Conor has stinky feet. He’s a sweater like my side of the family. And as a result of sweat and the cheap-ish shoes we buy him from Target, the child’s feet regularly have a strong musty odor. I can smell them even when he’s sitting in my lap.
Sadly, that does not stop me at all from nibbling on said stinky feet. When he’s particularly ripe I remember some quote I read of a French woman basically comparing strong cheese to zee feet of angels. Feet of angels, feet of son, what's the difference? So yes, I confess that I am a stinky foot nibbler (and also that I like really strong cheese).
To mix food metaphors, we tell Conor that his toes are sausages. (He gets his sweaty feet from me, but he gets his monkey like long toes from his father; Conor's toes do look like tiny sausages) And when we’re hungry we threaten to eat his toes. There are usually some exaggerating biting motions made and he usually squeals with delight as we get closer to his toes.
Nonetheless, my son’s feet stink.
And I love it. Sometimes I will even just sniff his shoes. ("Anita is a.....Nut!")
Yeah. On that note, let me change the subject to the garden. I’m having the most fun I’ve had in the garden in years. Why, you ask. Let me tell you. I have much less in the way of food produce (more flowers and herbs) and much, much more in the way of mulch on the non-planted sites. It’s so much easier to handle this year. And it’s pretty!
On Sunday, we harvested our first pole beans which are forming a teepee shaped canopy in the middle of the garden. They were so tender and sweet, Dave and I fought over the last beans despite the fact that there should have been enough beans for 4 people instead of two. I finally pulled up the radishes I’ve been let idle in the soil and found one super huge radish bigger than my hand. A RADISH, not a beet! I will get the picture up this week. I also pulled up the dead and dying English peas which I love but seem like a lot of work for very little outcome. I may have missed one harvest before they died, but then I would have had only 4 small servings of peas instead of 3. The input of work to output of food ratio is not compelling.
We also had our first tomato this week. Homegrown tomatoes have this amazing warm deep red taste. And the plants have such a musty smell. I used to hate that smell when I was growing up. It’s definitely not a pleasant smell. But now when I brush by them and release their mustiness, I think of heat and red and fresh ripe tomatoes.
I do not, however, think of my son’s feet.