Why this year I won't be called the Little Red Hen....

So, every spring comes my annual quest for a beautiful vegetable garden. It starts with tilling the heavy soil, adding compost bag by aching bag, pulling pesky weeds while pulling my hamstrings, selecting seeds and tending to my seedlings like they were the infant of Prague, digging holes with a shovel whose time is long overdue for the shovel graveyard, fiddling with my husband's watering hose and timer system that makes me wish for a old fashioned well and bucket, thinning the carrots hour after hour, all the while under the watchful eye of not a hawk, not quite a vulture, not Jim Crockett or Martha Stewart, but the nemesis of all little red hens everywhere, Nana. She watches and waits with joyful glee through her back window as I "harvest, thresh, mill and bake". This year will be different though, as I have made a plan of action with my therapist to stop her in her tracks as she unselfishly proffers up my harvest to her friends and relatives while I am off somewhere slaving through a 12 hour shift. Wish me well, and godspeed, my fellow little red hens....