So, when I last posted, I was putting this journal on indefinite hiatus because I was moving to a small concrete hole devoid of soil & sunlight. While I loved the Underloft dearly, I have since moved again, to an acre of sunny Nebraska hillside. I moved in October, and was fully occupied with things like moving and unpacking and remodelling, so didn't even THINK about growing things, except to try to force a daffodil bulb for Yule -- which is now about 2 1/2 inches tall. I think it'll make it.

But.

Now.

I have an acre of land. And sun. And the best damn well water ever.

I have a teenage boy who will appreciate not having to mow an *entire* acre. ;)

And... the hardware store... had a WALL OF SEEDS. And... I went a litle crazy. So, now I have some seeds, a heart full of wishes, and a month or two to plan stuff.

Compost. Rain barrels. Garden beds.

I must be crazy. Ah well, I've killed plants in Kansas, Missouri, Hawaii, and I think in Idaho once when we were visiting second cousins. I've never killed plants in Nebraska before! It'll be fun!

The two remaining basil plants are alive and doing (as far as I can tell) fairly well! They've grown and put out more leaves and all that jazz. I even harvested a buncha leaves on Saturday, to have chopped fresh basil for our dinner party. Yay!

Chuck the daffodil is a gorram liar. I suspect triadruid was right, that this was just a freak bulb. dramaticaddict swears it's grown a wee bit. I dunno. I'll keep nthe soil moist and we'll see what happens.

But, the grand adventure ends in a couple of weeks. I'm moving out, and the space I'm moving to does not have green space. It doesn't have a porch or a windowsill. Hell, it barely has windows, and those face out to a dark alley between two tall buildings. The lack of light is *great* for my work: no UV damage to my paintings, and I can *completely* control the light when I have models come in for life drawing for photo reference shoots. But there's not a good space to set up a grow light for plants.

And so, I'm afraid Project Black Thumb is going to go on indefinite hiatus.

One of the basil seedlings is dying. Yesterday I'd noticed that a few of its leaves had fallen off. Today, it's wilting like taffy.

We shall call this Plant Death Number One. Let me document the symptoms:

Stem still standing and strong, 10.25" high (like all of 'em). All the lower leaves have dropped off, and the ones on the top half are drooping and, er, floppy. There's no discoloration of the plant at all -- it is not pale or yellow, does not have spots or marks of any kind. The drooping leaves are not dried out -- in fact, they kind of have a clammy, rubbery feel to 'em. Ew. Of the three basil plants, this is the one that produced pretty purple flowers, which are still blooming and look suspiciously healthy. The leaves still smell like basil. No signs of bugs, fungus, mold, or other contaminants. The other two basil plants, only inches away in the same pot, are thriving. Soil is moist, but not sticky (chocolate cake, not underbaked brownie).

One down, two to go.

Chuck the Daffodil shows no change, the pale green shoot might as well be made of plastic. *is suspicious*

One week, and the basil is still alive. Some people have already lost bets.

Today, I was rummaging through a basket of daffodil bulbs leftover from last fall's equinox planting at the church. One stubborn bulb had, despite being in a basket, on the kitchen floor, with no moisture or sunlight, started to put out a tiny pale green shoot.

"Dood. This is the Chuck Norris of daffodils," I think, "Perhaps it is hardy enough to withstand my care."

So, I planted it in a little pot, gave it a little water, and set it in the southern windowsill next to the basil.

We shall see.

otterkin gave me the most meaningful, useful bit of gardening advice I've ever heard. She said, "Soil should have the texture of a moist chocolate cake."

The directions I've always heard or read have always been things like "soil should be moist, but not too wet" -- what does that MEAN? It's always things like "adequate drainage" and "appropriate soil pH" and "do not overwater" -- but without any metrics or explanations or directions or permissible bounds for the complete idiot (me). And then I freak out.

Think of when you were first learning how to cook, when you got that nervous flutter in your stomach when following an unfamiliar recipe. When you were half-convinced that anything you attempted to do in a kitchen would only end in disaster. When all you had was faith in the ingredients and directions, and with a sort of religious fervor, you'd set the measuring cup on the counter and squint suspiciously at the meniscus, wondering if it's *precisely* 2/3 of a cup. At that stage of your culinary career, if the recipe, instead of giving a measurement at all, or even describing the desired consistency of the mixture, just said, "add just enough water"... well, if you're like me, you'd give up, possibly angry or depressed and generally feeling like an idiot for not knowing what is clearly some kind of obvious common knowledge thing that everyone in the world knows but me and OH MY GOD, I'll never be able to learn this and WHY am I being set up for certain failure and CAN'T people give directions for well-intentioned beginners and FUCK IT I'M ORDERING A PIZZA!!!

Er. Yeah.

But you know what? I can manage in a kitchen now. I've learned a lot of the tricks and unwritten rules and guidelines and can follow any recipe and even just improvise and have things turn out well. But when it comes to plants, I'm so not there. I am the gardening equivalent of the six-year-old trying to make Mom a birthday cake from great-grandma's incoherent perhaps-she'd-sampled-too-much-of-the-sherry-that-day recipe cards.

So for me, I need metrics. I need descriptions. I need clear expectations. Otherwise, I'm pretty convinced I'm being set up for failure. By all that's holy, I *know* the texture of a moist chocolate cake, and now feel competent to keep basil watered. I feel giddy. =)

In conclusion, otterkin rocks, both with the gardening-fu and the instructional design. Here's another tidbit she shared about soil, following the same metaphor:

"The 'moist chocolate cake' thing helps with the composition of the soil, too. You can't make a cake out of water and powdered sugar, and you can't grow squat in clay soil. So your soil needs some sugar (clay), some flour (organic material like compost or peat moss) and some leavening (sand)."

Today, well armed with advice from otterkin (more on this in a moment) and a copy of Container Gardening For Dummies, I went to the local garden center and bought:

1 5-gallon clay pot with saucer
1 bag of organic potting soil
a watering can
3 basil seedlings

MADNESS, I tell you.

1. I tossed a few flattened glass marbles (which I will always think of as "dragon tears" thanks to growing up with the local Renaissance Festival) into the bottom of the pot to prevent all the soil from falling out through the drainage hole.
2. I filled the pot with soil.
3. I removed the seedlings from their little black plastic cups, and broke up the root ball a bit.
4. I planted them in the pot with a nice amount of distance between them, and added enough soil that their stems were covered back to the same level they'd been covered in the cups.
5. I gave the pot a good soaking, to make sure the water permeates the soil.
6. And I placed the pot in a sunny southern windowsill, as I was assured by the folks at the garden center that it was still too early to trust the seedlings to our capricious climate.

Place your bets, and let the countdown to total plant carnage begin.

I kill every plant I touch. I have killed philodendrons, spider plants, aloe, English ivy, garden mint... I have even killed those little air-plants that don't need to be watered. It's my superpower.

But.

I have a huge, empty yard. I have friends and family who are botanists and gardeners. I am intelligent, resourceful, and stubborn as hell. And I have garden envy.

Surely, this is a recipe for disaster. Surely, this will only end in tears and plant carnage on a massive scale. But maybe, just maybe, I can take my dream of a lovely yard and make it a reality.

This journal is the epic saga of this struggle. Look upon my compost pile, ye mighty, and despair!