Barometer
Fruit flies in February
David Suzuki had his start in science with these creatures. They are fast and dark but not too hard to see; they do not bite humans. They are cute!
They are fruit flies, drosophila melanogaste, and they are lovely little vegetarians. The fruit flies in my kitchen tend to show up with the first ripe tomatoes from my garden: they have good taste and good timing. What’s not to like?
This is what these gnats make me think: I should never leave tomatoes to ripen inside even when frost threatens. I should paint the whole interior of the house again; it looks flyblown. I should invent little tiny fly swatters two inches across and swat the buggers with ’em. These items could be sold right beside the canning supplies, near the Pectin. They should come free with jar lids!
I have observed a yellow-jacket slice a sizable piece of BBQ’d chicken off the bone; I have soothed my child who had three stings from one wasp at a late summer wiener roast. They were likely after the cold-smoked salmon—whatever. And yet it is the fruit flies I draw with my killing fantasies. Wasps at least have the decency to die, finally, after their fall of bizarre and dangerous behaviour: the crazy aerobatics, the bikers of bugs, the random violence and chainsaw destruction.
Never mind the tiny fat birds drinking the fermented mountain ash berries off the tree in my front yard in autumn. You may think I am an enabler, as it is my tree and it is in full sun and way overgrown, so the tall branches keep their berries through late western sun and early frosts and apparently produce a nice buzz. The poor birds look like robins, but with a more orange than redbreast colour, and they are not as smart as robins, who leave in winter. These poor birds get drunk and fly into my front picture window, this time of year. Lots of them.
It is my picture window and that is my tree and so therefore it is my fault: I am the human. Plus, I own a cat, and she can’t help hunting chilled, stunned birds any more than those birds can help getting stunned, given the circumstances. The season, environment, nature, etc.
However, as a housewife, I am in charge of my kitchen, whose environment I can change, at will. The fruit flies are my guests, as it were, and I can make it less, or more, comfortable for them.
For example, just starve the buggers and they’ll go away: remove all ripening tomatoes, store-bought onions, fresh garlic, drying cilantro, and so forth from your kitchen counter. Easy. Except the next morning when you discover a large and energetic family can survive on one crumb of raspberry jam still left on the cutting board overnight. Heck, they probably had a three-generation wedding party there!
Imagine the music; hold your ear close to hear the baptisms and bar mitzvahs! Holy!
One year I had fruit flies for so long, my friends started getting weirded out. Fruit flies through to February. Even though I made the counter barren, there was always, it appeared, something to keep those brave few going, a wine bottle rinsed off but not washed and dried: good enough for a couple of couples.
Banishing the cherry wine to the cellar, I then found out that a juice box in the bin makes a happy home, a nice little neighbourhood, quiet and out-of-the-way. Apparently a nice place to raise a family—jeez!
And so it went. Herbs withered, garden stalks turned black, the days grew dark, all seemed lifeless. But inside my house, well into the new year, there were many happy brand new generations of potato-sucking icky yucky bitty bugs.
Fortunately, spring came, and with it a killing frost. I invited that very first bright hard white sunshine into the house, and when it was gone, so were those fruit flies.
What are the current conditions at your place? Tell us your favourite tales of infestation, share your slug sagas, admit your animosity towards ants, fury at fleas, or loathing for lice. Write “What’s bugging me now!” to char@northword.ca. A seasonal reading of the Northwest could be totally furious, mildly annoyed, or calm and clear.
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