It might be Labour Day but my tomatoes are not planted. Even in the greenhouse, I have never found it worth the effort to plant them so early in this Southern climate. They'll fruit just as well if they go in next month.
My salad greens, however, are up and running, and my potatoes are, too, though my husband's entries in our annual spud race are not in the ground yet. He has been handicapped by the last of the silver beet and spinach, still producing happily in the bed where he wants to start planting.
I fear the greens will soon have to be sacrificed for the sake of marital harmony, since I can't convince him to grow them in a container.
In the paddocks, things are not so abundant.
The grass is taking forever to get started, and the sheep have the run of most of the property to keep them happy.
I've still got a couple of fields shut up, but even there the grass is sulking.
And just when it seems to perk up, along comes another bout of sleet or hail to chill it down and keep its growth sluggish.
The soil simply doesn't get a chance to warm up.
Even the lawn hasn't had to be cut yet, partly because we've been letting the sheep nibble it down occasionally.
But all this rain is helping to fill the huge new rainwater tank, though we seem to be using the water almost as quickly as it runs in.
That's probably because of the pressure pump: showers were never so luxurious when the water was gravity-fed to the house, and even cleaning our teeth uses twice as much water.
Just as well we've got four times the storage.
On the egg front, it is a time of plenty.
Plenty of eggs in the henhouse, and anywhere else the hens can hide them, all around our property and beyond.
Judging from the number of clucky hens coming out for a feed every few days, I expect chickens soon.
In the meantime, we're living on omelettes, bacon-and-egg pie, quiche and scrambled eggs. Visitors to our place have to take a compulsory dozen eggs with them when they leave, and still we can't keep up.
Recipe ideas welcome.