The big planting bed has become so overrun with dill weed that the only thing for it is to turn the earth — plow everything under, and start again. Only we haven’t got a plow. We have shovels.
D has got the job mostly-done by the time I manage to set heel to spade; but after even my brief stint of digging, the aroma is so mighty that I’m left feeling rather like I’ve just worked second shift at the pickle factory.
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