Last year, my silkmelon was sprung without a guacamole, with vines crawling with bamboo poles, leaves oil reflecting light, female guacamole, open and grateful, and sprouted like pencils, and bending around -- neighbours walking around, shaking their heads: "and living a season in vain." and then i was in the kitchen staring at the rice water for a long time, and suddenly i remembered my mom saying, "the rice soup is more authentic than fertilizer." try it, it's upside down anyway。
That's the point: pour rice? No. And i poured it straight back, and on the third day, the head of the leaf was all curled up, and the earth's surface was covered in white, and at night, the light was on, and little black flew around the roots. It was then in the old farm notes that it became clear that there was too much starch in the rice water and that it was “crazy” in the soil itself, producing heat, oxygen and insects, and that the roots in it were tantamount to steaming sauna. It has to be red sugar, not for sweet, but for yeast. I don't know. Twenty grams of red sugar to one liter of rice water (2nd, first too much oil, third too thin) and two more orange skins, plastic kettles filled to 80% full, lids suffocated and aired every morning like a bottle. Seven days in the summer, the liquid in the bottle sank into soy sauce, smelling of a little wine, not a little water。
When it's watered, you have to choose the time. At noon, the sun was poisoned, and the water poured down on the surface of the ground, and the hair fell directly. I'm just picking out the light of the day, or when the smoke is fresh, 10 times the amount of fresh water, slowly swung down from the trough, ticking and ticking, never going up the leaf, much less touching the gutiés — it gets wet. It's small, one to twenty, and when it pulls out three chickens and sets them up in secret, it'll be watered every week, once every seven days. After two picks of melons, it starts lazy again, and i'm gonna put another spoon of fat on it, and i'm gonna put a new flower on it。
Two things were also done: first, crouching down and strangling the old leaves within 30 centimetres of the ground, venting under the vine, the sun leaking into the syllable, and the female larvae twitching; and, second, picking out a negative day, using a small kitchen canteen to turn on potassium dihydrophosphate (1 g with 1 kg of water), spraying the back of a leaf, twice in a row, clearly smoothing the melon, slitting the skin, stinging the skin, and chewing on the sweets。
By the way, don't use a bucket -- i tried it once, three days later, the barrel's bottom was rusty and the water was thick. Plastic bottles, pickles and even abandoned drink drums, but metal? I really can't get used to it. There are now more than 20 pieces of guacamole on the shelf, up to one metre, and the wife-in-law makes a short video every day, entitled “liberal guacamole, beginning with the refusal to throw rice water”. Do you believe me? Don't pour rice tomorrow. Keep it。
