Brooding On

Melons Won't Grow

Okay, this excerpt from a book I read recently is just too funny.  Happy Saturday.  Enjoy!

"Garden update:  My melons won't grow.

"The last time I said this was seventh grade, with an eerily similar angst. 

"If I understand this problem like I think I do, Watermelon Vine is sick with envy, wondering why Tomato is ripe with plump, round fruits while she is still flat as a Kansas highway, developing gawky, awkward shoots everywhere, but no freaking melons.  I bet she does a self-examination every morning hoping, hoping for development, a promising bud at least, only to discover a lengthening of her skinny vine in another clumsy direction, impossible to maneuver with any grace.

"I keep telling my melon vine that her day will come; we develop differently, that's all.  It's basic biology, nothing to fret about.  Some vines sprout early, requiring wires and string to hold up their bulging fruits sooner than others.  Not to worry, Watermelon Vine, soon you'll need your own wire and string, and your melons are going to be waaaay bigger than Tomato's.  Trust me.

"I know she looks smug, what with her perfectly rounded bounty that everyone admires while you're just a skinny vine without so much as a bud, but believe me, Tomato will be yesterday's news once your sweet fruits develop.  I've seen the gene pool you came from; the future looks bright for you, WV.  Your kind grows them big.  (If you want, we can get you a wire and string like your more developed garden friends so Basil will quit mocking you; like he's so awesome -- he's just a bunch of leaves.)

"Parenting my garden requires way more emotional energy than I expected.  It was easier when they were just little seeds and all they needed was water.  Sure, I worried about them in their infancy, but at least it was simple.  Now there's all this drama and competition:  Who's sprouted, who hasn't, who is independent, who is more -- how shall I say it nicely?  -- needy?  Wow.  It's a good thing we don't know all that is involved in raising a garden when we first conceive it, or none of us would bear any fruit."

This hilariousness is excerpted from Jen Hatmaker's book 7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess