Slugfest

The rain finally came, and then the sun, and I hopped outside in my nightgown this morning to see how my little lettuces were doing. As I had suspected, last night was the night for them to slip out of their skins and push upwards. Alas, the slugs appear to have marked their calendar too, since they waited until I was snoring to snip off every little tender green top, leaving pale white stems withered on the ground. I am saddened and incensed.

As I read Barbara Kingsolver, I wish I could be part of her family. They can actually start seed indoors; my windowsill is too dark, and even adding a heat mat under the peat pots only makes the seeds mold faster. She mulches against weeds; I managed to triumph over bindweed, but slugs still have the upper hand. I have hand-picked (146 in one session), built little copper borders, scattered coffee grinds, set beer traps (and had to buy beer for them, since neither of us care for beer), left boards out overnight as a slug hotel (“slugs check in…”) and even—gasp—have resorted to Sluggo. And still, my lettuces are munched.

I have one more secret weapon: Little One has a birthday next week, and is looking a bit shaggy. Perhaps he (and maybe even his brother) will donate a few hair clippings to scatter around the garden. I’m sure they’ll do it, since the next things due to sprout are the peas that they sowed two days ago. Windowsills are not an option.