Today I turn 30 and here are some cucumbers.
We’re going to pickle these cucumbly guys. You can’t even keep up with them. We have three cucumber plants in the backyard and they’re dropping off hourly. Between them and the tomatoes, everything’s climbing.
Meanwhile, a pumpkin somehow snuck out of the compost and into the garden’s shady, abandoned horizontal plane.
Now that I’m old and thinking of mortality, I know how I want my remains handled. Just pickle me and put an old-fashioned checkered label on the jar with an expired “Best By” date.