Starting December 1st, at the very latest, everywhere you go everything is red and green. Or green and red. It’s not very original, but when it comes to traditions, I say to hell with originality! And so our front door gets decorated one more time in red and green despite being blue. Our garden shares this point of view, I think. There is no other explanation why all of a sudden everywhere in our garden everything is red and green. Or green and red. Isn’t it lovely?
We’ve been enjoying a wonderful summer this year, I must say, lots of hot days to be peacefully spent in our garden, having an equal lot of cold drinks with another lot of ice cubes in’em, who can abide a lukewarm gin and tonic, I ask you, and finally, lots and lots of roses to marvel at, smell, and fall in love with. I’m quite passionate about them, I guess you’ll see why, in all the forty-two pictures I’m going to share now…
39 degrees Celsius, this could be the name of a new diet. I’m serious. “The 39 Degrees Celsius Diet.” This summer’s day inspired me to it. Who wants to eat something out of an oven when you feel like being stuck in one yourself? Who wants ice cream for dessert that will melt on its way to your place at the beautifully set table in the garden just to ruin the festive atmosphere? Who wants red wine that just won’t uphold its cellar temperatures but cannot be served with ice cubes, either? Nobody. Consequently, we decided to skip all meals until temperatures will reach again some agreable 25 degrees or so, and judging by today’s weather forecast, that will probably be some day in late September. Well, what can I say, we’ll be ever so slim by then…
The best thing about having a garden is having an apple tree in that garden, especially one that carries Boskop as these are the best for baking apple cakes. They’re slightly sour which presents a nice contrast to the sweetness of the dough and wonderfully aromatic. We had lots, this year, and thus we had to make a lot of apple pies, and apple cakes, and apple tarts, and apple jalousies, and, well, you get the point, don’t you? What’s second best about having an apple tree in your garden is the fact that you really know every single apple growing on it is as organic and as healthy as it possibly gets. So, here’s to you, good old apple tree of mine!
I guess, when you’re a king, you won’t ever have to built a single castle in the air, instead you might even built them out of thin air. Just for fun, for a laugh, ha-ha-ha. To be fair, Frederick the Great built some of them, like the Neue Palais, for other reasons, for real statesmanly reasons like entertaining other kings or have a ball with diplomats, ambassadors, and such, but Sans Souci, he did built for nothing but pleasure. In winter, the joyfulness of it all might be less visible, but the architectural finesse of the ensemble is to be experienced at its very best.
I have never spent as much time in the garden as this year, a year, where temperatures started rising above 30 degrees Celsius in early spring, a year, where we had breakfast under the walnut tree before it had any leaves on it. Over my morning coffee, I witnessed every single step of a walnut’s circle of life, right now, I’d say the tree is seven months pregnant, the walnuts in their green peel are getting bigger every day. This year, I had rhododendrons in full bloom to my left when dipping a croissant in my morning coffee, and not the kitchen cupboard. I’ve been admiring the blossoms every single day from dusk till dawn, now I’m trying to ignore their decay when watering them, there are just to many to pick them off, it’s kind of a Sisyphean task, I constantly feel compelled to nonetheless as I’ve never been forced to water the rhododendrons on a daily basis before either, which is even more Sisyphean a task, I must admit. But a gardener’s work is never done, so we’re all kind of Sisyphean people, aren’t we? Yesterday, I restarted my eternal fight against snails by dispersing crushed eggshells, organic as hell a remedy, as they are the remains of our breakfast eggs, the shells are supposed to keep those little bastards from devouring our hostas. Over these last weeks, I’ve grown so accustomed to care for my plants every need, they now have breakfast before me, I started to carry my coffee mug with me when hosing them off with the spray gun in the morning, faking some morning dew. Or I tell them it’s raining. You see, plants believe anything you tell them, Sally Brown is my authority on this one, and many other things too, by the way—you do know Sally Brown, don’t you? She’s Charlie Brown’s sister, but if you don’t know him, I really cannot help you. But do try crushed eggshells.
It’s never been that hot. Never. For the first time ever, we did not find a single place in our garden that would offer some shade for our tea time. We were stranded. Heatstroked. Sunstroked. Roasted. Burnt. All dried out. All in all, we were desperate—until my father discovered a tiny spot under the ivy covered apple tree. Shade! We went nuts and decided to skip tea and prepone happy hour. A bar was improvised. Ice cubes were fetched. Lemonade was made. Shy beginnings, you know. Then gin was poured. Laughter got louder. People started singing. My mother got kissed by my father. It was heaven! And so I come up with one new maxim: summer can be heaven, if shade and drinks can be delivered. Mark my words!