My (not-so-well chaperoned) citrus tree is having babies.

As I walked around the gardens last night, I noticed a familial scent that delicately etched distinct perfume laden channels through the thick nocturnal sea-air. It was there, and a step further, in a recess - it wasn't. I knew the fragrance but was slow to associate it with citrus trees. My citrus trees are mercurial in their fruit production and it is always a surprise to me when they decide to share their goodness. Had I not made this fortuitous discovery, I would have remained uninformed about my tree's happy predicament.

I bought the tree in question, a grafted pink grapefruit tree, from a local nursery. I‘ve had occasion to notice that similarly purchased trees have dissembled their identities. Truthfully, it may turn out to be anything from a Washington Navel orange to a Marsh grapefruit to a kleptomaniacal kumquat. Time tells all.

You can see the tiny fruit already in formation.

The Pineapple Trials

Ever since we nearly crash landed on Lanai (the pilot must have been accredited somewhere but those details have eroded with the passage of time ) and visited the pineapple fields of Hawaii, I've been wanting to grow my own pineapple or, perhaps, secretly compete with Dole.

"Off with their heads" as the Queen of Hearts likes to say, and plant the tops in a well behaved soil. That's what I did (expecting very little).

I put mine out on the front lawn (another ham-handed attempt at defying the natural order of things). My two plants, Scorn and Derision, were just a pair of curiosities in a garden of curiosities. Those that passed seemed to mutter - Is that a pineapple next to the croquet hoops?

What really surprised me (apart from success) was that the fruit, multiple fruit to be exact, begins to form when the temperature is the lowest (in February at about 50°F). I thought that July or August would have been more logical (but quite wrong).

My pineapples don't get as big as the supermarket ones (they must cheat), but they are quite charming and tasty (I think they need more water but seem to survive my uncompromising neglect).