Harvest, Schmarvest

A few posts back, I was reveling in the large crop on my orange tree.  Now, I revel not.  The oranges were worthless: lots of seeds, lots of pulp, hardly any juice.  On the plus side, they were easy to peel - a plus that rapidly became meaningless as, one after another, we tossed the peeled fruit into the trash.

What happened?  T'was not the tree.  T'was not the bee.  T'was me.  I selected the wrong kind of citrus for my private one-tree orchard.  Algerian Clementines are self-fruitful but produce better crops if pollinated.  But, if pollinated by anything other than another Algerian Clementine, you get what we got: yuck fruit.

The tree blossomed profusely, smelled delightful, attracted lots of bees.  Ah, but who knew where those bees had been?  What were the odds that every one of those little fellas showered the night before, removing all traces of pollen from their prior day's work, that they then spent the night in isolated clean rooms away from their unwashed hive-mates, that their first stop of the day was an Algerian Clementine across town, after which they made a non-stop beeline to my place?  Any bettors?

Bees don't care where they get their nectar.  Got flowers?  I'll be right over.  Bunch of sluts.  Kinda reminds me of myself in my younger days.

Yesterday, the orange tree became history.  It's gone: cut up, rooted out and trash piled.  The pretty, aromatic blossoms alone didn't justify the special care and feeding I was providing.  In its place is a pygmy date palm.

Pygmy Date Palm

It grows slowly to about 9' tall and wide.

Will it actually produce dates?  

Don't know.  No pygmies around here to eat 'em, anyway.