I do laundry. I make dinner. I sweep floors. And I enjoy doing these things. I enjoy keeping a happy and fresh home for my family. But, if we're honest, we all have our weaknesses. We all have our secrets. We all have our messy closets. You've read about my dirty secret, here. (Remember that one?) That's the only dirty secret on the entire Elliott Homestead...right?
Wrong.
While I would never ever have imagined I would let it get this way, please feast your on this bad boy:
This is my porch. I am so ashamed. Send me away to a far away place where I can hurt our neighbors eyes no longer. I'm sure they peer over into our fancy screen porch and think awful thoughts about our upbringing and worldview. In the summer, this porch is a beauty. A real gem. She is full of dehydrating herbs and drying lavender. She has a sweet hammock that does wonders for tired feet. She even has a little mini-fridge so that a cold beverage is never far from your grasp. Her table is surrounded by friends enjoying a long, lingering meal in the warm summer night. She keeps my produce protected from insects and offers the perfect place to sip on a chilled glass of peach wine.
But she is dead. And all I am left with is this God-forsaken pit.
I would like to point out the following:
1. See those branches? I stole, ahem, borrowed those out of an orchard after they were chopped off. I'm going to try to get them to root-out so that I can plant a walnut tree and cherry tree on my homestead. However, my intentions have remained unfulfilled, and alas, they just lay there dying slowly. They are so thirsty. And I just sit here watching them. Staring at them. Expecting them to magically grow roots without any water.
2. Remember reading about poor Freddy? That's his pot there, sitting on the table. It's like a plant coffin. Just reminding me of what a terrible plant owner I was. As you can see, I have been oh-so-quick to do something with the empty container. I'm, like, so on top of things. The other plant is a salvaged orphan plant from one of Stuart's landscaping jobs that he brought me so that it "wouldn't die". Great, Shaye. Way to fulfill and exceed his expectations.
3. And the eggs? Ah yes. Well, you see, those were a gift from my boss. And they just happened to absorb the offensive, blood-curdling smell that is currently lingering in our work refrigerator from a bad case of decomposing lime slices. Inedible. Even for me. They are awaiting a trip to the compost pile, which is roughly thirty feet away. Obviously, far too inconvenient.
4. There has been snow on the ground since November; hence the reason our rad grill has been moved to the porch. Despite this convenience, frankly, it looks trashy.
5. No, I am not an alcoholic. But I am a bottle saver. They work perfect for homemade wine, beer, and kombucha. These particular bottles are awaiting a trip to the cellar. Unlike the compost pile, the cellar is LITERALLY five feet from the porch. Obviously, this is still too far for a lazy homesteader in the frigid weather.
6. Oh, hello compost bucket. How nice of you to share your coffee grounds and rotting citrus with the porch! So thankful that you could be here as a mid-day snack for the dogs. What's that you say, dear bucket? You wonder why I haven't just put the offensive-lime-infused eggs in you instead of just putting them on the table? You callin' me lazy? You shut your face, compost bucket. Or you'll be the manure bucket before spring.
7. Ah yes. The remnants from a successful beer brewing. Apparently, when I tell Stuart he needs to clean out his fermentation bucket and carboy, it doesn't hold much authority as soon as he sees the porch.
Throw in a bunch of cardboard boxes, a few recycling items that need to be corralled, a broken sander that was being used to work on my gem-of-a-table, and friends, you're left with a porch that the devil himself would be offended by.
I wanted to show you this so that you know the truth.
The truth being I have projects that I avoid. Because I don't like them and they smell.
The end.
