Fruits of My Labor

 

I carry the tools of a serial killer in the minivan: a sturdy shovel, tape, string. 

Sometimes I wonder what a cop would think if he pulled me over late at night on a desolate stretch of road and searched the car.

"So, ma'am, wanna explain what you're doing with this maddock?"

Take another look at those bright red tomatoes oozing with summer deliciousness? Now imagine the smell of that sweet basil hanging in your house. 

I go through the summer with mud-stained fingers, wage fruitless war on weeds night after night, AND risk the suspicion of police officers everywhere for that divine plate of herbs and vegetables. 

I'd raise a cow and make my own mozzarella if the city garden rules allowed it. Think of the disturbing tools I'd need for that venture.