![]() Rabbiting has entered the Australian lexicon, and none of its many meanings carry positive connotations: to talk at length about nothing of importance, to run for cover out of cowardice, to be rather too quick about the sex act. As with many other plant and animal species in that great southern land-dingoes, cane toads, kudzu, cats-the rabbit has made itself right at home. Where I grew up, sort of-or rather where I spent a few years while growing, in Australia-rabbits are an introduced species. Only the mustard was spared, probably because it was six feet off the ground and pungent. Then came the rabbits, and overnight my garden reverted to its original mud-patch state. The basil shot up three feet when I wasn't looking, and the mustard, six. Despite flooding, despite hail, and despite my scorched-earth methods of aphid control-in short, despite everything-the garden greened. I prayed over that garden more often than I prayed for good health, weeded its neat rows daily, and tracked in mud every time the weather turned stormy. I put in asparagus, bok choi, carrots, ten or twelve different herbs, and mustard. A small garden, but an ambitious enterprise by my own less-than-modest expectations. Several states away, I dug up a patch of front yard, right up against the house, about six feet by four. You remember you put in a raised bed around the same time, and blamed the wretched crop on Alabama’s unpredictable weather. When I was twenty-two, I decided to plant a kitchen garden. ![]() Here follows my entire history with rabbits. You deserve an explanation, and I won’t hold back. Not just about the prickly pear jelly I sent you for Christmas, which I fully intended for you to serve with scones and hot tea, but about a certain creature which is-quite literally-much closer to your heart. In light of your latest letter, I thought it likely that we might have misunderstood each other.
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