Beware the evil kiwi demon: It’s coming to get you

Have you ever had that nightmare, the one where you’re trying to run away from some evil demon that’s stalking you and your legs just won’t work? Or you’re stuck in quicksand or mud or something equally viscous? I have that nightmare all the time. Except it’s real life. And instead of a demon, it’s a kiwi.

My son had his eighth-grade graduation this week and we invited lots of family. Once they all said they were actually going to come, I had to take a good hard look at my surroundings. Though I already knew my yard was in a sad and sorry state, I just kept telling myself that if I closed my eyes tight enough, I could go to my happy place where there are no left over autumn leaves in the window wells, no random garden tools strewn about the property and no weeds. Not one.

Just thinking about weeding makes me sad. Not like a casual sad, but a deep sadness that brings a pain to my heart. A pain that borders on agony. Like I’ve had to tell my daughter her fish just died and watch big tears pool up in her innocent little eyes. Or like I have to wipe mildew off the bathroom ceiling 13 minutes prior to the arrival of 10 guests. That kind of sad.

But as someone way more intuitive then me once said, hurry up and clean, we don’t want people to think we live like we actually live. And my yard was certainly in the running for a Sanford and Son reunion show location. After making the front of the house and the driveway presentable, I was ready to be done. Unfortunately for me, the weeds were not ready to be done. I took a deep breath, prayed to whomever may have been listening (I’m pretty sure the neighbor thought it was him) and started for the back yard.

Let me tell you a little something about being married to my husband. He’s an ideas man. He comes up with plans and schemes that have you wondering how you could have ever lived without whatever crap he is currently peddling. From homemade baby changing tables that cost 39 times more than a store bought one and are clearly a death hazard, to kiwi plants that could play the starring role in Little Shop of Horrors, he promises the next wonder of the world and every time, I believe him. The problem is in the delivery.

I mean, what normal human would turn down the opportunity to have kiwis in their own back yard? I love kiwis, my kids love kiwis, we all love kiwis! Yes, yes husband, plant kiwi with abandon and we will feast on their perfection every summer!

Except for the first seven summers. Because kiwi don’t grow fruit until they damn well feel like it. What they do grow is vines. Twenty-seven foot long vines that crawl up the garage, wrap around the garden gnome and silently reach across the fence, lightly brushing your back and neck when you’re trying to get through the gate.

It’s like every fear from every horror movie that I sucked down as a teenager has come to life. I’m that stupid and unsuspecting woman, going about her daily life, just trying to get into the backyard to pull the weeds in the nine raised beds that my husband swore would cut down on our workload and then quietly, oh so creepily, there it is; voluminous and spindly – tap – right on my freaking shoulder.

I’m not exaggerating. We actually have two ridiculous kiwi demons, because my husband is full of ideas (amongst other thing). And they both hate me. They know that I have spent years laughing at their ineptness. Mocking the fact that each season, they grow 267 feet longer, but until last year, yielded nary a single fruit. That for seven years, they sucked the nutrients from the soil, gave me nothing but more unwieldy plant life that someone (me) had to weed under and harassed me while I mowed — but provided us with nothing.

I have been tapped, poked, scratched and tripped by our kiwi plant. And even though I have the patience of a overtired newborn who just got a full series of immunizations, I was really hoping this one would come through for us.

So last year, when the plants started to bud, began to show tiny signs of fruity deliciousness, I let a little hope come into my shriveled heart. Brian assured me that inside of a month or so, I’d have my fill of this awesome fruit.

I watched and waited, ignoring the vines attempt to strangle me when I headed out to the clothesline (though I do wish we had planted it a lot further from the bedroom window because I’m pretty sure its next plan is to eat the screen and get me in my sleep). They seemed to grow slowly, but hey, I had waited seven years. I could have been common-law married to the damn plant by now for all I knew. A few more weeks seemed bearable.

So imagine my surprise when I wrestled free from its vine-y death grip one day only to have Brian tell me it was ready.

“Ready for what?”

“Harvest.”

I looked over at these raisin-sized, smooth skinned pebbles and thought he was kidding. Much to my horror, he was not. This was it. This feeble attempt at a fruit was actually the fruit. No handball-sized nugget of fur-covered deliciousness. Nope. These were glorified jellybeans, except not as tasty. The only person who should plant this hateful disappointment is the Dalai Lama, because he is the only one who could possibly love and understand this fruit for who and what it is — a hateful imposter, sent to put me in an early grave.

I won’t let it beat me though. I took this quiz and I would totally survive a horror movie. Because I have several pair of hedge trimmers and I am not afraid to use them.

Laurie Nigro, a mother of two, is passionate about her family, her community, and natural living. Laurie resides in downtown Riverhead and is co-founder of the River and Roots Community Garden on West Main Street.

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