Attack of the ‘Gourd People’

Editor's Note: Commedienne Pam Stone writes her column for The Tryon Daily Bulletin twice each month from her office in the "Unabomber Shack" on her Gowensville farm. Want a chance to respond to this column? Go to Pam’s blog at www.tryondailybulletin.com.

Oh, Lord, it's that time of year again: attack of the Gourd People.

Don't get me wrong, I am, after all, a vegetarian and after seeing a photo of a traditional, Victorian, potager garden behind a thatched-roof cottage in Hampshire, I politely requested, all right, badgered, Paul into building me one. After phoning Amnesty International, weeping, and being informed that it wasn't convenient for anyone to offer him sanctuary, he consented. Besides heirloom tomatoes, bell peppers, herbs and strawberries there are the dreaded… zucchini.

That was Paul's fault. It's not that I particularly mind zucchini, it's just so... so, innocuous. Rather like Brie cheese. If you're at a cocktail party and there's lots of different cheeses on display, you're probably much more tempted by the Smoked Gouda or the English Stilton. If there's Brie, you think, "Well, all right. If there's nothing else." That's how I feel about zucchini.

I've never had a hankering (Dear God, did I just say 'hankering?' What next, 'varmint?') in mid-afternoon for zucchini. A garden ripe tomato, oh, you betcha. Vidalia onion? Just try and take one from me. But zucchini? Eh…

The problem is that I seem to be in a minority. The problem is that all my neighbors seem to relish growing zucchini. The problem is all my neighbors are hell-bent on giving what they can't eat (which is basically all of it) to me. It's gotten to the point that should I see them coming down my driveway, I dive behind the couch. That never works. They just stand there in the heat, noses pressed against the glass in my front door, arms wrapped around a crackling, brown paper bag splitting open with unwanted zukes and holler, "Pam? Pam? You in there? Hmmmm, guess not. Well, we'll just leave these in the barn." Locking up the barn did nothing to deter the gourd insurgents. I once came home from town and found three more bags in the front seat of the truck that was hooked up to the horse trailer and two more in the trailer. And I am dismally unsuccessful at giving them away. You'd think they were Dollar Store fruitcakes.

There's only one solution and, presently, I do have time on my hands to actually do it: I shall scoop them out and dry them, decorate them with glitter and a glue gun and it's "Merry Christmas, Neighbor!"

Getting ready for company

Editor's Note: Commedienne Pam Stone writes her column for The Tryon Daily Bulletin twice each month from her office in the "Unabomber Shack" on her Gowensville farm.

There truly is nothing like having someone from out of town (or out of country, in this instance) to trip one into overdrive and actually finish all the half finished odd jobs around the house. It’s either self-pride or an elaborate masquerade in not wanting others to know what lumpish, heaving, layabouts we really are...

Paul has a rather important business contact who, with barely a week’s notice, is flying over from France to meet Paul in the flesh and iron out the details of a contract that would make Paul the exclusive representative of these enormous, blowsy, roses. The gentleman will inspect the nursery and stay as our guest in the house. Luckily, early in the summer, we replaced over half the fencing in the fields, put a new roof on our cottage and had it pressure-washed and stained. Funny, regardless of what one does to an A-Frame, it’s still essentially an IHOP. However, there are hanging pots of neon orange geraniums hanging by the front door and freshly painted, adorable green wooden shutters Paul made to frame the front windows.

But because this man is European and, more importantly, French, I’m looking around in utter despair. Forget a “Honey-do” list, it’s much more of a “Damn, Paul, we’ve got to haul this crap outta here,” list. The six foot pile of twisted boughs, limbs and twigs that once began as “oh, this’ll do nicely as kindling come winter” has been dragged away. I feel sorry in a way, I’m sure it had been a most appreciated rat condo. Then both fields have been freshly mown by Paul, who, despite drinking lots of water beforehand and donning a large straw hat, began to mow in odd, ‘crop circle’ shapes as the heat began to overtake him and cause him to loll listlessly mere inches above the PTO. If you don’t understand that reference, you live too close to the city and you probably think a bush hog is an exotic bikini wax....

I’m in charge of cleaning (ahem) and putting fresh jugs of flowers throughout the IHOP. I pulled out the Hoover and went to town, amazed that still, at the beginning of August, there seems to be Christmas needles in the one corner we put our tree. “How can this be?” I called to Paul who had just come in and stuck his entire head in the freezer. “How can there still be Christmas tree needles on the floor when I vacuum?”

He didn’t turn around and put a packet of frozen blueberries atop his head.

“The vacuum’s probably spitting them out behind and you’re not seeing it until the next time you clean. When was the last time you changed the bag?”

I merely gaped. “Tell me of these strange things you call bags?”

That’s one way to get out of cleaning!