Squashdaddy and tales of Hubbard (3 photos)

A monster squash known by the name Hubbard lay open, cleaved by a Solingen blade, a profusion of seeds scooped from its core.

“Do you feel like a squashdaddy with all those seeds - you seem to so proud, like a beaming father in the delivery room?” said my wife Anne.

“Prodigious, prolific, prodigal nature,” I said, squeezing the pulp to separate the seeds, while searching for the approximate word describing the phenomena.

“What is the entomology... that’s bugs...not words...etymology... root of prodigal? ” Anne asked.

“I think its genesis is in the Latin word, prodigus - plentiful... prodigious,” I said.

It is somehow rooted in these words, and now, we find our descriptors morphed and unrecognizable. We always remember the Prodigal Son and nod our heads knowingly.

Can we break out the meaning without the later editing?

I collect the squash seeds and dry them in the hope next year will yield more of Hubbard and her ilk. A little brown envelope is marked Hubbard 2020. Year of the Pandemic.

Squash, corn and beans are the centre of grain culture. Each morning, a profusion of young green beans and the oddest assortment of heritage carrots come from the garden.

Purple, white, deep orange (as to be almost blood orange) and some slender parsnips.

In the backyard are ever fruiting raspberries fully ripened. It is a race between insects, birds, beetles and man. We are all busy in the raspberry bush. I make a mental note to thank my daughter for the stalks.

Tomatoes are disappointing, perhaps the cutting, or the weather, or the soil. A few are ripening....it is only the end of summer....

The old house had a grape that we still cultivate and this year an arbour holds it aloft. Our reward has been a profusion of grapes, not enough for wine, but surely a jar or two of grape jelly? The leaves have softened the arbour and the beetles have found a new home, staking out the grapes for food. The plants' voice no objection, silent witness to my futile efforts to knock the beetles off.

The first tomato sits and ripens in the sun room. I imagine a slice on my tongue, the tang of olive oil and balsamic vinegar washes over me and my mouth waters ever so slightly.

Copyright René Hackstetter July 27, 2020. Revised Sept 5, 2020. Revised Sept.11, 2020.