan? Have cooler heads prevailed? I don't know. I will find out when I find out. Meanwhile it's snap peas and lettuce, and chives, and pretty purple salvia, the latter being inedible as far as I know, but satisfying of a different sort of hunger.
I just finished reading Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life, which has left me a little wistful about the meager garden we have this year. Maybe a few tomato plants wouldn't be such a bad idea after all. Early Girls that will ripen in July, Sweet 100s to pluck and eat right off the vine. If we have to leave them behind, so be it. We live here now. Might as well live as we like, while we're here, right now.