ArchivedLogs:More About Radishes

More About Radishes
"What do I know of Man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes." ~Samuel Beckett
Dramatis Personae Micah, Hive	29 April 2013 Construction-site Hive and Guerrilla Garden Micah meet at the fence in between.
Location <NYC> Guerrilla Garden - Lower East Side
This abandoned lot isn't much to look at right now. Next door to a construction site and ringed by a tall, rusting chainlink fence, the rumble of large machinery is a constant disruption. Equally rusty signs have been affixed to the fence warning passersby to KEEP OUT, that this is PRIVATE PROPERTY. Weeds are as plentiful as chunks of broken concrete but there is surprisingly little garbage to be found and what does appear seems to disappear just as quickly. Here and there stacks of scavenged truck tires have been filled with dark soil and some enterprising soul has begun to create raised beds to the rear of the lot using splintery wood salvaged from packing crates. It has been a hazy, overcast type of day, but it is still warm enough to be pleasant jacket weather as evening sets in. The gardens are looking bright and cheery, with rings of marigolds around the perimeters of the raised beds, and happy little green seedlings poking up here and there! Micah has wandered his way into the gardens after work, appropriately clad for the weather in his green canvas jacket, technology-upgraded Darwin finches shirt, and jeans. He has lugged in a couple of large containers of water for refilling watering cans with him today, and has just started moistening the soil in one of the raised beds in preparation for thinning seedlings that are trying to grow too close together. It seems like he is serenading the little seedlings as he goes, “Warming Up to Me” by Jason Mraz. In the lot next door there have been sounds. There are lots of sounds, heavy sounds, clanging sounds, voices shouting, voices talking. The sounds are starting to wind down, though, less clanging, more talking, workers filtering out to leave their machines idle and still until work begins again the next day. Somewhere in this drift, one skinny figure who does not really fit /in/ with the harder burlier construction team separates itself from the group, meanders over near the fence that surrounds the garden. Hive is dressed bland, dusty-dirty through his heavy work boots and faded jeans and grey jacket, unbuttoned over a shirt that for once is not emblazoned with geekery but is just an also sort of dusty plain black tee. Right now he's leaning against the fence, bony fingers hooking through its links, his other hand lifting to light the cigarette hanging from his lips. Also watching Micah work, in mostly-silence save the flick of his lighter. Mostly silence, though mentally he reaches out -- it's a /nudge/ of pressure, briefly heavy, squeezing, but then pulling back. It's almost like a greeting, just perhaps a little less comfortable. Micah is busy playing the pick-and-choose game of which excess seedlings to sacrifice, finding ones that look less hardy to pluck. The mental pressure is a distinctive thing to Micah, however, and tugs his attention away from the plants. It causes him to trail off in his song, glancing around him. Ah, there! He waves an already soil-stained hand in the direction of the fence, offering a smile from a distance for now. << Hey, Hive. How goes it? >> << What are those? >> Hive asks instead of answer, the words slamming bludgeon-heavy into Micah's mind. Hive is dragging on his cigarette, deeeeeep, his mouth far too occupied for making words. His fingers curl tighter against the fence. << It true they do better if you sing to them? >> Micah’s first response is /wincing/. Because ow. << I’m sure I’ll get used to you bein’ in Luna-mode all the time eventually, but man… >> He shakes his head idly. << Seedlings. And weeds. >> He indicates two separate piles. << Some of the fastest-growin’ seedlings I’ve ever dealt with. This garden just /wants/ to grow up, it seems like. Y’have to pull some of the seedlings to give the other ones enough space and resources t’grow. But y’can make micro-salads out of the ones y’pull early, too. >> He looks thoughtful at the singing question. << Thousands of elementary school science projects seem to agree that talkin’ to plants and playin’ ‘em music are both beneficial. Why not do both at the same time? >> His mental-voice is clearly amused. << Y’want me to come over an’ actually talk at you, or does me stayin’ over here make it look more like you’re still bein’ productive? >> << Luna-mode? >> This goes over Hive's head. He sucks at his cigarette again. << This is my normal -- mode. If I'm /not/ hurting you, something's wrong. >> He eyes one pile, then the other, then: << Yeah, but seedlings of what? >> His mental voice is mostly just wry. << ... might be better for your /head/ if you come closer. I'm not even faking productive anymore. Done for the day. >> << Just...loud-talky. Um...Moon Princess Pony. >> Micah is /giggling/ at this, which to passers-by would appear to be giggling at nothing. << Good to know. Hive-hurtin' is good-hurtin'. Let me file that appropriately. >> He pours water over the bowl of collected seedlings, shifting the bowl about to rinse them, then dumps the rinse-water (through filtering fingers) along one of the beds that was growing too dry. << These're radishes. Should actually be ready for their first /real/ harvest in not-too-long. They germinate quickly. >> Micah trots over to the fence with the bowl in hand at the sort of invitation to approach. He holds out a single teensy, skinny radish; it never had the chance to reach real round radish bulb status. << Wanna try a micro-radish? >> << ... moon. Princess. Pony. >> Hive's eyebrows hike up just a little higher with each of these words. His fingers still hook through the fence, weight leaning slightly against it. "The fuck is a radish?" He might even be serious about this. He's eying the root with -- almost wariness. "Nah. Good-hurting is consensual-hurting. Hive-hurting is just, shit. I'm actually myself." His other hand is dropped to his side, ashing out his cigarette. He puts it back to his lips, and stretches fingers through the fencelinks towards the radish. But kind of warily. “Ohmy/gosh/, you don’t know /radishes/?” Micah’s eyes are /wide/ with incredulity. He pauses to tweeze the little radish taproot off between his fingers before passing the radish to Hive through the fence. “Root veggies. Kind of…sharp-flavoured, almost peppery, crunchy. Good for salads. This one’s kind of a baby radish, though. Need a coupla more weeks for the mature ones to be ready t’pull.” "Should I know radishes?" Hive nabs the miniradish through the fence, but he doesn't eat it. He just /looks/ at it with increasing suspicion. "Peppery's good. What other weirdass things you growing in there? Dusk and Ian've been helping Jax tend the roof but it's not quite this sprouty yet. Still. Gonna be pretty full of delicious soon enough." Micah selects another radish from the bowl, squeezes off the taproot where it has started to become fibrous, then pops the little thing (baby greens and all!) into his mouth. As if to say, See? Safe foods! Crunchcrunch. “Yes. Veggies are good for you! And radishes are some of the easiest things to grow… Make for peppy salads or spicy stir-fries or y’can roast ‘em with with butter and lemon. S’good stuff.” He gestures back at the garden. “Ain’t anythin’ too out of the ordinary growin’. Mostly the greens’n root veggies that are in now. Kale, spinach, lettuces, radishes, beets, carrots, spring onions, ‘n such. Fruitin’ plants go in later in the season. Cucumbers, eggplants, squash, tomatoes, an’ the like.” Hive takes another long drag of his cigarette, then stubs the butt out against the metal of the fence. He glances around with cigarette butt still in hand, grimacing when he finally locates a trashcan at the end of the block. For now he just drops his hand to his side, spent butt still held in his curled fingers. "I eat a fuckton of veggies just never a --" He gestures with the radish. But he follows Micah's example, brow sort of /furrowed/ as he eats the littleradish. "-- Oh. Oh, I know what that --" The words he says next are decidedly not English, and he nods as he swallows. "I've had those. Sort of those? I don't know, they're shaped kind of different but they're peppery like that. You really like this shit, hm?" His hand gestures towards the garden. Micah nods at Hive’s growing recognition, understanding what he is /probably/ talking about without having a clue as to the actual words. “Yeah, the Asian varieties of radishes tend to be more winter radishes. Bigger. These are your early Spring varieties, come out like tiny globes when they’re ready.” Because…well…it is early Spring, clearly. There is more nodding at Hive’s question. “I grew up growin’ a good amount of the food that we ate on our land. Trade with neighbours, stuff they didn’t grow for stuff you didn’t grow.” "Yeah. Different. But not. We put them in salad too. Never tried roasting one. Butter and lemon?" Hive looks contemplative. He also reaches his fingers (kind of ineffectually) towards the bowl. As far as he /can/ before they are stopped by the fence anyway, which is not very far. "Huh. That sounds really -- country." His smile is lopsided, and he's looking /past/ Micah towards the garden. "We did fish." Micah passes another baby radish through the fence to Hive. “It is…very. Did fish, too, but casual-like. One of m’ Pops’ favourite things. Go sit with a rod an’ not talk for hours. I’m not so good at that last part.” He scruffs his fingers through his hair with a self-deprecating smile. “How’s the buildin’ stuff comin’ along?” He tilts his chin in the direction of the construction site indicatively. "Ours wasn't so much sit with a rod and not talk for hours, it was -- bigger. Hectic. And jegus yeah I can't actually even imagine you not talking for more than maybe five minutes." Hive's smile is amused, but not in a mocking way. "I like your talking. You can talk if we go fishing." He eats the next baby-radish greens-side first, and shrugs a shoulder. "Ungh. Slow? Fast? You know, I don't even fucking /know/," he admits, his voice dropping slightly. Guiltily. "This is a bigger fucking project than anything I've done before I'm just kind of /pretending/ I have any gorram clue what the shit I'm doing." At least Micah is giggling about it! Though he does giggle about most things… “Nah, s’apparently too much noise scares off the fish. Pops’d always complain it was as bad havin’ me along as takin’ women fishin’.” He scrunches his nose at Hive’s uncertainty at the building status. “Uh-oh. Y’got…like…uh. A mentor? From school or somethin’? Maybe could give y’some advice about it?” "That's, uh, kind of sexist." Hive curls his fingers back through the chain link when he finishes his radish. His forehead drops to rest against the fence. "I dunno, shit, I lost touch with everyone from school back when --" His jaw tightens for a moment. "I could reconnect, I guess. I got on good with my professors. It's just, fuck. This is a job for an entire firm. I'm just one fucking /rookie/ -- on the plus side," his smile curls sharp and thin, "it's likely as hell this won't ever get finished because someone'll bomb the place before we're done, so I have that on my side, at least. -- You like fishing?" Micah snorts softly at the 'sexist' comment. "Yeah, it is. Don't...just don't hang out in the South. You'll wear yourself out pointin' that kinda thing out." He leans one shoulder into the fence just a bit. "S'what I do when I got a problem as is confusin' me, anyhow. Helps to have somebody with more experience poke at it with you. It's a...oh /gosh/, Hive, don't say that! Don't want nobody bombin' nothin'." His eyebrows make a move at meeting one another, briefly. "Um...I guess I like it okay. Like doin' things outside. I'm a little better suited to the plants than the fish, but it can be a good way to pass some time." "Yeeeah, that's what I hear about the South. I dunno. Home's not much better. Different. But not much better." Hive shrugs. His dark eyes slant sideways towards the fence around the construction site. "Ehh, whatever, just being realistic. If someone /hasn't/ tried bombing the place or killing Iolaus by the time we open, I'll be shocked." He straightens, rattling at the fence a moment to find the gap where he can slip through. "-- so. You need any help?” Micah just shakes his head at…all of that. Except the help part! “Can always use more hands. C’mon over, I’ll show y’how to figure out what’s weeds an’ needs t’be pulled out.”