We live in the midst of an unHoly war.
And my garden is the innocent collateral damage.
We have aphids.
And since I don’t like to spray poison on the land that lays atop our well; and since I don’t want to threaten the sweet little critters like chipmunks and birds that count on me to keep their habitat clean; and since I don’t have a left-sided, mathematical brain capable of figuring out how many parts per tablespoon of beneficial horticultural oil I would have to spray to rid my yard of aphids,
we have employed those combat-ready but still loveable-enough-to-grace-a-nursery-room-wall, often male, dispite their names….
We bought and deployed several hundred of them, actually.
And as we sat out on the deck tonight, eating our whole wheat pasta and peppers, mushrooms, and onions sautéed in Burgundy wine, we realized we were in a war zone.
We could almost hear the crash of wings, the gnashing of teeth, the crunching of jaws.
And we shuddered.
Then we went on to finish our meal with a fresh fruit salad, which included raspberries from Grandma Jane’s orchard.
We’ve adjusted to the violence, apparently.