The valve stem that The Husband bought for the tiller tire actually fit. With great effort, The Brother-in-Law managed to wrestle the tire onto the wheel and put some air in it, and I was off to the garden again.
It got dark before we finished with the tilling. The next day, it rained, and it has rained almost every day since then. The seeds still aren't in the ground. Here's hoping for some sunshine this week.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
Gardening is such a b*tch
Maybe it's because I own P.O.S. equipment, or maybe it's because I don't know what I'm doing, but every time I start a gardening project, the S. hits the fan.
During the Testosterone Festival that is the Labor Day cookout (see previous post), I casually mentioned that I needed to get in the tomato patch, pull up the stakes, and prepare that ground for greens. Evidently, Pop-Pop was listening, for when I came home after work Tuesday afternoon, Pop-Pop's old Ford pickup was parked beside the tomato patch, and one of The Nephews was knee-deep in grass, unhappily wielding a post-puller. The stakes were mostly askew but still standing, held somewhat upright by the cotton ropes that had been the Florida weave for the tomatoes. I parked my Jeep in my driveway and walked across the road, and asked The Nephew, "Who talked you into this?", already knowing the answer.
"Pop-Pop," he grumbled. He wiped his sweaty brow on his shirt sleeve and went back to fiddling with a knotted cord.
"Let me change clothes, and I'll come help you." I came back to the house, changed clothes, put on my gardening apron, and went back to the tomato patch. While I un-did the ropes, The Nephew finished rocking the posts out of the ground and heaved them into the truck bed. When the job was done, he jumped in the truck and left, probably afraid that I'd think of something else for him to do if he stayed longer.
I looked at the rectangle of ground that had been the tomato patch, dreading the work that it would take to get it in shape for greens. The grass, as I said, was knee deep. A garden tiller wouldn't cut the mustard, not even Big Red, in this much grass. It would have to be mowed first.
Saturday morning, I cranked the riding mower, set the blade to the highest setting, and very slowly mowed the grass down. I brought the lawnmower home and told The Husband, "I'm going to Pop-Pop's to see if I can crank the big red tiller, and then I'm going to plow up a spot for the greens." He told me that if I'd wait until later in the afternoon, when it was cooler, he'd help. He didn't have to suggest it twice. I came straight in the house, kicked off my shoes, and plunked down on the couch with a book.
A few hours later, his brother came by and asked for help loading the grill he'd taken to Pop-Pop's for the cookout. They left together. I kept right on reading. A while later, The Husband came home, all hot and sweaty. "How much space do you want for the greens?" he asked.
By this time, I was totally out of the mood to run the tiller, and I told him so.
"But we've put Uncle B.'s disc on the tractor," he said. "We're plowing the ground with that."
I was ecstatic, and ran out to see what was happening. They'd already been plowing. I stepped onto the freshly-turned earth and was immediately disappointed. The disc had barely skinned off the grass. There was hard ground beneath my feet.
"It's not plowed very deep," I said.
"It don't need to be all that deep for greens," Pop-Pop assured me.
"Cool. Tommorow I'll rake up some of the grass clumps, smooth out the soil, and plant the greens."
I went back to the garden about noon today. The more I raked, the more disappointed I became with the disc job. There were wide areas where the grass was still firmly rooted in the ground. No amount of raking would get it up. It needed tilling, dad-gummit.
I walked down Pop-Pop's driveway and took the tarp off the tiller. Miraculously, the thing cranked after a dozen or so pulls. I put it in forward gear and slowly followed it up the driveway to the greens plot. When I lined the tiller up for the first row and engaged the tines, I began to feel hopeful that this would go well. The disc had broken the ground enough that the tiller could grab hold. It pulverized the dirt on the first pass. At the end of the row, I wrestled it around and aimed it for the second pass. That's when I noticed that the left tire wasn't spinning. I thought that perhaps the tire wasn't catching because the ground was unlevel, and I bore down on that side of the tiller. Then I noticed that the wheel was turning, but the tire wasn't. About this time, the tire came loose from the rim.
I said a nasty word or two, then started the torturous trip back to Pop-Pop's with the tiller, with the tire half-off the rim. "The valve stem is gone," Pop-Pop said when he saw it. After some pulling and oiling and hammering, he and I managed to get the wheel off the tiller. We'd hoped the valve stem was inside the tire. It wasn't.
I said another nasty word or two. "What do I need to do?" I asked him.
"Get a new valve stem," he said.
I called The Husband, who was out running errands, and asked him to bring home a valve stem. "Smaller than a car, Pop-Pop says, but bigger than a bike. Get one of everything they have in between those two sizes, and maybe one of them will fit."
Even though I hear him driving up now, we probably won't get the blasted thing fixed before it's too dark to finish tilling.
----------------
During the Testosterone Festival that is the Labor Day cookout (see previous post), I casually mentioned that I needed to get in the tomato patch, pull up the stakes, and prepare that ground for greens. Evidently, Pop-Pop was listening, for when I came home after work Tuesday afternoon, Pop-Pop's old Ford pickup was parked beside the tomato patch, and one of The Nephews was knee-deep in grass, unhappily wielding a post-puller. The stakes were mostly askew but still standing, held somewhat upright by the cotton ropes that had been the Florida weave for the tomatoes. I parked my Jeep in my driveway and walked across the road, and asked The Nephew, "Who talked you into this?", already knowing the answer.
"Pop-Pop," he grumbled. He wiped his sweaty brow on his shirt sleeve and went back to fiddling with a knotted cord.
"Let me change clothes, and I'll come help you." I came back to the house, changed clothes, put on my gardening apron, and went back to the tomato patch. While I un-did the ropes, The Nephew finished rocking the posts out of the ground and heaved them into the truck bed. When the job was done, he jumped in the truck and left, probably afraid that I'd think of something else for him to do if he stayed longer.
I looked at the rectangle of ground that had been the tomato patch, dreading the work that it would take to get it in shape for greens. The grass, as I said, was knee deep. A garden tiller wouldn't cut the mustard, not even Big Red, in this much grass. It would have to be mowed first.
Saturday morning, I cranked the riding mower, set the blade to the highest setting, and very slowly mowed the grass down. I brought the lawnmower home and told The Husband, "I'm going to Pop-Pop's to see if I can crank the big red tiller, and then I'm going to plow up a spot for the greens." He told me that if I'd wait until later in the afternoon, when it was cooler, he'd help. He didn't have to suggest it twice. I came straight in the house, kicked off my shoes, and plunked down on the couch with a book.
A few hours later, his brother came by and asked for help loading the grill he'd taken to Pop-Pop's for the cookout. They left together. I kept right on reading. A while later, The Husband came home, all hot and sweaty. "How much space do you want for the greens?" he asked.
By this time, I was totally out of the mood to run the tiller, and I told him so.
"But we've put Uncle B.'s disc on the tractor," he said. "We're plowing the ground with that."
I was ecstatic, and ran out to see what was happening. They'd already been plowing. I stepped onto the freshly-turned earth and was immediately disappointed. The disc had barely skinned off the grass. There was hard ground beneath my feet.
"It's not plowed very deep," I said.
"It don't need to be all that deep for greens," Pop-Pop assured me.
"Cool. Tommorow I'll rake up some of the grass clumps, smooth out the soil, and plant the greens."
I went back to the garden about noon today. The more I raked, the more disappointed I became with the disc job. There were wide areas where the grass was still firmly rooted in the ground. No amount of raking would get it up. It needed tilling, dad-gummit.
I walked down Pop-Pop's driveway and took the tarp off the tiller. Miraculously, the thing cranked after a dozen or so pulls. I put it in forward gear and slowly followed it up the driveway to the greens plot. When I lined the tiller up for the first row and engaged the tines, I began to feel hopeful that this would go well. The disc had broken the ground enough that the tiller could grab hold. It pulverized the dirt on the first pass. At the end of the row, I wrestled it around and aimed it for the second pass. That's when I noticed that the left tire wasn't spinning. I thought that perhaps the tire wasn't catching because the ground was unlevel, and I bore down on that side of the tiller. Then I noticed that the wheel was turning, but the tire wasn't. About this time, the tire came loose from the rim.
I said a nasty word or two, then started the torturous trip back to Pop-Pop's with the tiller, with the tire half-off the rim. "The valve stem is gone," Pop-Pop said when he saw it. After some pulling and oiling and hammering, he and I managed to get the wheel off the tiller. We'd hoped the valve stem was inside the tire. It wasn't.
I said another nasty word or two. "What do I need to do?" I asked him.
"Get a new valve stem," he said.
I called The Husband, who was out running errands, and asked him to bring home a valve stem. "Smaller than a car, Pop-Pop says, but bigger than a bike. Get one of everything they have in between those two sizes, and maybe one of them will fit."
Even though I hear him driving up now, we probably won't get the blasted thing fixed before it's too dark to finish tilling.
----------------
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Smokin'
Pop-Pop enjoys family-wide renown for his scrumptuous barbeque, and over the past few years has made an effort to pass the torch to the next generation. This past Labor Day weekend, The Husband and The Brother-in-Law got busy practicing what they've learned.
The equipment: two big charcoal grills, one for cooking the meat, the other for supplying a steady stream of hot coals.
The supplies: About 100 pounds of charcoal, and some hickory chunks.
The stars of the show: fresh pork shoulders and a gallon of Pop-Pop's vinegar-y basting sauce (the recipe is so secret that I cannot even show you a picture of the jug).
The process:
After lighting the first batch of coals, the hickory chunks must be soaked in water so that they smoke instead of burning when piled atop the hot coals.
While the coals are heating, the menfolk poke holes in the shoulders (so that the sauce can soak in) and lightly salt them. When the coals are ready, the meat goes onto a foil-lined grill, skin side down. It is doused with basting sauce.
The grill is closed. Smoke should issue forth. Mmmmm...smell that hick'ry!
At this stage, the beverages are served.
The grill temperature should stay between 325 and 350 degrees. Periodically, the meat is mopped with additional basting sauce.
About five hours later, it's time to turn the meat. The skin side will be black and almost charred. The first tasting is generally done at this point. The meat will not be falling-apart tender, but it will be tasty.
What sticks to the foil is feast for the cooks.
Once the meat is turned, indirect heat is best. The cooks add more coals to the smoker when the temp falls below 250 degrees.
With the grill temp lowered and the cooks well-basted, it's time to do stupid sh*t, like letting your babies drive tractors.
Another four or five hours later, the meat comes off the grill. Caution: it will fall apart.
The barbeque then goes inside the house to cool enough that it can be pulled apart for sandwiches. The more adventurous family members like to make bbq nachos, but I prefer the stuff in its pure form, on a bun, just doused with a little more sauce. Either way...YUM!
The equipment: two big charcoal grills, one for cooking the meat, the other for supplying a steady stream of hot coals.
The supplies: About 100 pounds of charcoal, and some hickory chunks.
The stars of the show: fresh pork shoulders and a gallon of Pop-Pop's vinegar-y basting sauce (the recipe is so secret that I cannot even show you a picture of the jug).
The process:
After lighting the first batch of coals, the hickory chunks must be soaked in water so that they smoke instead of burning when piled atop the hot coals.
While the coals are heating, the menfolk poke holes in the shoulders (so that the sauce can soak in) and lightly salt them. When the coals are ready, the meat goes onto a foil-lined grill, skin side down. It is doused with basting sauce.
The grill is closed. Smoke should issue forth. Mmmmm...smell that hick'ry!
At this stage, the beverages are served.
The grill temperature should stay between 325 and 350 degrees. Periodically, the meat is mopped with additional basting sauce.
About five hours later, it's time to turn the meat. The skin side will be black and almost charred. The first tasting is generally done at this point. The meat will not be falling-apart tender, but it will be tasty.
What sticks to the foil is feast for the cooks.
Once the meat is turned, indirect heat is best. The cooks add more coals to the smoker when the temp falls below 250 degrees.
With the grill temp lowered and the cooks well-basted, it's time to do stupid sh*t, like letting your babies drive tractors.
Another four or five hours later, the meat comes off the grill. Caution: it will fall apart.
The barbeque then goes inside the house to cool enough that it can be pulled apart for sandwiches. The more adventurous family members like to make bbq nachos, but I prefer the stuff in its pure form, on a bun, just doused with a little more sauce. Either way...YUM!
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