A Bermuda High Pressure system has settled in over the Atlantic causing the weather in the Northeast to turn humid and damp. A series of tropical waves crashed through Brooklyn last evening. Perhaps with the changes in the jet stream, the curse that has hung high above me like a scorching July sun since December will melt away now.
The soil in my garden has turned from dust to mud, but the zucchini plants have perked up with elephant-like ears and the sunflower seeds planted by birds in my garden smile like the sun now buried beneath thick grey clouds.
The first squash slightly larger than a cucumber was picked on Sunday morning. Silver dollar shaped slices were dipped in eighty-nine cent medium eggs and rolled in flour that was buried deep in my kitchen cabinet since the last ice age and then was fried green tomato style in a hefty pat of ninety-nine cent margarine.
My lover and I are starving—still waiting for the honorable Paula S. Yorke, the Administrative Law Jude with the New York State Department of Labor, to decide in my favor in regards to a dispute with my former employer over unemployment insurance benefits.
If I had known I would be without a source of income or money for more than seven months I would have planted more outside in my little garden. If I had known the world was coming to an end like this—if only I had seen that the American dream, along with the American judicial system was dead, I would have buried myself in the freshly tilled earth with the seeds back in April when it was still cool.
Maybe I too would have grown some.
But the zucchini was delightful—very few seeds had developed within the meaty, white interior of the squash—and just one filled my belly to the point of belching. The rain is sweet too—almost feel like walking home from the library without my umbrella opened—just wash me clean dear lord—but I can’t—not with another John Steinbeck novel to squash during these dry, dog days of washed up America.