Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Assessing Spring

April 29th, my mom's birthday (and Walpurgisnacht Eve). I was going to write something here about a terrifying monster who gave birth to an even MORE terrifying monster, but I started getting all emotional in the shower when thinking about what the fuck I wanted to say and SERIOUSLY, INTERNET, THIS IS NOTHING MORE DEPRESSING THAN CRYING ABOUT YOUR DEAD FUCKING MOM ON WHAT WOULD'VE BEEN HER 63RD BIRTHDAY DURING YOUR MORNING SHOWER.

(Actually, there is - crying while exercising. Universe, please fucking explain to me why you CAN'T cry and eat at the same fucking time, but you CAN cry and exercise without so much as batting a fucking (waterlogged) eyelash. <- CLEARLY THIS SHOULD PROVE THE EXISTENCE OF AN OLD TESTAMENT GOD.)

Tomorrow's Hexennacht, and the last thing I want to do is spend all of today shuffling around in an emotionally fragile state because I talked about my mom (and how much I love/d and hate/d her, and how inconsolably ANGRY I am for not having a chance to even look, touch and say my final farewells to her dead body before she was fucking cremated) in my journal, because talking about shit, here, isn't even remotely cathartic. If anything, addressing shit that's upsetting turns me into a rabid fucking wolverine and I end up desperately waiting for Italics to wake up so I can unload an atom bomb's worth of emotions on him.

So I'm canning it - at least for a few days - to give us a running chance to enjoy Walpurgis weekend without my unresolved mom issues popping up and ruining the festivities. (OH, MOM, YOU'VE BEEN DEAD FOR FIVE YEARS BUT YOU CAN STILL REACH ACROSS THE GREAT ABYSS TO THROW A SPANNER IN THE WORKS. <- MOMS, STILL RUINING SHIT FOR THEIR KIDS EVEN AFTER DEATH.)

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Whenever I wander into the backroom to check on my seedlings this is the sight that welcomes me. Regardless of weather or time of day I can always make out the shapes and silhouettes of my spring flowers, and their constant nodding and exuberance makes me ridiculously happy.

(These, by the way, are my second round of spring bulbs. In 2008 my father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, raided my bulb containers and threw out the contents without notifying/asking me. By the time I realized what had happened it was too late to rescue anything so I ended up losing everything. I never got an apology, but I did get "I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY SHE'S SO UPSET IN THE FIRST PLACE" from him. In this house? I'm the crazy irrational bitch who erupts for no logical explanation.)

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When I wrote my huge ass journal entry Gothel's Garden Reopens I deliberately "forgot" to photograph (or mention) a sapling of a tree that lives in the plastic container lineup beneath our bedroom window out of dirty, secretive guilt.

CONFESSION: I was so worried and worked up over the fate of my peach tree that I devoted all of my energy to her welfare and in doing so I kind've sort've neglected the one tree that could've really benefited from some serious attention and love, our mystery phoenix tree.

MPT came into our lives last year after a wild windstorm in mid-October:

You know that windstorm that took down my sweet corn? My corn weren't the only things lying on their sides the morning after. Walking through the oaky clearing was like walking through a battlefield - trees split down to the roots, huge limbs and branches lying haphazardly on the ground, whole trees actually uprooted exposing giant pits of unsettled dirt and rocks.

While scouting for a place to have OUTSIDE FOREST SEX we stumbled across this split tree behind a fallen oak. Growing out of an exposed tuft of decomposed leaves and dead bark was a slender seedling standing at half-mast like a little yellow flag. "OOO! OOO! MAGIC!" I said - more so now that I realize that the tiny tree wasn't growing from the roots, it actually had situated itself INSIDE THE TREE making it an epiphyte - and got Italics to remove it for me.

I'm not sure if mid-October is an ideal time for transplanting trees, but it's not like I had a choice. The slender, leafless pole's outside wedged between my peach tree and sunflowers, and I hope with A LOT of coaxing it might actually survive winter and properly take root in spring. Fingers crossed, anyway.

There should've been more compassion in my heart (because, like, there's just SO MUCH EFFING ROOM in this black heart of mine), but given the choice between a peach tree and a sapling we hacked out of the split remains of a tree with a pair of scissors (which we couldn't identify let alone guess or know if it survived the transplant until nearly a half year later) I'd always gravitate towards the tree that I knew would produce edible fruit.

I mean, I didn't completely ignore the fucking thing. It got pensive looks, apologetic frowns and thoughtful considerations, it just didn't get THE WORKS like the tree three containers down. Whenever I pessimistically inspected the tight buds of the peach tree I did the same with MPT; whenever I worried out loud I worried about both of them. I never really mentioned the rescued sapling after I wrote about finding it (AFTER THE WINDSTORM) in fear of an unhappy ending.

Just a few days ago a tiny sprout of green cracked through the chitinous bud signaling life and new growth. This particular story? An unexpected happy ending. Now to wait until it produces full leaves so I can identify what MPT really is...

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"DO YOU SEE ANY BLOSSOMS?" I asked Italics as we both hung out the open patio door, squinting at the plum tree (the OTHER plum tree which isn't the Shango Tree) as harsh morning light threatened to blind us. "OH, WAIT, NEVER MIND, I SEE PATCHES, JUST NOT A LOT."

From a distance I saw only two - maybe three - whip-like branches dotted with unfurled blossoms on the Shango tree. Between those and the few patches on the other tree I knew we weren't in for a stellar plum year, which was hella disappointing since last year was the first year either tree produced viable fruit in memory (in MY memory, anyway, and I've lived here for nearly a decade).

Despite feeling somewhat down about this year's crop I whipped out the camera, anyway, and snapped one or two pictures to post here. It wasn't until my nearsighted eyes glanced through the zoomed camera that I realized that BOTH fucking trees were BLANKETED with tight white flowers, they just hadn't gotten big enough to be seen from the patio steps.

Provided that we aren't hit by hard frost (or snow) and Mr. Awesome DOESN'T TOUCH ONE FUCKING BLOSSOM, LEAF OR TWIG ON EITHER FUCKING TREE this year's harvest will totally blow last year's harvest out the fucking water.

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Stupidly charming forget-me-nots. Like I mentioned in Gothel's Garden Reopens, I got a pack of seeds for free last year and even though it was a little late in the season to sow spring flowers I planted them in a tray and set it aside in the hopes that they'd germinate this year. They recently got transplanted and there's NO denying they aren't enjoying the added depth of their new home.

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8 AM in my tiny spring bulb garden. Just behind the shaft of morning light are my fragrant narcissus flowers, in front of them are my dwarf tulips who are about to join the pagent and mugging for the camera front and center are my grape hyacinths who've already begun the process of winding down for the season.

Flora Britannica: Book of Wild Herbs

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Amazon: Derived from the author's "Flora Britannica", this book takes a broad definition of herbs and includes 100 wild plants of England, Scotland and Wales. As well as describing them, the author gives an account of the role of wild herbs in social life, arts, custom and landscape.

The Universe knows I'm a sucker for cheap ass books listed on my Amazon wishlist. (<- If it's £1.50 or cheaper it's fair game.)

2010 Vegetables, Round 1

Writing, internet, has been hard. Actually, I take that back. Writing hasn't been hard; feeling motivated to plant my ass down in this fucking computer chair and hammer out something that isn't one or two sentences mostly composed of "MOTHERFUCKER", "SHIT" and "GOD" has been hard.

Ever since (Chef) Shakey's death I've felt flighty; I think it's Spring, and how amazingly stupidly insanely far behind I am on things. (Don't EVEN get me started on all of the shit I haven't done because my list will make you weep with exquisite hopelessness.) I spent a quarter of a year off our perfected routine, and I still don't entirely feel like I'm back on my mojo axis.

It feels like I've taken a partial step forward, but despite the hesitant move I'm still hanging in limbo because my other foot's firmly planted in its original position. I think I'm waiting for something, specifically one of the remaining rats suddenly getting sick (i.e., Wuzza and her mammary tumors), which would require me to retract that partial step and revisit territory I lived in for nearly four fucking months.

In a way it feels like I'm reluctant to move the fuck on because I'm not sure if the Universe has officially closed that particular chapter of my life. So instead of plunging head first into new projects (and completing old ones) in my brash Aries style I'm straddling the threshold of change going "DUDE, ARE YOU SURE? ARE YOU, LIKE, FOR REALLY REAL SURE, OR ONLY KIND'VE SURE, UNIVERSE?" and not getting a lot done.

ANYWAY.

It's raining, which means I can indulge myself with journal writing without experiencing an ounce of guilt. (<- YOU KNOW HOW IN SPRING EVERY NICE DAY FEELS LIKE THE LAST NICE DAY, EVER, SO YOU HAVE TO MAKE THE ABSOLUTE MOST OF IT? YES, WELL...THAT.) But because I'm hella rusty I'll leave the V. SRS shit alone and focus on something that isn't inordinately taxing: gardening.

The madness started with Gothel's Garden being reopened after a day of intensive cleaning. I wish I could be someone who could overlook a mess and get on with her shit, but despite my chaotic personality my need for cleanliness borders on divinely anal. (Isn't that contradiction cosmic poetry? Even chaos requires a certain amount of organization to function properly.)

So before anything - before compost buying, peat pot separating, seed buying and seed sowing - I had to strip, straighten and clean the yard. (I view our property - especially the backyard where I'm often found high as a fucking kite gardening in the nude - as an outside altar during the Light year. Most summers I don't even bother with indoor altars since all of my time, energy and effort is spent on our fruits, vegetables, herbs and plants growing directly beneath our bedroom window.)

The front yard - or "dirt yard", if you're a longtime reader - was taken care of in February. Thanks to my father-in-law burying garden waste in my prepared vegetable bed I had to spend the entire day excavating rocks, weeds, roots and frozen leaves out of my sidewalk strip in order to plant my garlic (which, LOLtastically enough, never got planted because I had to spend the entire day cleaning up after him, but that's story for another day).

I took care of the MAIN PATIO next, and then, yesterday, I tackled the mess that formerly inhabited the OPEN VESTIBULE in front of the outside room. All I have left to do is clean the walkway that runs adjacent to the garage door / bonsai house / outside room, weed Mr. Awesome's ABANDONED ROCK GARDEN, and prune back the hedge that's started to smother the fruit trees.

So, before I forget (because I like to keep this shit noted), yesterday I: watered the garlic in the dirt yard to prep it for seed sowing, planted both beets and carrots behind the garlic, hauled about 10 fucking buckets of earth from the backyard to cover the seeds and sprouted garlic with more soil, buried a reduced to clear 1/2 shoulder of lamb directly beneath our computer room / office window (a badger offering! not the lamb itself, but the insects that'll inevitably break down the decomposing meat which'll - hopefully! - attract Badger Beh), moved the circle of rabbit bones onto the Shango Tree phallic worship altar and cleaned the outside vestibule*.

(* "cleaned the outside vestibule" = moving EVERYTHING out of the space, sweeping the ceiling, walls, frames, doors and corners, digging out the weeds between the concrete slab cracks (I'm hoping that my in-laws will be okay with me planting creeping thyme in those earthen spaces), sweeping the patio thoroughly, moving large wind fallen branches and wooden signs I want to keep for various magical projects behind the old grill to ensure Mr. Awesome understands "THESE ARE MINE AND I WANT/NEED THEM", emptying the old grill of garbage (WHY THE FUCK WERE THERE BENT PIECES OF METAL FRAMES IN MY BONFIRE WOOD?), refilling the old grill with wood for Beltane fires, cleaning the ceramic container that holds my support canes, bundling up errant bamboo canes into the cleaned ceramic container, throwing out all non-burning junk (including metal frames and broken pottery) and dumping the contents of the containers filled with garden waste into sacks for future disposal.)

That? That's all OUTSIDE STUFF which doesn't even hint at all of the INSIDE STUFF going on. Vegetablewise, I grow everything from seed. And because we have such a short growing season here in Scotland (short to my Midwest American ass, anyway) I get everything started indoors and acclimate whatever germinates and grows around early June (believe it or not, I've actually experienced motherfucking frost in early June).

I planted our first round of vegetables - 93 effing plants! - on April 20th (which was 100% unintentional; I didn't even know it was earth day - or a good day to sow seeds - until after I dusted seedling compost off my hands). Making up those 93 plants are: 36 X sub-arctics (tomatoes), 20 X baby corns, 10 X artichokes, 06 X cherry bombs (chili), 06 X red peppers, 05 X beef hearts (tomatoes), 05 X green bushes (courgette), 04 X rings of fire (chili) and 01 X voodoo (weed).

As of now I still need plant gourds, lettuce, peas, squash and wheat. I'm on the fence on whether I want to start Russian-olives from seed (which I have), or purchase immature seedlings. I'm also tempted to plant more carrots and beets where I grew garlic last year, but that side of the house doesn't get a lot of light when the sycamore's in leaf and I may need the space for my 20 corn seedlings. (I HILARIOUSLY FAILED TO FORESEE THE PROBLEM IN FINDING ROOM FOR 20 CORN AND 36 TOMATO PLANTS.)

I'm short a few vegetables I had my heart set on growing (i.e., bean, broccoli, cabbage, cucumber, marrow and potato), but that'll be easily rectified once I get my shit together and draw up my herb list for this year. (You don't even want to see my fruit, flying ointment and baneful herb "to buy" list. Let's just say that I'm V. lucky that my husband and Papa are EXCEPTIONALLY good gamblers.)

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93 motherfucking plants sown, baby! The two spiky plants on the other side of my skull incense burner are Dragon's Blood trees (the seeds were given to me by my friend, Carolina). The bushy shrub next to them is my gardenia (which looks like it could do with a prune) and you can JUST make out my Stone Cock on the wooden table (a sprouted yam is sitting on His balls).

I'm drying various Spring flowers (crocuses, quills and grape hyacinths) on the plate beneath the metal side table that visiting bumblebees favor to create a bee-themed incense. The glass vessel is the vase I took from the morthouse (remember? instead of taking the ladder I took the discarded vase?), the two plastic packages are lady's mantle and goldenrod (which I still need to plant) and beneath the pewter church goblet was parsley submerged in water (which I've already planted).

The day after my vegetable seed planting extravaganza the sun was shining crazy bright, like God him-fucking-self was smiling down upon my late night work. Hours of unjamming peat pots, ruining markers, packing containers with compost and planting seeds were sanctified by Spring's glorious sunshine.

...and then within ten fucking minutes of taking the picture above IT STARTS MOTHERFUCKING SNOWING. (VERY FUNNY, UNIVERSE, VERY EFFING FUNNY.) I was horrified, but not surprised. Everything's been out of whack for so goddamn long that I haven't even had a chance to change the guard and welcome Chile Bird back home.

As far as the weather in northeast Scotland's concerned it isn't Spring until Ms. Sovereignty 2K gets off her just married ass and updates the Egyptian / computer room / office altar accordingly.

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Normally I start my vegetables way too fucking early, and by May the backroom's a humid, sweat house of a jungle. This year, though, I got an unusually late start which meant, for once, I was actually sowing seeds when you're supposed to.

(Great for not appearing like a unfashionably early spastic, not so great for not appearing like a hyperventilating spastic when it turns out almost nothing germinated and you're way too late in the season to begin an emergency round.)

I'm use to quick germination because we usually start shit in the closet beneath a grow light and I wrap every pot with cling film to create miniature greenhouse conditions. In my experience certain plants - cucumbers, squash and pumpkins - sprout within three days of sowing. Tomatoes generally come next, followed by the rest of the vegetables with some chili and pot seeds trailing behind at the very end.

Our closet is currently packed with ritual/ceremonial objects that are otherwise homeless, so our only options were to either keep them housed in our growing closet (until we can afford buying proper storage containers), or chuck everything out in the backroom (and pray to God that my father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, doesn't touch, ruin, break, appropriate or throw anything anyway).

Take a wild fucking guess which option we went with (or, alternatively, simply study the images above). And because there were ninety-fucking-three plants there was no way I was going to sit down and cut out a circular covering out of fucking cling film/saran wrap for every single pot. My vegetables seeds, for the first time ever, were thrown out into the world without a blanket of plastic or any artificial light blazing down upon them.

Yesterday was day six without so much as a tiny crack or disturbance within ANY of the pots. ("Desperate" and "panicked" didn't even cover it.) Anxious I might miss out on vegetable growing this year due to unresponsive seeds I dragged myself over to Papa for help from his black ass. (I don't really consider him a gardener, but he is Underground which means at least he could give the seeds a push in the right direction.)

I'll spare you from the super explicit details, but suffice to say masturbation magic (especially when Papa's along for the ride) has never let me the fuck down. Yesterday there was nothing; today there were tomatoes, and all it took was assuming a birthing position in bed while coaxing stubborn seeds to sprout and grow up into the warmth of my awaiting uterus.

(ADMITTEDLY BIZARRE, BUT ~MAGIC~, READERS, ~MAGIC~. SO MAGIC, IN FACT, I FEEL LIKE I NEED TO MAKE MYSELF ONE BILLION PERCENT CLEAR TO EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING THAT DESPITE MY MASTURBATORY VISUALIZATIONS (WHERE A COCK'S A SEED AND THE WOMB'S THE SUN) I HAVE ZERO INTEREST - AT THIS PARTICULAR TIME, AT LEAST - TO BECOME WEBSTER'S DEFINITION OF "MOTHER". COMPRENDE, UNIVERSE? PERVERSE SEXUAL FANTASIES INVOLVING MOTHERHOOD NEED TO STAY OUT OF MY REALITY UNTIL OTHERWISE NOTED.)

Essence #1

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Essence #1: Spring, New Growth smells like fresh artichokes and earthy nuts (and looks like nearly formed larvae suspended in translucent pupation).

Unsettled House

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We've been going through varying stages of "unsettled" in the house since Shakey's passing. With Shakey Bear gone the remaining bears (Denny's aka Wuzza & Shoney's aka Choney) are having to cope with the disintegration of a social hierarchy.

Wuzza, who once was top rat (she came into the house first, and then was later joined by Shakey and Choney who were/are sisters), is having treats and food stolen straight out of her hands by an aggressive Choney. Last night she was kicked out of the house by Choochie (CHONEY DOES, IN FACT, HAVE A BILLION AND TWO NICKNAMES) and poor Gary Balls (<- STICK WITH ME, IT'LL ALL GET EXPLAINED) sat alone in miserable exile on top of a skanky shoe box.

When Shakey first died there was obvious confusion. Both surviving rats had time with her dead body; Choney went as far as nipping Shakey's cold nose to revive her. "Gone", though, didn't sink in until nearly a week later. When both realized Shakey wasn't returning they became depressed, lethargic and remained cloistered in their bookshelf rat house.

My Choney Choo-Choo lost her spark which broke my heart (Wuzza, however, having always been a weird rat didn't really lose much of her personality), but I got increasingly worried when they both flat out refused to interact with us. They must've spent a solid week in confinement grieving, wondering and mistrusting.

Part of that time was spent perpetually spooked. Since both are now hindered by large mammary tumours (benign, but insanely cumbersome) we don't need to keep them locked up when we're not in the room. (Their mischievous days of crawling up radiators, using dresser handles as ladders and being driven by the insatiable need to explore desktops are long gone.)

You'd THINK that the sudden freedom would've been met with enthusiasm, but they became hella suspicious of us and our motives. Whenever we breezed into the computer room/office they'd bolt into their bookshelf home like their little rat lives depended on it. For about a half a week we lived with ghosts and I began pessimistically wondering if our relationship with them would ever revert to some sense of familiarity.

Eventually they crawled out of their shells and began interacting with us once again. Chooch, very recently, took up playing chase again. (CHONEY = THE ONLY RAT WE'VE EVER OWNED WHO LOVES TO PLAY CHASE.) Wuzza, well, Wuzza was-is Wuzza. (Denny's is what you get when you pick a rat because "SHE LOOKS LIKE A RAT WHO'D LIVE BEHIND A DENNY'S DUMPSTER!")

Life, though, has slowed down because of their tumours. Choney has a cluster behind one of her front paws, but they aren't large enough to really impact her life negatively. Wuzza, however, lives with the equivalent of a giant pair of truck nuts attached to her body and she's having an increasingly difficult time fending off a food-crazed Shoney.

Denny's is now burdened with two fatty tumours the size of large eggs on either side of her body. She can't climb; she can't jump. By this point of their growth she can barely scamper, but when she does she has to hop like a rabbit to keep a quickened pace. The skin covering the lumps is beginning to grow thin, and she's developed tiny scabs from either overgrooming or chaffing since there isn't a lot of fur to act as a buffer.

Due to financial reasons we had to wait until after my birthday (April 11th) to take Wuzza to the vet. We knew that the surgery itself was pretty straightforward and not crazily risky, it was keeping the rat (and rat roommates) from pulling out the fucking stitches that was the real problem. (We honest to fucking God spent nearly $500.00 USD on getting one of our previous rats restitched several times before supergluing her body ourselves.)

We took her in under the pretence of having her looked at and booking surgery immediately to have the tumours removed. We left the vet, horrified, clutching Wuzza's travel box protectively with a non-committal "WE'LL KEEP IN TOUCH, THANKS". The doctor took one look at Denny's and said "YEAH, WE CAN REMOVE THOSE, BUT IF WE DO SHE MIGHT NOT HAVE ENOUGH SKIN TO CLOSE THE INCISIONS AND IF THAT'S THE CASE WE'D HAVE TO GAS HER ON THE SPOT".

With an exception of the bumps Wuzza is happy, healthy and living comfortably. If she had them cut out I know she'd be even happier and MORE comfortable, but that'd require accepting the fact that there's a chance we might get a call from the vet - during surgery - that there's not enough Denny's to stitch shut. I don't know if I could deal with that scenario, especially since her mammary tumours aren't a life or death deal (at least not yet).

It's a decision we really don't want to make. Both Choney and Wuzza are in their twilight years. This Midsummer will mark their third year with us, and rats have an average lifespan of 2-3 years. I know their time is coming, and I know it's probably going to be this year. (2010? Will be the year of heartbreak.)

Even if there's enough rat - in both their cases (Choochie's cluster might still be small enough to not pose a problem) - will the recovery time steal a significant percentage of their remaining life? Is it better to give them the ability to jump-leap-climb again, or is it better to allow them to live the rest of their lives without the stress of surgery and recovery (even if it means they can't be as active as they'd like)?

I joked on Twitter it was a "rat-themed Sophie's Choice", and even though we've made a decision (to not take either of them in for surgery) I'm still haunted by the thought "but is it the RIGHT one?".

Macerating All Night Long

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I'm dedicating an entire evening to perfecting my macerating technique. (BABY, I'LL BE MACERATING IN THE FUCKING KITCHEN //ALL MOTHERFUCKING NIGHT LONG//.)

ETA: Wow. So, like, my 500th entry on Graveyard Dirt amounts to a cheap masturbating joke. (How amazingly fitting, right?)

Our Saturn Return

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VERY FUNNY, UNIVERSE. *EYEROLL* (<- Sometimes I feel like my life validates astrology even though I constantly dismiss it as a emotional crutch in disguise.)

Gothel's Garden Reopens

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My (very dry) collection of spring flowers, strawberries and the saddest fucking pots of herbs you'll ever see. The empty space in the corner? Where my six passionflower vines and three artichokes once sat. (<- They unfortunately didn't survive the worst winter in 30 years.)

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Several days ago the weather was so fucking amazing that I jumped straight into the first serious round of gardening this year without taking any "before" pictures. The patio was a post-apocalyptic world filled with dead leaves, mud stacks, empty trays and pots, scattered bones and discarded bamboo canes.

I spent the afternoon weeding my containers, deadheading old stalks, removing leaves past their prime, turning over the soil, potting on perennials, rearranging containers, pulling weeds out from cracks and crevices, sweeping the entire patio, dusting off the patio's pillars, washing the bird shit off the patio's wooden fence, cleaning Chippy's offering bowls, rounding up bones, stacking empty pots, bundling support canes together, excavating rabbit skulls from the Shango tree/phallic worship altar, burying the remains of old offerings that hadn't fully decomposed and packing fresh earth in the altar bed to prepare it for Beltane/Walpurgisnacht. (<- Stone Cock returns home to his outside altar for the length of the agricultural year!)

I secretly wondered if my in-laws would notice the difference; I //think// they did. (<- They spent the next day sunning themselves on the plastic chairs pictured above for the first time this year.)

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The Shango Tree/phallic worship altar - untouched, unblemished and perfectly clean...at least until our resident badger, Bee, returns. (When one of our pet rats die we find a plush animal toy that best represents them/their personality. Bee, our carpet destroying rat ("BEE! STOP DIGGING UP THE FUCKING CARPET!"), took the form of a badger. Just over a year (or two?) after her death a badger began visiting our property and promptly began digging up my outside altar bed ("BEE! STOP DIGGING UP THE FUCKING GARDEN!"). <- HAH HAH, UNIVERSE, HAH HAH.)

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Poppies from my friend in Finland (second year of growth! I wonder if they'll produce flowers this year?), narcissus and Chippy's homegrown strawberries.

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I honestly don't even remember planting a row of narcissus bulbs in with the poppies, but since I combined various dwarf species (tulips, daffodils, irises) in the OTHER containers I know the arrangement must've been my doing.

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Who would've thought that the Sumerian demon of famine, plagues and winds would enjoy gardening? (APPARENTLY NO ONE.) Chippy, for whatever reason, absolutely LOVES strawberries. (And kites and butterflies and the band Chicago...) So as a birthday gift a few years ago we bought him a kiddie strawberry growing kit from the local grocery store.

I *think* this'll be their third year of growth. I spent all of last year pinching off any flowers that managed to bud/blossom to give the roots a chance to establish. After a quick haircut (to remove dead/faded leaves) the plants are looking better than ever. Strawberries? This year? Hopefully. (Probably none more hopeful than Chippy, who takes his gardening V. SRS, okay?)

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Last year I received a packet of forget-me-nots as a free gift with a seed order and even though it was pretty late in the year I sowed them anyway. This spring I spotted the forget-me-nots amongst the growth and transplanted the clumps from their seed tray into a proper pot.

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Terracotta containers, rings of grape hyacinths and budding dwarf tulips in the background. Thanks to the worst winter in 30 years (100 years, in some places) we're about a month behind growthwise. Last year I was able to decorate our Spring and Easter altars with homegrown tulips, daffodils and grape hyacinths. This year? Only crocuses were available.

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OH, DAFFODILS, YOU MAKE ME RIDICULOUSLY HAPPY. I SHOULD REALLY PLANT A LOT MORE OF YOU.

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Saddest motherfucking group of potted herbs, or what? My golden marjoram and Moroccan mint are slowly pushing through, but my oregano (to the right of the rosemary) looks dismally deceased. My rosemary's definitely seen better days, but I remember it looking this dire other years so I'm not in panic mode (yet).

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Mr. Awesome's bay tree which he planted in a sink (NO JOKE! IT'S A PORCELAIN BASIN!) years and years ago. When I first came over to bonnie ole Scotland (over a decade ago) it was nothing more than a scrawny stick, and a it remained a scrawny stick until I began pruning it, using the leaves, watering it and feeding it menstrual blood water. (<- I soak my period rags in water, and then use the blood rich mixture to water plants.)

Since adoption/intervention it's blossomed into the hardiest fucking shrub, ever, and remains a constant source of culinary happiness even in the depths of winter. (NOTE: If you're ever (un)lucky enough to receive a package from me and amongst the bones, rusty nails and dirt you find a handful of bay leaves you now know their origin.)

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When I first moved here I asked for a patch of waste ground that Italics' parents were using as an outside trash heap to grow flowers, vegetables and plants. I was denied the space because they said they were going to build a BBQ pit in the exact spot. Instead, though, they offered to let me use the patio; I could grow anything I wanted in containers.

That trash heap? Still there, 10 years later. (<- I AM A COOL, CALM OCEAN. I AM NOT GRITTING MY TEETH IN DISBELIEF AND FRUSTRATION. I DO NOT WANT TO GRAB EITHER OF MY IN-LAWS BY THE NAPE OF THEIR NECKS, DRAG THEM OUTSIDE AND POINT TO THE MOUND OF JUNK AND SCREAM "IS THAT WHAT A FUCKING BBQ PIT LOOKS LIKE?". DEEP BREATH. HOLD IT. EXHALE. I AM A RAY OF GOLDEN WELL-BEING...)

I began gardening more seriously several years back, and every year I add something new to the already overcrowded space. (Last year? Fruit trees (five apples, one pear and one peach) and fruit bushes (two gooseberries) in pots.) This year I plan to get grape vines, blueberries, a cherry tree and take cuttings from wild raspberries and blackberries that grow locally to grow at home. Within a year or two there won't be a patio. Revenge, dear internet, will literally be sweet (and organic).

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Gooseberries! In flower! Already! I had absolutely no fucking idea how early gooseberry budded or bloomed until this year. We bought two bushes last year from a local garden center and the pair produced enough fruit for me to make a cheesecake and a batch of honey/hazelnut/oat cereal bars. This year I'm toying with the idea of making jam and some homemade gooseberry vodka. Wasps - HOLY SHIT, ALREADY? SERIOUSLY? - seem to love the flowers, the first day they opened there was a swarm crawling over the bushes.

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My immortality tree, my peach tree. We bought her last year (YES, "HER", FOR OBVIOUS (OR MAYBE NOT SO OBVIOUS?) REASONS) at a discount grocery store, and she sat torpid for several months until I was able to plant her into a huge ass container.

I think the late planting affected her natural cycle; she didn't produce full, mature leaves until late summer/early fall and she didn't shed ANY of them until mid-January. (ONLY IN A WITCH'S GARDEN WOULD A TEMPERAMENTAL DECIDUOUS FRUIT TREE KEEP ITS LEAVES INTO THE DEAD OF SCOTTISH WINTER.)

I was hella worried about her throughout the Dark year because I didn't know how well she'd react to THE WORST WINTER IN 30 YEARS! (since peaches aren't very cold-hardy). Throughout the deep freeze I fed her homemade chicken stock, menstrual blood water and water from our bong/rocket bucket. Whenever I went outside to feed the Old Woman I always made a point of visiting my peach tree before returning indoors, occasionally laying a hand (or two) on her trunk in reassurance.

You could easily imagine how relieved I was when I saw the first green buds push past their scaly covering into the light of day. My immortality tree? Survived the deep freeze. Now to gently coax her into flowering and bearing fruit...

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Foxgloves - grown from seed last year - post "haircut". In the past few years there's been a rapid decline in wild foxgloves (at least locally) as housing developments encroach further and further into the country, hedgerows and grazing fields. Missing their elegant presence when walking into the country I decided they'd be the very first homegrown installment of my witch's flying ointment/baneful herb garden.

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Growing lavender, as you can see, isn't my strong suit. I can trace back the spindly, totally unlush appearance to my fear of pruning. After successfully cutting back several of my favorite shrubs and herbs last year (for the first time), I'm totally prepared to take the pruning plunge this year to restart my poor dwarf lavender plants.

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Because palms aren't indigenous to Ukraine the eastern orthodox church accepts a substitute for religious/ritual use: pussy willows. But even before Catholicism adopted pussy willows the tree was considered sacred and spiritually significant to my ancestors. (<- You'll find single, stylized branches decorating a lot of folk art from pysanky (Ukrainian decorated eggs) to traditional embroidery designs.)

Before we had a car we scoured the local countryside (anywhere and everywhere within reasonable walking distance) in the hopes of finding pussy willows (also known as "goat willow" here in the UK). Nothing, nada, not ONE. Desperate for pollen-y catkin goodness I broke down and bought a pair of seedlings last year on Ebay.

Just a few days ago we accidentally stumbled across a towering pussy willow while exploring the countryside. I really, really, really wanted to jump out of the car and hack off a branch to take home, but there was a farmer poking around in an adjacent field and a car riding my ass. I heard they grow at the base of Bennachie - a range of hills religiously important to the ancient inhabitants of this area - so I'm hoping to make it out there within the next week to locate and harvest catkin laden branches.

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One of three apple trees I germinated from seed two or three years ago. (I THINK this is their third year, just like Chippy's strawberries.) I've read that trees started from seed don't normally produce fruit, but I've also read (somewhere) that even getting an apple seed to sprout is-was-is pretty tricky (although that sounds like some dodgy misinformation). Fruit producing or not, I'll find some use for my three trees.

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A bucket of death created in Fall, finally exposed to light and air in Spring. Last year - just after I decided to fashion myself a fur blanket made entirely out of roadkill rabbits - I was given a gift of seven dead rabbits by hunters after engaging in some HOT MAGIC FOREST SEX with my divine male counterpart.

I skinned and froze their pelts, decapitated their heads and buried them within the dirt bed of my Shango tree/phallic worship altar and decided to share everything else - the bones, meat and organs - with my fellow scavengers. The bucket of headless (and footless) rabbits, however, had different plans.

No matter how fucking hard I tried to discreetly dispose of the remains the multiple attempts always fell through. After two weeks I finally had to admit defeat (especially after the car battery died, which REALLY put the last nail in the coffin) and the bucket was carefully turned over to keep the rotting remains contained (within the upturned vessel), but allow the blood and fermented body juices to sink into the earth.

About a month ago I released the carcasses from their prison, but found everything still moist and not entirely decomposed. They got covered again for about two weeks, although this time by a bucket with large vent holes. After "airing" the pile for a fortnight I removed the container and left the contents exposed to the elements to dry (and clean).

My natural instinct is to pick through the debris and collect the bones, but they displayed such an unmistakable preference to stay with me that I'm not sure if I should harvest the remains and treat them as untradable goods or bury the remains somewhere on our property and create a small rabbit-themed garden on top of them.

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Yet more outside bones* that'll need to be cleaned up for divination use. (Although the t-bone, lamb shoulder blade and goose back might be a little too big for bone spillin' work.)

(* "outside bones" = the weathered, whitened remains of offerings I made from previous years. The bones get kicked around by visiting wildlife until it's time for a YARD CLEANUP. When a yard cleanup happens I round up all the bones I can find and add them to my growing collection. Eventually I'll clean them and use them for divination; they were offered to the spirits and ancestors as gifts, consecrated by nature and the weather, stirred, moved and chewed on by wildlife and, after all of that, still managed to return to the hand that gave them away - SOUNDS PRETTY MAGIC TO ME, YO.)

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The Shango Tree's been special for several years now, but on a balmy July evening last year it became even more special after I created a raised garden bed using discarded stones and bricks. (When hunting for appropriately sized sheets of rock I unearthed my Stone Cock, which transformed the "Shango Tree altar" into "the phallic worship altar at the base of the Shango Tree".)

Last year I grew parsley on the earthen altar space, and harvested the herbs - roots and all - on the Autumn Equinox. I buried eight rabbit heads over winter, to allow the essence of SEX'N'DEATH sink into the space, and finally dug up the remains after I was done reorganizing the patio.

The raised bed's been turned over, sifted (with my bare hands because, dude, rabbit bones are SMALL motherfuckers!), added to (fresh compost and soil) and now sits and waits for Walpurgisnacht weekend. (<- I'll be ritually parading Stone Cock - my miniature may pole - down to His outside home where He'll preside over the Light year until Winter's first snowfall.)

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The very happy looking green shoots? Lilies of the Valley, at least what remained after the GREAT GARDEN HOLOCAUST OF 2008. (Long story short? They plentifully grew in the backyard until Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law, dug 90% of them up and simply threw them away. Only a tiny colony was spared and I'm HELLA protective of it.)

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The backyard - where projects go to die. With an exception of the pile of rabbit bones and the empty plastic pots everything pictured within this photo is one of my father-in-law's abandoned projects. From the rotting, wooden balancing beams, to the unfinished pond (which is really a glorified kiddie pool sunk into the ground), to the unkept rock garden, to the slabs of concrete (with no definitive purpose), to the neglected fruit trees, to the potted shrubs that've taken up a significant portion of the already tiny yard (which we were promised were only going to be there "this year" - that? that was over four fucking years ago).

The absolutely worst thing about these forgotten projects? He doesn't want you touching anything, rearranging anything, cleaning anything, or organizing anything even though some of this shit's been sitting around FOR TWENTY YEARS (with ZERO attention from him). I've repeatedly asked for space to grow things to benefit the family, but I've been flat out refused because outside trash heaps, decaying wood and concrete slabs have a higher status in this house than me.

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This is the abandoned rock garden (and the pile of rotting wooden beams) I just mentioned above. He doesn't even bother weeding the space any more, but gets territorial when he sees me cleaning out dead grass and weeds. I know it looks HELLA messy, but it's a HUGE improvement from last year. (Last year? When he was gone for a month? I spent a week seriously weeding and removed debris that was YEARS old. What you see above is what managed to grow within a space of a year.)

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It's amazingly fucking hard to tell this story without my blood pressure rising. So I don't blow a gasket this is totally going to be the Cliff Notes version of the story:

When I first moved in, ten years ago, I noticed an unwanted section of the garden filled with dead wood, broken pots, plastic trays and other forms of garbage. Even though it wasn't the BEST place to grow shit I asked if I could clean it and use the patch to grow flowers, fruits and vegetables.

That request was shot down in a panic. I was told they were going to build a BBQ pit in that EXACT place THAT YEAR. So, naturally, I backed off. The thing was, though, it was never built. I asked the following year if I could use the area since they didn't do anything with it the previous summer, but the second request was shot down with the same response.

Unsurprisingly, it wasn't built. It also wasn't built the third, forth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth or tenth year. In fact, they completely stopped mentioning building the BBQ pit after the third year. The trash heap just sat, growing bigger with every fucking year.

In 2008 the backyard experienced the GREAT GARDEN HOLOCAUST OF 2008 when Mr. Awesome went on a gardening rampage and killed hacked down and destroyed the vegetation that made the space. I lost A LOT of my container garden because he threw EVERYTHING away (without even bothering to consult me about MY plants), and he even went as far as using WEED KILLER ON THE GRASS and DELIBERATELY KILLED THE MAJORITY OF THE LAWN for no apparent reason.

(BLOOD PRESSURE, MS. GRAVEYARD DIRT, BLOOD PRESSURE.)

What could've been the ONLY silver lining to that situation turned out to be my worst possible nightmare. I watched, with baited breath, as Mr. Awesome thoroughly cleaned the trash heap and got rid of almost EVERYTHING. (Finally! After nearly ten fucking years of waiting (and watching the landfill get larger and larger), I was going to get the small patch of yard I requested!) I then watched, horrified, as he PROMPTLY FILLED THE CLEAN SPACE WITH NEW TRASH, RIGHT BEFORE MY FUCKING EYES.

Imagine requesting a piece of waste ground that people didn't give a fuck about. Imagine being denied what was ostensibly a trash heap because people who WEREN'T interested in the space were suddenly VERY INTERESTED in it because YOU WANTED TO DO SOMETHING TO IT. Imagine watching, for ten fucking years, that patch of yard sit - only changing by becoming bigger and more of an eyesore - knowing they were never actually going do anything with it other than not let you use it for something productive. Imagine seeing, a decade later, the waste ground emptied and cleaned ONLY TO BE RE-FUCKING-FILLED WITH TRASH, GARBAGE, DEAD WOOD, BROKEN POTS, WOODEN CHAIR FRAMES AND TORN-UP SEED TRAYS.

My father-in-law? Seriously, genuinely FOR REAL doesn't understand why I seem perpetually pissed off at him. DUDE, TAKE YOUR FUCKING PICK OF TEN YEARS WORTH OF THIS SORT'VE BULLSHIT AND YOU'VE GOT MORE THAN ONE FUCKING ANSWER.

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The one thing I learned from the waste ground/non-existent BBQ pit fiasco? Don't involve the in-laws by asking; just fucking do it. Last year I sneakily appropriated a narrow stretch of land adjacent to the side of the house (just beneath our computer room/office window). I grew garlic there, which did okay, but the area's far too shaded during summer due to the sycamore.

Last year was also the year I got so fucking sick of the fucking dirtyard (Mr. Awesome deliberately killed the front lawn, so for the past 5-7 years we've literally lived with a giant dirt fucking pit as our front yard) that I decided to grow some vegetables in a neat line hugging the side walk. As you'd expect, the second my in-laws saw me sifting dirt to remove stones they came racing out to inform me THEY WERE PLANNING TO PLANT THINGS IN THE FRONT YARD THAT SUMMER/YEAR.

Yeah, I didn't buy it either. Italics invoked HEY, REMEMBER HOW YOU GUYS WERE GOING TO BUILD A BBQ PIT...TEN YEARS AGO? and they sort've backed off, but after one too many "ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO PLANT VEGETABLES? WOULDN'T SHRUBS BE NICER?" and "YOU KNOW AFTER THIS YEAR WE'RE GOING TO LANDSCAPE THE ENTIRE FRONT YARD" I walked away from several months worth of effort and simply focused on my container garden on the patio.

This may come as a shock, but...my in-laws never actually did anything with the front yard last year despite all of the hassle I got for trying to improve the crackhouse appearance of our property. Without asking for permission I planted a long line of garlic in last year's prepared bed. In the next day or two I'll be planting beets behind the garlic, and parsley, dill and maybe basil in front of the bulbs. There's another small stretch of dirt that hugs the driveway's curve, and I really, really want to sift the earth there so I can plant a row of carrots.

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There's only one insanely short season when a portion of the dirtyard becomes a proper front yard - early-to-mid spring. Once the snowdrops and crocuses disappear there's only a smattering of squill, and once they're gone their leaves remain green for a month or two before dying back to expose the lack of a lawn beneath.

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Squill, close up and reflecting April's bright afternoon sun.

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This is that "narrow stretch of land" I quietly appropriated last year to grow garlic. I had originally planned to turn the space into a witch's flying ointment garden of baneful herbs, but the lack of full sun might affect some plants so until I do proper hardcore research (into preferred planting positions) the prepared space is in limbo. I'll probably grow a few herbs that don't mind partial shade this year (to keep the patch visibly occupied so Mr. Awesome isn't tempted to reclaim it) while figuring out what'll thrive (long term) in the garden bed.

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Under the Bed Badger's final resting place (of his physical remains, I mean). Near Bride's Day (aka Imbolc) we came across our first ever roadkill badger, which we sadly took home. (<- Just because I pick up and butcher roadkill doesn't mean I don't feel inherently ANGRY, RESENTFUL, PISSED OFF, and SAD when I come across a dead animal on the side of the road.)

I fed, bonded and then skinned the animal, froze his pelt (to preserve and tan myself) and buried his earthly remains in the yard. I intended to go back for the bones within a few weeks (once they were mostly clean), but both Italics and I sort've like the idea of allowing the first set of badger bones to remain buried beneath our office window.

I read somewhere that they're HELLA into bluebell bulbs, so I'm seriously considering creating a tiny badger-themed garden above UtBB's decomposed body to help strengthen our bond with him.

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You harvest garlic relatively early (plant on the shortest day of the year, harvest on the longest day of the year - or so the saying goes), so when I dug up my last bulb the garden bed looked incredibly empty. So empty, in fact, that I was hella worried it'd attract my father-in-law's attention.

Within days of lifting the last garlic plant I sowed beets and carrots to give the impression that the land was still in use, but in reality it was an exercise in marking my place because it was too late in the season - at least for Scotland - to expect any sort of fruitful harvest.

Some of the seedlings survived the winter - mostly carrots - but a single beet somehow managed to live despite direct exposure to the elements. If it continues to grow I'll probably let it bolt to gather seeds since this is a V. special little beet plant.

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An exceptionally tiny row of carrots that, like the single beet plant previously mentioned, somehow managed to survive THE WORST WINTER IN 30 YEARS! without any sort of covering.

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Sycamore buds. The tree just outside our office window has really wormed its way into magic life, so much so that one of the first things I do, ever fucking day, is open the computer room's blinds to glance outside at the sycamore. For over a year now we've been leaving offerings at the base of the tree, and last year we loped off one of the budding branches - together - for a spring-themed broom for myself.

Even though it isn't traditional (at least I don't think it is, but I deliberately stay ignorant of what people do (and don't do) so there's a good chance that somewhere someone's using sycamore buds for something) I'm going to harvest the buds and macerate them. I want to start with buds, move to flowers, continue with leaves and end with seeds to encompasses the tree's yearly growth in one bottle of oil.

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Where the driveway ends and the side walk begins. Last year on Lammas we came across two dead animals along the side of the road - a fox and an elephant-sized (<- APPROXIMATION) hedgehog. I skinned, butchered and processed the fox, but the hedgehog was a little too far gone for any sort of organ extraction so I buried his huge ass directly beneath the rock.

I'm on the fence about digging up his remains. I did bury him with the intent of going back for his bones, but after awarding several other "firsts" with permanent burial status I'd hate for him to feel left out. So, I think Mr. Hedgehog will stay buried in the hopes he'll continue blessing our property with his foraging presence.

(We had a soul crushing epidemic of mutant snails that decimated my vegetables year in and year out until Chippy called the hedgehogs. Before our nocturnal insect eaters arrived you couldn't even go outside at night because the patio was always swarming with snails and slugs. Within months of putting Chippy's offering dishes outside - the contents of which he shared with the hedgehogs - the number of gastropods plummeted. Now all it takes to deter snails and slugs from eating my vegetable plants are a few strategically placed lettuce leaves and the occasional buffalo wing (or two) for the hedgehogs.)

Aries Lambs, Aries Witch

Someone asked me, months ago, how I knew I was a witch. I haven't replied because every day I come up with a new answer. Today's irrefutable (and downright damning) evidence:

After excitedly realizing that the ewe in the above video had just given birth to the twin lambs the first thing I wanted to do was SNEAK INTO THE FIELD AND STEAL AS MUCH AFTERBIRTH, UMBILICAL CORDS and EXPELLED SACS I could get my fucking hands on. (<- "Holy shit! Imagine - IMAGINE! - binding shit up with motherfucking UMBILICAL CORDS! OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD! I NEED AN UMBILICAL CORD!")

How the fuck do I know I'm a witch? Because upon coming across a birthing field of sheep my natural instinct was to SNEAK INTO A FARMER'S FIELD TO STEAL AMNIOTIC FLOTSAM AND JETSAM FROM HIS LABORING HERD OF EWES TO SPECIFICALLY USE IN WITCHCRAFT. (That? That isn't even me trying.)

My ass? Wouldn't have survived ten fucking minutes in this place three hundred years ago.

Lost and Found

Yesterday, in fragmented notes, thoughts, sentences and LOLs:

Ventured forth to find 2000 year old souterrain to see if suitable for magic sex. (Executing hieros gamos / sacred marriage Underground in ancient grain storage passage? A+ IDEA!) Accidentally mistook Torphins for Tarland; extra 15 minutes (approx.) added to journey. Road closed 6 miles from Tarland, not awesome. Ms. Graveyard Dirt? NOT amused.

"OH LOOK! A TANNERY! THEY SELL SHEEP SKINS, RUGS AND COATS! OH MY GOD!"

Bump down small country lane towards tannery. Stumble over ruined castle. Recognize walled up windows and doorway. "OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD THESE ARE THOSE RUINS I FOUND ON THAT ALFORD PHOTO ALBUM SITE!"

Preen after accidentally finding local site of personal interest. (Grudging feelings towards closed road lessened.) Decide against tannery visit, decide for finding alternative route to Tarland (and 2000 year old earthen passage). See familiar mound. (<- ANOTHER LOCAL SITE OF PERSONAL INTEREST.) See headstone way in distance. Can't believe luck; self-congratulatory preening overload.

Alternative route found via microscopic rural roads. Frequent "OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD! JUST LOOK AT THOSE WEE BABY LAMBS! IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE ON EARTH AS CUTE AS JUST BORN LAMBS?" cries made. Red sports car not as impressed with new life; allowed misplaced vehicle to pass. Roll eyes at unnecessarily fast car, continue to enjoy scenery at own pace.

Reconnect with main road to Tarland. Cost of unexpected diversion? Found: babbling brook, old castle, tannery, ruined church, miniature graveyard. Acceptable price to pay for detour. Road? Quiet. Scenery? Breathtaking. Never felt as connected with land. America? Too new. Scotland? Steeped in "ancient". Hills call, water beckons, forests tempt. Scotland speaks; USA still needs to find voice. (<- Treasonous talk? Always good at being black sheep.)

See summit of snow capped mountain optically wedged between two hills. "HOLY FUCKING SHIT, LOOK AT ALL OF THE SNOW!" Balk at distance - V. distant - blanket of white. Can't believe visible amounts of snow. Follow road to Tarland. Burst over hill crest, slam on brakes despite acceptable speed. Hill drops to green, fertile valley backing into famous mountain range.

Can't find words, can't find thoughts. Park in road shoulder. Cry. Sit, quietly, staring out over majestic landscape. Think "MY HOME; THIS IS MY HOME", know Old Woman is talking; Old Woman is feeling. Entrance to another world - to another land - through purple and white barrier cradling rich farm fields and forests. Few days ago asked Italics "HOW CLOSE ARE THE CAIRNGORMS TO US?". Yesterday Universe answered. (<- Approximately 30 minutes.)

V. near Tarland. Mighty internet: "EARTHEN HOUSE JUST ONE MILE OUT OF TARLAND!" No obvious indication, squint at anything resembling sign. Try to ignore commanding scenery (mostly fail). "A FEW SITES DID MAKE OUT THAT THERE'S A SIGN POINTING TO THE-" didn't finish sentence, tiny - almost non-existent - street sign to souterrain on left side of road. (Eureka!)

No obvious passage Underground. No obvious parking lot. Obvious "PRIVATE FUCKING PROPERTY, MOTHERFUCKERS, DON'T PARK ON OUR FUCKING LAND" sign. (Farm directly on other side of grassy knoll.) Sigh. Roll eyes. Reverse, drive, reverse. Tuck into dirt track leading to wheat field. Not on private property, n'yah.

Pretend to be interested in tourist signpost explaining earthen house. Still no obvious passage Underground. See nothing except small patch of green lawn. Land slightly mounded, follow gentle slope down. Suddenly, tiny black crack in hill. A tear, a rip, a hidden gash. Wild pheasant shrieks when discovery is made. Startled, we laugh. Silently wonder if mother goddess hips will fit through minuscule threshold to Underground.

Mighty internet: "...AND DON'T FORGET TO BRING A FLASHLIGHT!" Torch? Remembered. Check torch to make sure working properly? Not remembered. (<- Oops!) Congratulations on almost dead flashlight, Ms. Graveyard Dirt. Prepared to Helen Keller dark tunnel (came too far to turn back). Faint illuminated glow from flashlight, battery weak - almost spent - but good enough.

Entrance to souterrain tight. Crossed threshold on hands and knees. Crawled like child, like petitioning supplicant. Humble, stripped of grandeur. Began descent into earth like animal, belly touching dusty ground. Further, deeper, darker. Hands outstretched to either side. Can't see stone walls, but can feel assuringly solid structure. Colder, darker, damper. Wooden beams lift up. Crawling becomes crouching, crouching becomes slouching, slouching becomes standing.

Abrupt end of passage. Facing end? Blackness. Facing opening? White pinprick of light. Earth breathing. Air smells like wet graveyard dirt. Water trickles down sides of walls. Silence engulfs hollowed out space. We stand, side by side, as woman and man, as to-be husband and to-be wife in ancient, man-made chamber. We stand in a prison, a womb, an unexpected bridal bedchamber. We stand in a 2000 year old stone and wood lined tunnel where the fruits of Harvest were stored. We stand Underground; our home, our domain, our sacred ground.

Flashlight reveals tealights dotting unseen ground. (Ritually used? Practically used?) Candles won't burn, not enough wax and/or cheap make. Amused, nonetheless. Touch Italics' cock through pants in enveloping darkness. Span fingers over bump and knead flesh and material encouragingly. Joking grope leads to kissing, kissing leads to serious groping, serious groping leads to blowjob, blowjob leads to unplanned martial sex against wet walls of earthen house.

Had planned for overtly ceremonial rite at home, settled for on-the-fly passion in underground passage two millennia old. (Can't ritualize everything.) Marriage, finally. Sex, finally. (57 days of celibacy? OVER.) Physical and spiritual union of man and woman, god and goddess, groom and bride, king and sovereignty personified.

(Unwittingly swallowed live bug during first penetration; tried not to ruin moment by choking. Pretended accidental consumption of living thing during sacred marriage part of never ending life/death cycle. (Hah fucking hah.) Still would have preferred NOT inhaling insect, thnx.)

Painful. (Amazing.) Uncomfortable. (Wonderful.) Tight. (Perfect fit.) Bride. (Wife.) One orgasm, together, almost two. Stone walls, lengths of wood and earth's darkness beared witness. Sealed union by pressing messy cunt against precipitation covered dead end wall. Married, for one year. Exited Underground with husband-prize in tow. (<- UNINTENTIONAL, BUT FITTING.)

Mutant buff-tailed bumblebee welcomed newlyweds emerging from Underground marital chamber. Air? Fresher, lighter. Sun? Warmer, brighter. Entered earthen passage one season, departed earthen passage to another. Exchanged "HAPPY MARRIAGE!" in front of quivering daffodils. Kissed, cleaned up remnants of sacred marriage still coating inner thighs.

Go home? Why? Just married! Celebrate sacred union exploring countryside? OH, WHY NOT! Stopped at "Queen's View" scenic overlook. Heard bumblebee. Studied tourist plaque. Crossed road, marveled at Alp-like landscape unfolding on other side of valley. Poked commemorative sundial. Crossed road, studied tourist plaque again. Made executive decision - find local kirkyard (V. close, tourist plaque map said). Heard bumblebee.

New country lane, new adventure. Down tree studded hill into fertile, greening valley. Stupid number of pheasants. (Count? Lost count after 10. <- "Stupid number of pheasants" 100% accurate.) "OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD! JUST LOOK AT THOSE WEE BABY LAMBS! IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE ON EARTH AS CUTE AS JUST BORN LAMBS?" New baby lambs? Never get old. Ms. Graveyard Dirt and Italics testament to bold claim.

Found old church. Found old graveyard. Found old morthouse. Found handy tourist signpost with old church, old graveyard and old morthouse information. Learned morthouse = corpse safe in olden times (to deter would-be body snatchers). Suddenly more interested in morthouse (surprise, surprise).

Return to dank interior of antique morthouse. "THIS TOTALLY FEELS LIKE AN ORDINARY SHED." (Ordinary shed partially buried underground, anyway.) Had to piss. Saw headstone fragments casually tossed into shadowy corners. Wanted them. (Still had to piss.) Saw small wooden ladder resting against stone wall. Wanted it. (Really had to piss.) Saw discarded dusty vase filled with rocks. Wanted it. (Really for real serious had to piss.)

Had piss at base of ladder. (Ladder? Super big Ukrainian ju-ju, FYI.) Groped ladder. Caressed ladder. Fantasized about abducting rickety old morthouse ladder for personal/ritual use. Considered leaving monetary note beneath rock where ladder stood. Too risky, left it. Took vase, though (not entirely stupid, mkay?).

"WAIT FOR ME, I'LL COME BACK FOR YOU!" Ladder seemed to understand.

Found (in total): babbling brook, old castle, tannery, ruined church, miniature graveyard, Cairngorms, 2000 year old souterrain, husband (and king), commemorative sundial, old church, older morthouse, super old cemetery, unloved glass vase & unrequited love for one ladder

Lost (in total): "virginity" & 1/3 of Blessed Virgin trio

Just Married

We were married today, in an ancient earthen passage made of stone and wood that once - nearly two thousand years ago - stored the fruits of harvest. The ceremony only cost me a third of my Blessed Virgin trio, my mother's moonstone, my teardrop of cloudy (breast) milk.

Going Underground, Internet, still has its price.

Birthday Offerings

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The first round of birthday offerings to the GREAT AND TERRIBLE creatrix/destructrix who turns 30 today. (<- DO YOU HEAR THAT, INTERNET? MOTHERFUCKING //30//. I AM OFFICIALLY OLD ENOUGH TO BE A ~ROLE MODEL~; LOCK UP THE EASILY INFLUENCED BECAUSE I HAVE GREY HAIRS (A WHOLE SEVERAL, OR SOMETHING) AND I KNOW HOW TO USE THEM!)

Ramson Foraging

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We spent a lazy afternoon foraging ramsons (better known as wild garlic) at a local castle for tonight's supper. (<- Homemade wild garlic and pancetta risotto served with ramson Irish soda bread.)

For some fucked up reason I thought we needed "at least 100 grams for one recipe and several large handfuls for the other", but when we came home I discovered we only needed five smallish handfuls in total for dinner, which means I'll have enough leftover to either make flavored oil or a wild garlic paste.

MAINS:
* Grilled Scallop Salad w/Wild Garlic
* Ramson alla Carbonara
* Wild Garlic & Pancetta Risotto
* Wild Garlic Ravioli

SIDES:
* Potato, Leek & Wild Garlic Gratin
* Skordalia
* Wild Garlic & Mustard Sauce
* Wild Garlic Pesto
* Wild Garlic Soda Bread

SOUPS:
* Cream of Wild Garlic Soup
* Nettle & Wild Garlic Soup
* Potato & Bread Soup w/Wild Garlic
* Ramson Spring Soup
* Wild Garlic Pancake Soup

This forum post provides useful information on harvesting wild garlic, including a foraging trick that allows the plant to regrow cut leaves. (The trick? Cut at the BASE of the leaf, not at the stem.)

Vaccum Seal Embalming

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Shakey Bear, vacuum sealed with her Flump (a UK marshmallow treat) offering and her picture of Reggie Rat (Shakey's boyfriend).

We spent all of yesterday forgetting she was lying in wake in the fridge (which made each rediscovery a happy surprise whenever we opened the door to grab the butter or a beer), but by the evening we knew we had to seal Shakey to keep her body in optimum condition.

(As if I couldn't get any weirder, right? Vacuum sealing beloved pets so I can later defrost them, skin them and preserve their bodies to allow us to physically interact with them once again.)

(AS IF PUTTING MY NAKED ASS ON NEOLITHIC SACRED SITES, ENGAGING IN GOLDEN SHOWERS, FORCING ITALICS TO FUCK - AND EJACULATE INTO - MY RESURRECTION DOUGH AND BAREBACKING RAW ROASTS WASN'T ENOUGH, I ALSO WANT TO PERSONALLY TAXIDERMY MY OWN PETS BECAUSE IT MAKES ME HAPPY TO STROKE THEIR FURRY LITTLE BODIES.)

(IT SORT'VE MAKES YOU THINK TWICE ABOUT INTERACTING WITH ME, DOESN'T IT?)

No Tattling

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If YOU don't tell my mother-in-law and I don't tell my mother-in-law SHE'LL NEVER FIND OUT. (Yes we ARE having a hard time letting go, why do you ask?)

RIP, Shakey Bear

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Shakey Bear, Midsummer 2008 - Easter 2010

Rest in peace, Shakey Bear. (Easter, Soupie (Bear), is a V. good day to die.) Come back home to us quick; we'll keep your share of prawn crackers safe until you do.

PS: We promise to make you a chef hat and a shakey-shank soon.

Spring Wedding, Winter Setting

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"JESUS, WHY IS IT SO FUCKING COLD?" I asked Italics (who didn't have an answer). To cut off the draft I yanked the computer room's blind down, which put an end to the frigid air that had been rolling into our office. Within minutes of my complaint it began snowing, and it didn't stop for a day and a night.

The snow remained flawless - completely untouched - for over six hours. I watched through water droplet splattered windows as the wind moved and sculpted each fresh wave of precipitation, burying the first fragile signs of Spring beneath a heavy blanket of white. The world was eerily quiet. There were no people, no traffic, no citrine houselights - absolutely nothing except for us and the blizzard swallowing us whole.

What do you do when it feels like you're one of the last people left living on earth? You get naked in front of the huge ass lounge windows and press your tits and ass against the glass you just finished polishing for absolutely no one to see. (<- YOU WOULD IF YOU WERE ME, OKAY?)

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It began snowing just as I began the process of preparing the lounge for our Easter / Spring / Hieros Gamos / Sacred Marriage / Great Rite altars. (<- Spring wedding, Winter Setting!) And even though I've had enough of the Old Woman (SRSLY, INTERNET, I DIDN'T EVEN SCRATCH THE SURFACE OF HOW MUCH FUCKING SNOW WE GOT THIS PAST WINTER - THEY WERE HAULING THE SHIT AWAY IN MOTHERFUCKING //DUMP TRUCKS//) I went out, one last time, to feed Her, welcome Her and invite Her grumpy old ass to the wedding.

As an afterthought I tied Bride's apron and wedding dress to my budding peach tree, hoping to capture the wisdom of age within immortality's sacred fruit. It trembled against the naked tree - a white flag of resurrection and renewal - for a night and a day, sanctified and consecrated by Winter's last and final snow.

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Here in northeast Scotland we always receive one last snowfall on the cusp of deep Spring, and it arrives just in time for our Easter wedding. The Old Woman - tired and worn - eventually admits defeat, deciding it's better to be young and stupid than old and bitter. She abdicates Her reign as Winter Queen, and accepts the counterpart position - virginal Spring Bride. (But only after 40 days of spiritual, mental and physical purification.)

This past Winter the Old Woman's ruled for an inordinate amount of time. For the first time, ever, I felt a drawn out reluctance to abandon Her divine throne. My ass is partially to blame - I didn't get my shit done in time. (And the ONE TIME I didn't get my shit done in time is the one fucking time Spring didn't appear on schedule, NATURALLY.)

I managed the "sacrifice" part of Lent (this year I gave up white flour-based bread, which is nothing short of CRACK to a crack addict (especially a crack addict whose god is the crack she's giving up)), and maintained celibacy throughout the 40 days but I didn't have time to build a Lenten fire (to create ashes), whip up a batch of sacred ashes, anoint our bodies and our bed with the sacred ash mix, dye my hair henna red (I'm only allowed to have red hair during the Light part of the year) and tie up loose spiritual ends (i.e., non-perishable offerings that still need to be given).

Hopefully NEXT year I'll have my fat ass in gear which'll mean an early Spring for northeast Scotland.

Resurrection Bread

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Traditional Ukrainian Cookery: People greet one another with the traditional Easter greeting "Khrystos Voskres!" (Christ is risen!), to which the reply is "Voistyno Voskres!! (He is risen indeed!).

Khrystos Voskres, readers, visitors and friends. May the blessed power of resurrection bring you and your loved ones comfort and hope. (Eat a Peep - or several - on my behalf, okay? <- You can't get the motherfuckers in Scotland. SIGH.)

Paska Invocation

Before I bake any ritual bread I always start the process by invoking my ancestors (WHEN YOUR ANCESTORS ARE FAMOUS THE WORLD OVER FOR THEIR BREAD BAKING ABILITIES, IT ALWAYS PAYS TO HAVE THEM ON YOUR SIDE - EVEN IF YOU HAVE TO CONTEND WITH BACKSEAT BAKING FROM YOUR GREAT-GREAT-GREAT GRANDMOTHER), and once they've been invited over for their expertise I sanctify the bread making bowl by fumigating it with sacred incense.

PS: If you live in northeast Scotland and woke up hearing Jesus Christ Superstar blaring from some house at 4:30 AM on April 1st I deeply, sincerely apologize (even if it's the BEST MUSICAL EVER and remains THE PERFECT SOUNDTRACK FOR HOLY WEEK). I was really, really high and accidentally smoked out the house with pinon incense to the point that I had to throw open the kitchen door to let the room air so I could continue with Paska baking. (April Fools?)

PPS: In hindsight, starting the video at 25 seconds into taping (I cropped it to make the file shorter) was probably not the best choice. Just in case you were wondering, that wasn't an out-of-tune banjo string breaking at the very start of the embedded video, it was my shitty editing skills.

Seriously Considering

I'm seriously considering including a container of Betty Crocker's vanilla buttercream frosting (<- bought to eat during our ritualized/celebratory brunch) in our Easter basket to have it blessed by the priest tomorrow afternoon during the Holy Saturday service.

Great and Holy Thursday

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With one hand I sacrificed my Bridegroom, with two hands I pray for forgiveness.

Still (Probably) Not Enough

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42 free-range happy bird eggs, and I have a feeling that they're still (probably) not enough for my Ukrainian Easter needs.

I need enough to cover boiled/decorated eggs, Paska (Easter bread), Bukovinian Nachynka (a Ukie version of Yorkshire Pudding using cornmeal), Malay (a Hutsul (the specific type of Ukrainian I am) cornbread), Country Kartoplyanyky (potato pancakes), Easter Syrnyk (a savory cheesecake), Easter Syrnyk (a sweet cheesecake) and, maybe, a batch of either Easter Babka (much richer and spongier than Paska, very brioche-like) or Poppy Seed Bread (a dessert yeast-based bread with a large swirl of sweetened poppy seed filling running through it) to give to/send to friends.

The Easter Babka alone? Requires at least a dozen eggs, not counting the ones you need to glaze the dough before baking. If nothing else, Easter Babka surely is a culinary celebration of Spring. (<- Hens require something like 12 hours of sunlight a day to stimulate egg production. Back in the olden days there weren't any fresh eggs during winter, hence the egg-rich celebratory breads baked by Ukrainians in the spring when the Hens began laying once again.)

Experimental 8:30 AM Dinner

Me, a few mornings ago on Tumblr:

TUMBLR, TODAY I STUFFED A BONELESS TURKEY THIGH WITH A FETA FILLING (FETA CHEESE, GLUTEN-FREE TOASTED BREADCRUMBS, TOMATO PUREE, GARLIC PUREE, OATMEAL (1 INSTANT PACKAGE) AND ITALIAN SPICES), SLAPPED A LAYER OF SALAMI OVER IT, ROLLED THE MOTHERFUCKER UP LIKE A SWISS ROLL, TIED IT UP LIKE A WHIMPERING GEISHA AND THEN BASTED IT WITH SMOKED BACON GREASE AS IT ROASTED.

IN THEORY IT //SOUNDS GOOD//, BUT I’M NOW WONDERING IF MAYBE IT’S A BIT ROBUST AND/OR EXPERIMENTAL FOR AN 8:30 AM DINNER. WHAT DO YOU THINK?

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Why I doubt my culinary prowess is fucking beyond me. Christ, I can't even remember the LAST TIME something I made went awry. (The gluten-free yeast-based buttermilk rolls don't count. <- That was an experiment to see what g-f flour would do when combined with yeast.)

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A turkey thigh roulade with a savory stuffing (and a thin layer of salami) swirled through it.

I was afraid that the strong flavors would clash making the evening-morning meal (I woke up at 9 PM the previous day, hence the 8:30 AM dinnertime) a little TOO robust, but the feta was tastily tempered by the oatmeal and breadcrumbs (rather than tasting like a cheese filling it tasted like a cheese and herb-flavored cracker bought at a stupidly expensive delicatessen), the salami's fat helped baste the bird joint internally keeping the stuffing moist and without the bacon grease I doubt I would've got such a beautiful color on the flesh of the bird.

Nevermind

INTERNET, YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE WHAT I MADE ITALICS DO TO OUR EASTER PASKA (AKA THE RESURRECTION BREAD).

…ON SECOND THOUGHT, YES YOU WOULD.