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 With most of my seeds now planted, my garden is at the hurry-up-and-wait part of the spring. So I'm going to paint a picture for you with words, starting clockwise at 7 o'clock, because the door from the house is at six.

First, when you leave the house, you're on the patio. It's sheltered to the south/left by the part of the house that contains the bedrooms. Walk about twenty feet, and you get to the first garden. The part you can see from the door is mostly mulch and weeds, because that's Shenzi's preferred place for a quick pee. But go around the corner a tiny big and you get some lovely patches of a ground cover we planted last year, whose name I can't recall, and it's coming back and spreading nicely. Around 8 o'clock, there are three patches of bulb garden. The first two are daffodils and crocuses. The crocuses are done now but the daffodils are full of life. There are the single-trumpet ones that bloomed first, the double yellow ones and double white ones that came after, and last to bloom were the yellow doubles with orange in the middle. I love them all. I've loved daffodils since my year in Gerardmer, France, which celebrates a daffodil festival most years. 

The third bulb garden, nearly at 9 o'clock, is Lloyd's Garden. It's the grave of the rat we had for just a couple of months, whom we buried and placed a pretty pink-granite rock over. Then we planted tulips around the rock. The tulips are a commemorative variety sent out by the airline KLM, to mark the 75th anniversary of the liberation of the Netherlands by Canadian soldiers. The goal was to plant a bulb for every Canadian who fought in the Netherlands, 1.1 million of them across the country. I just have ten. They have developing buds on them, only two of which have colour so far. They'll be in full bloom in a week or so.

Next to that, at 9 o'clock, is a weedy patch that was mostly black-eyed Susans last year. It's not doing much yet. There's also a little grassy space over there that we've left, because it's in the shade of the next-door neighbour's cedar hedge and also provides a pathway to the outdoor water source around the south side of the house. At 10 o'clock is the pool shed, which also houses most of the garden implements we use regularly. 

We're now along the back fence, which leads out to a green space that also functions as a hydro corridor. There's a gate, and then the little strip of garden that forms the bulk of my vegetable growing space begins. Yesterday, we cleared out the weedy corner by the gate, harvesting the edible weeds for a salad and putting down some fresh triple mix. Then we planted one of the zucchini plants that I started indoors less than two weeks ago. It's four inches high with two-inch proto-leaves on it, and the root system was pretty well-developed for two weeks, so even though we haven't hit our final frost date yet I decided to chance it. Behind the single zucchini plant, I seeded some Kentucky Wonder beans. They're supported by some bamboo poles that the previous owner had left in the pool shed. Next to them, moving right across the back fence, are some radishes that are very happy. They're an early spring crop and they're putting up secondary leaves. Once I harvest them, I'll probably use that space for Asian cabbage or carrots, unless the zucchini takes it over completely. 

There's a wooden divide then for the next part of the garden. To the right of it (we're around 11:30 now) are a few little lettuce plants that I started early from seed, just beginning to put up secondary leaves, and a long row of snow peas that are about an inch tall. I'm hoping today's warmth and sunshine will have those shooting for the sky. The space in front of the peas is destined for carrots in the form of seed tape. I haven't planted that yet because it's the only thing I can't easily cover in the event of a threat of frost. I'll probably chance it next week. I have no lack of seed tape if the first fails. 

At about 1 o'clock is the third segment of that back garden. I planted my three butterbush squash hills on Friday, two seeds in each, and there are Mason jars nearby to cover them with if there's a threat of frost. It will be warm enough to germinate them today and they got tons of rain yesterday, so I'll likely see sprouts on them pretty quickly. Behind those are more snow peas. Squash are heavy feeders so the zucchini and butterbush squash are supported by beans and peas, which are nitrogen fixers. These snow peas were planted only yesterday so I'm not seeing anything from them yet. 

We're now rounding the corner of the pool, in the northwest corner of the garden. There are two square raised beds there, built from a Home Depot kit by the previous owner. They have walking onions, yellow onions, Videlia onions, and chives in them. The walking onions and chives are mostly for green onions in salads, so we've already been harvesting from that for several weeks. The others are for bulb onions. The yellow ones came from leftover onion sets last year that were sprouting in the garage. The Videlias came from one kitchen onion that sprouted, which I then took apart to plant. Also in those two beds are two types of mint. Right in the corner is the mojito mint left by the previous owner. She had it in a freestanding pot, but it's mint - it spread. I had a chocolate mint over there, also in a freestanding pot. It spread into the other raised bed. Last but not least is the thyme plant which I started from seed last year. I love thyme as a seasoning and use it frequently, so having some fresh in my garden is one of the nicest things about having a garden. It's another plant that reminds me of France.

Heading over to 3 o'clock is a little patch where I seeded some kale. This is the sunniest part of the garden, as it's against the north fence and therefore has 100% southern exposure. After that is a patch of zebra irises which I left there because I love irises and these are well-established and beautiful. At four o'clock, after the irises, is the second zucchini plant and a few more beans. After that there's some floral ground cover that we haven't moved because that part of the garden is shaded by the house and not great for vegetables. 

I have two freestanding pots, the ones the previous owner had her mint in, that now hold fresh weed-free triple mix and Asian stir-fry/salad green seeds. They're living near the irises for now because that's where they'll get the best sun exposure, and they like warmth and a lot of sun. 

Garden centres are going to open shortly, so I'm going to pick up some nasturtium seeds or plants, depending on what I can find, to plant near the two types of squash. If they do well, they'll be added to salads. Both leaves and flowers are edible and have a peppery flavour to them that I love. 

The only other plant of note is the black currant bush I planted out front, near the lovely stand of yuccas. I don't worry too much about the front garden because I prefer growing food to flowers, and the front garden is mostly too shady for food. But the black currant bush is my baby. If it does well, I'll be planting at least one more there next year. So far it's putting out leaves on at least half its stems, so clearly it's reasonably content with its lot in life. I'm looking forward to trying my stepdad's Singing Johnny recipe, which is basically black currant-infused Irish whiskey. And jam, of course. Black currant jam is my favourite and it's really hard to get commercial black currants in Canada so I've only been able to get it when Piet's aunt offered me some of her black currants. I want some of my own.

So that's my quarantine garden. I have high hopes for the zucchini, and the butterbush squash did beautifully last year and provided I think about twelve one- or two-pound squashes (they look and taste like mini butternut squash, but the plants only take a couple of metres of space instead of, well, your entire garden.) I have high hopes that our modest investment in soil and seeds will yield a whole lot of fresh food all summer and into the fall, possibly even enough to preserve some of it by freezing or canning. 
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 Most churches shut down the way they were told to. Most are protecting their congregants and their communities. My ire is not directed at those churches or the people who attend them.

I am very angry at the evangelical dominionist asshats who opened their churches today and encouraged their congregations to come to Palm Sunday services in violation of stay-at-home orders. I'm angry at any congregant who went, especially the ones who are active on the internet and have no good reason not to know how serious this is, except that they're too stupid to listen to experts. I give a little more of a pass to elderly people whose news sources are more limited, but not a whole lot of a pass even there. My most significant ire is reserved for the governors and politicians who either haven't issued stay-at-home orders yet, or did it only recently, or exempted churches from those orders. 

Church services are pretty much designed to spread viruses. People sit so close together they are touching all the time. They hug, shake hands, sometimes kiss on the cheek. They sing, which involves an expulsion of air from the lungs with a great deal of force, usually into the airspace of the person sitting in front of them. I can't think of a better place to pick up a virus spread by respiratory droplets than a church service. 

What this means is that, a few days from now, a couple of people in each congregation that met today will start to fall ill. It will be obvious that they were spreading the virus at church today, but nobody will worry too much. The people who were near those few who fell ill will still be going shopping. Some will be essential workers who will go to their jobs. 

Around Good Friday, a bunch more people will be starting to feel ill. Some will stay home from Good Friday services, but some will go back to church that day (if the pastor wasn't arrested for opening the church today, at least.) They'll spread the virus again. On Easter Saturday, more will be falling ill, but a lot of the people infected today will still be feeling fine on Easter Sunday. They'll go back to church. They'll spread the virus that they're about to get sick with.

Easter Monday comes, and now we're eight days out from the initial super-spreader event that happened this morning in these churches. More people are falling ill. More are getting scared. More are staying home. But it's too late, because by the following Sunday, people in each of those congregations are going to be very, very sick. And the week after that, three weeks from now, they'll be a few ragged, gasping breaths from death. 

Not all of them, of course. One or two per pew, probably, given pews that hold an average of ten people. Three of those ten will feel fine. They might still be going about their daily business, unaware that they're asymptomatic carriers of Covid-19. A couple more will have only mild symptoms. Three more of that ten will be very sick but not go to hospital. And about two from every pew will be in hospital, and about one from every other pew will need a ventilator or will die before they can get one. 

Their community hospitals will go into overdrive mode if they weren't already. They'll be begging for ventilators nobody has, begging for PPE nobody has, desperately trying to save the lives of all those people who went to church on Palm Sunday. At the same time, they'll be falling ill themselves, because they lacked PPE on Palm Sunday or shortly after it, because they've been working around people with overwhelming viral loads for weeks, because they've been working insane hours for a month already and they're exhausted. At the same time, essential workers in other fields, people who didn't have the privilege of self-isolating, will be falling ill. They'll be competing for beds and ventilators and staff with the churchgoers. 

Those congregations will spike the curve in each of their communities. Their hospitals will be overwhelmed, their case loads will blast through the top of the chart and force their local newspapers to do some creative printing to report on the cases, their deaths will fill newspapers to the exclusion of all else. 

I'm not angry at people taking chances with their own lives. I'm angry at people spiking the curve for everyone. I'm angry that they are so selfish that they can't see how a quarantine is a completely reasonable imposition on personal liberty and that violating it will cost a lot of lives other than their own. 

A few years ago, I read a book about the last great smallpox epidemic, which happened in Montreal in 1885. The super-spreader event then was a funeral for a well-loved bishop in the city. A lot of people who were still healing from smallpox went to the funeral, and spread it. The worst death rate was from a few weeks later.

In this pandemic, Mardi Gras has already emerged as a similar super-spreader moment. The Florida beaches over March Break are up there, too, and the night life in New York around St. Patrick's Day. We can add another super-spreader event to these: Palm Sunday church services. 

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 The lesson of sourdough is patience.

Just wait. It will bubble. It will need some TLC in the form of discarding some of it. It may get stinky. Lovingly scoop out the liquid and crust. It was there because you waited a bit too long. Give it some flour and water and wait again.

Just wait. You'll be able to bake bread with it in a few days. I know you want bread now, but that's not how this works. Just wait. Slow down and breathe. Yeast will not be rushed.

Sleepless at 4am? The sourdough is ready to be used for biscuits. They'll be light and fluffy and delicious if you make sure to cut the butter in thoroughly. When they're done, you'll be tired again and can go back to bed. Just wait, and trust the starter, and take your comfort where you find it.

Today is a bread day? Feed the starter, and then wait three hours for it to bubble and dome and smell like home. Mix your dough, but not too much. Set it aside for half an hour or so. Wait for it. All in its own time, it will be ready to stretch and fold. So will you. You are rising to your own challenges, stretching to accommodate new realities. Just breathe, and wait, and live, like your starter, like your dough. Stretch it every hour or so. Set it in the warmth. Let the sunlight bless the tea towel covering your dough. Let it halo your face. Breathe, and wait.

Sourdough is embryonic comfort food. It needs simple ingredients, effort, and patience to turn it into bread, and biscuits, and cinnamon rolls, and food for the storm-tossed soul hanging on for dear life to whatever rope it can reach.

Have patience. This too shall pass. The dough will rise, the starter will bubble, it will feed your body and soul and loved ones, if you just wait.

May 2020

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