The stacked container herb garden has become very lush, though it is a challenge fighting through the growth to find the tags that show what I’ve actually planted. I’ve had some caprese salads that were partially made with mint in addition to basil.
The three tiers of plants at bunny-level have all been nibbled away. The spinach next to the rabbit hole remains untouched, of course, bastards. I added some of “their” spinach to a salad I made yesterday.
I intended to plant some bare-root strawberries in the tower as well, and foolishly ordered strawberries without researching them first. I was mislead by the wild strawberries that infested Mom’s shady backyard. It’s a weed, I thought. All I grow are weeds. Bugleweed, Creeping Jenny, Trumpet vine. I can grow strawberries.
Yeah, no. Even plant experts have trouble growing strawberries. First, you plant them in the spring or fall, you plant them in special soil with a special Ph, you mulch them with pine needles, you amend the soil with sand, oh my god.
But, I can try. So I planted the bare root plants into the special strawberry bags and planters, sans pine needle and sand and nitrogen. The next steps are sun and water, and if everything goes miraculously there may be strawberry flowers next month that I shall pinch off if I dream of getting strawberries next year. Which, frankly, I don’t.
Seriously. This is strawberry hospice. Lots of tending with no hope.