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I love you, from my head TOMATOES

5/27/2016

We realized last May as the sun blazed and the humidity spiked and my husband, Kevin, drained his energy pounding PVC pipes, which steady our tomato stakes, into the ground, that we’re not getting any younger. We vowed to “work smarter” this spring and prep the area before it was warm enough to plant the tomatoes.

So, nearly two weeks ago, we plotted out where our most precious 30 plants will go, and Kevin went to work. The thermometer registered 52 degrees — a full 30 degrees lower than last year. And the air was dry as a bone.

Definitely smarter.

After hefting the maul to hammer in the first pipe or two, Kevin had another Einstein moment and suggested that we angle the bottom edge to make it easier to drive the PVC sleeves in. Out came the radial arm saw. Zipft. Zipft. Zipft. A pile of white plastic shavings later, we were ready to put his idea to the test.

What a difference!

In less than an hour, all 30 were in place, ready for the wooden stakes to be dropped in at a later date. I’m sure this whole process will never register as Kevin’s favorite garden chore, but he seemed far less frustrated and tired than he’s been in past springs.

Definitely smarter.

No missed stakes here.

Next came a heavy distribution of straw to thwart a profusion of weeds and conserve water for our prized specimens. Voilà! A neat, tidy patch all ready to go.
Whenever conditions seem appropriate, I can transplant tomatoes without a smitch of guilt — or having to turn up my wifely charms. Even if some would say it’s steamy, muggy or oppressive. The hard work is already done!
By now, the tray of San Marzano, Matt’s wild cherry, opalka, orange banana, Principe Borghese and mortgage lifter tomatoes that I started from seeds last month has been hardening off on the porch. The plants are getting used to real sunshine, real temperature swings and real wind. Soon they’ll be ready to be plunked into real ground.

Whenever time allows, I can nestle these beauties into holes sprinkled with epsom salt, then “mud” them in with a deep drink of fish emulsion — regardless of whether the “real feel” is registering at 95 degrees and it’s humid enough to soak a shirt while sitting in the shade.

As I contemplated how much progress we’ve made, incorporating what we’ve learned into practical solutions that prevent problems or ease our woes, it dawned on me that we have yet to install the 8-foot-tall bean poles — which also are slipped into PVC sleeves.

Maybe not so smart.

To bay or not to bay...

5/20/2016

Sunday — our only opportunity to attend one of the Flower City Days at the City of Rochester Public Market — dawned clear and cool. The car’s thermometer registered 39 degrees in Geneva; 37 as we pulled off Goodman Street and made our way to the market’s side entrance near First Street. A steady, forceful breeze made it downright cold.

Yet the vendors, clutching steaming cups of coffee and stamping their feet, were cheerful — and we were treated to their full attention, since there weren’t many customers braving that chill. They gamely answered our queries as my husband, Kevin, and I searched among the flowering annuals and potted vegetables for a few exotic plants to finish off my wish list.

We soon found rosemary, but not the Zone-5 hardy Madelene Hill variety I would’ve preferred. We selected a lush specimen, and I’ll just have to remember to winter it inside. Our number of “tender” charges that spend the colder months on our sunporch have grown to include a fig tree, a lemon tree, lemongrass, lemon verbena, culantro, Greek oregano and epazote. The rosemary will have plenty of company.

Eggplant, too, was a simple acquisition. Only two Thai eggplant seeds had germinated after multiple sowings earlier this spring, so I was hoping to add at least one more plant. We chose Little Fingers, a petite purple eggplant that promises an abundant harvest of slender, delicately flavored fruit.

I knew the remainder of my list would prove problematic.
“Comfrey? No. I’ve seen it in catalogs. What do you use it for, anyway?”

After I explained yet again that it makes a great addition to compost and can be used to create a “compost tea” with a broad nutritional profile, one vendor seemed interested, but disappointed. If it were edible, she said, she’d have an easier time selling it; she could suggest using it to make “chicken comfrey.”

Growing a plant strictly to add to compost is a concept her customers wouldn’t readily grasp. Oh, well. I guess I’ll have to start it from seed next year. On to another vendor.

“Bay laurel? No. I’ve never carried that. Too hard to grow.”
This herb we suspected was a lost cause, because we’d asked repeatedly for it last year, too. It’s an extremely slow-growing aromatic evergreen tree that can be kept as a houseplant, using its leaves to flavor soup, sauces and stews. A vendor at last year’s Flower City Days had suggested that it’s so rare that I should order it online wherever I could find it. Regardless of price and shipping costs, he said that would be my best bet.

I reluctantly resigned myself to that fate after striking out repeatedly again on Sunday.

At the final vendor, I studied plant tags out of curiosity while Kevin valiantly asked one more time: “You don’t happen to have bay laurel, do you?”

To our utter delight, this vendor replied ‘Yes.”

He had three specimens — each about 8 inches high. They were the prettiest plants I’d seen all morning.

I picked out the best looking one as Kevin handed over $15 — far less than we’d have paid from an online nursery. I settled it in our basket with the rest of our finds, and we hot-footed it back to the car.

It didn’t seem so cold anymore.

Gardening: Sow good

5/13/2016

With each successive year, my husband, Kevin, and I have found the benefits of gardening spread farther than mint or vinca vines and run deeper than dandelion or dock roots. It’s been a journey of the heart, soul and appetite, our endeavors nourishing each as we become intimately tied to our soil, the rhythms of the seasons, the food.

Gardening enables us to get plenty of exercise without a gym membership — strength-building, weight-bearing, heart-pumping, balance-improving exercise. Efforts spent bending, pushing, pulling, lifting, hauling, reaching, walking all help to offset rewarding ice cream at the end of a full day. And, if we’re too tired to indulge, all the better! (Although Kevin can dig deeper than “Survivor” contestants to find the energy required for a chocolate cone.)

Studying plants for signs of stress or horticultural contentment forces us to be cognizant of temperatures, precipitation and wind. We’re keenly aware if our charges are in need of rain, or if it’s too cold for pollinators, or if unseasonal warmth kicked plants out of dormancy too soon. We’ve learned when certain plants are blooming early, or late. We can even tell when conditions are ideal for weeding or spraying or pruning — which is especially frustrating if family or work demands keep us from taking advantage of the opportunity.

All that observation has broadened our knowledge of the microclimates around our half-acre property. Some areas are perfect for drought-tolerant perennial companion herbs; others for sowing temperamental seeds. If we want thirsty vegetables to thrive where the sun bakes all day, it’s best to mulch heavily here. If root vegetables need deep, soft soil, they’re better off over there.
It’s satisfying to draw on these past experiences — when we succeed. It’s equally disheartening when we don’t.

But, ultimately, what drives us, is the quality and variety of foods our garden allows us to grow and eat. Unlike commercially produced fruits, berries and vegetables, that must be able to thrive in a monocultured environment, be strong enough to be picked en masse, and be sturdy enough to withstand the rigors of transport, ours can be tender and persnickety. In many cases, that translates into excellent flavor — as long as we consume or process the harvest immediately.

Gardening also inspires us to expand our palates. Who knew mizuna was edible, much less a refreshing, sprightly green? Or, the smell of black currants could conjure a yen for luscious jam on toast? That beets, which once Kevin eschewed, pair well with a roast chicken dinner? Or, that rhubarb can be juiced?

Each of these, and many more, have become standard fare on our table — testament to the continuing rewards of gardening.

Early in the garden, but not furlong

5/6/2016

Apropos for Kentucky Derby weekend, the garden season is off to the races.

A few brave, vibrant purple and yellow pansies flowered all winter, taking brief breaks only during the occasional deep cold snaps, but now a full company of blooms cheerily greets visitors along our main walk. They’ve recently been joined elsewhere by honeyberry, a handful of strawberry, cherry and plum blossoms, with currants, gooseberries and blueberries close on their heels.

This pansy rose to the occasion.

Along with dandelions rearing their golden heads and lavender hued honeysuckle where it isn’t wanted, the floral bounty is keeping our pollinators busy. Bumblebees can handle slightly cooler temperatures than honeybees, so they’ve been out in force on these gray, chilly days.

Nestled here and there throughout the property, companion plants are greening and growing — yarrow, valerian, rue, southernwood, pyrethrum, sage, mint, oregano, hyssop, lemon balm, pennyroyal and tansy. Brushing against their fragrant leaves makes weeding almost a joy.

Snap peas are up; onions, lettuce and spring cole crops are in; seeds for carrots, parsnips, beets and Swiss chard are sown. Inside under lights on heated mats are tomatoes, eggplant and a wide variety of peppers. This year, we’re sampling a mix of hot peppers along with our standard sweet, stuffing and frying options.

We also have several dozen exotic Asian greens and mustards on tap, courtesy of a friend who shared seeds. Many are at their best in the traditional East Asian “hot pot” — a simmering pot of stock at the center of the dining table into which vegetables, mushrooms, dumplings, tofu and meats are placed and cooked. That same friend introduced us to this simple, but delicious meal. We can’t wait to try it at home with our own fresh-picked greens.

Rhubarb is fun to leaf through.

Garlic, planted last October and smothered with composted horse manure, is lush and green and more than a foot tall. The nearby asparagus and rhubarb have already graced our plates, a welcome infusion of fresh, not frozen, produce.
Next up will be sowing Three Sisters mounds in the backyard — with popcorn, winter squash and pole beans. In addition to the Tom Thumb popcorn we’ve grown to love, we’re adding a calico variety.

And, we’re trying marina di chioggia, a blue-green, bumpy skinned “sea pumpkin” native to the Italian coast near Venice that’s reputed to have rich, dry flesh. One catalog described how thick slices are grilled with olive oil and sold by street vendors.

Another treat we’re impatient to try — but we’ll probably have to wait until the horses go to the post for the Breeders’ Cup.

Can't get enough of 'em

8/16/2015

“I just love these berries,” I cooed for the umpteenth time as my husband, Kevin, and I plunked handful after handful of dark purple aronias into yet one more waiting vessel.

When they first form in early June, the small green berries are clustered on upright branches decorated by glossy leaves that dance in the breeze and glisten in the rain. As they swell toward harvest, though, the now purple berries’ weight bends each branch toward the ground, distorting the bush’s natural silhouette.

We hurried this week to pick them after we spied telltale bird stains on the sidewalk, and Kevin startled an inquisitive robin swooping by for a quick nibble.

The catalog description for the aronias — an improved and renamed choke cherry — lists production at maturity at a whopping 27 pounds of berries per bush. Now that ours are nearing their benchmark height of 5 feet, I can finally give that seemingly incredible number some credence.

We pulled nearly 50 pounds from just two bushes!

Choke's on us.

The firm berries are easily grasped in multiples and separate from their stems with barely a tug. With not a thorn in sight, they’re a joy to harvest — the only headache involved being the trudge back to the kitchen to grab another container.

In two hours, we ended up with one dishtub and three stockpots filled to the brim.

Most, we’ll turn into tart, antioxidant-rich juice that blends like a dream with seltzer or apple juice. Some of that resultant juice, we’ll mix with black raspberry and black currant juices and simmer until thick for a wildly delicious base for ice cream.

Finally, we’ll reserve and freeze a few quarts of whole berries for our signature goose-aroni-ant pies (part gooseberries, part aronia berries and part black currant).

It takes a bit of added sugar to make any of these products palatable, but once that sweet spot is reached, it’s a delectable taste experience — like nothing either of us has had before. If blueberries were a melody, aronias are the full symphony.

The multi-layered, nuanced flavor is intoxicating.

Have I mentioned how much I love these berries?

Not a suggestion; it's the slaw

8/7/2015

I don’t ever crave coleslaw, but I wholeheartedly welcome it alongside certain quintessential summer meals: fried fish dinners or barbecued chicken or pulled pork. I’ve even been known to polish off my serving before taking a single bite of the main attraction.

No matter where it’s ordered, the seasonal salad is reliably crunchy and tangy, with a hint of sweetness. But, there, the similarity ends. How coleslaw is presented, and what it includes, seems to be as variable as the chefs who prepare it.

Sometimes it’s served as a ragged tangle of shredded, but still easily recognizable, cabbage and carrots. Sometimes the ingredients are minced fine and scooped like a ball of ice cream into a dish. At some establishments, it’s flavored with dill or mustard or pineapple. Infrequently, it’s drowning in thick mayonnaise; more often it’s kissed by a lighter dressing of vinegar and cream that binds and flavors without taking center stage.

My husband, Kevin, is a recent, but enthusiastic, convert to coleslaw’s charms. He spent years sliding his portion over to my plate, but in recent summers, he has become a veritable connoisseur. He’s even been known to choose where we dine based on the quality of the coleslaw.

Yet, until now, we’ve never tackled it at home. So, this spring, I planted a variety of cabbage that produces small, 3-pound heads — just large enough to make a week’s worth of coleslaw for the two of us.

Head start?

I consulted numerous recipes that ultimately reinforced my notion that coleslaw is whatever you want it to be, so I decided to follow a basic guideline and season it to taste. For this inaugural effort, there would be no dill, no pineapple, no sweet pepper. No apple cider vinegar or lemon juice; no yogurt or buttermilk. No horseradish or jalapeño.

Instead, with our first harvest, I hauled out our biggest cutting board and set to work chopping. First the cabbage, then the carrot, then the onion. Once this finely chopped — but not minced — melange was mixed together in a bowl, I streamed in some white vinegar and sprinkled in some sugar. Then, I added a pinch of sea salt, a dash of black pepper and, finally, a serious splash of cream.

Voilà!

In less than half an hour, a simple, basic coleslaw.

We couldn’t resist munching it that evening, knowing it would be better the next day after the flavors melded — which it was. Kevin deemed it “the best he’d ever had.”

I have to agree. Next summer, I just might crave its return!

Winter is coming

7/31/2015

Summer harvest may be just taking off — with zucchini, cucumbers, green beans, eggplant, new potatoes and tomatoes finding their way onto our plates — but I’m already thinking about storing potted plants come season’s end.

After receiving a Chicago hardy fig as a gift from a co-worker’s parents who’ve taught themselves to propagate these Sicilian treasures, I realized we’ve added nearly a dozen herbs and fruit trees to our mix. And, each will need to be brought inside before snow flies.

What's the fig idea?

Come fall, our sunporch will be overflowing with newcomers. It’s already home to numerous potted herbs and air-purifying houseplants. In winter, south-facing windows let them soak up weak afternoon rays, and on bitter cold evenings, supplemental heat staves off the deadly chill.

It’s not exactly a conservatory, but it is a bit of a botannical oasis.

Joining the menagerie this year will be a number of new tender perennials that can’t survive a Finger Lakes winter.

In addition to the fig, we’ve acquired:

— Lemon verbena, epazote, Greek oregano and culantro, all purchased during Rochester Public Market’s Flower City Days

— Four-o’clock flower (mirabilis jalapa), started from seed

— Lemongrass, a gift from our daughter Hannah

— Dwarf cacao, meyer lemon, and coffee trees, gifts from our son Zachary

Each is exotic and horticulturally fascinating — broadening our palate in unexpected ways. But, they’re also each decidedly “not from around here,” so the pressure’s on to meet their varied needs.

Currently, they’re content in pots outside — some basking in full sun; others lounging in the shade. We water as needed, if Mother Nature doesn’t provide. The epazote is especially thirsty, drinking at least once a day — a useful repository for dehumidifier water.

I have yet to compile details on their various nutritional requirements. I suspect I’ll need to create a chart to track it all.

In the meantime, with each successive addition, my anxiety level is rising. One killing frost — not exactly in the forecast anytime soon, I realize — and these subtropical and tropical beauties will be lost.

There’s too much thoughtfulness embedded in their greenery to risk that, so I’m marking the calendar for a grand Day of Entrance— a "coming in" party, if you will. I hope there’s enough room in the sunporch to house them all.

A tale of two beans

7/24/2015

“Here, this one’s for you,” I said as I handed Kevin a tender green bean, only moments before detached from the plant.

“What do I do with this?” he asked, taking it from me as if it might strike and sink a fang deep into his flesh.

“Eat it!”

My husband’s not a fan of raw green beans, so this was not the response he was seeking.

The cool overnight forecasts in May had made me overly cautious, so I planted our beans a bit later than usual. The first to mature started blooming last week. It’s a slender, French filet variety that will pair well with olive oil and a hint of freshly ground sea salt. We’ve been looking forward to the first harvest.

Unfortunately, when it finally arrived, the pickings were slim — two solitary beans. More are promised, but not for a few days.

“I already ate mine. I’m not cooking two beans,” I explained in response to Kevin’s quizzical look.

This is the reality of the bell curve of vegetative production. First a trickle, then a steady stream, followed by a flood. Then reverse the flow.

It’s directly inverse to our response. Anticipation makes those first few berries, tomatoes, even zucchini, so treasured. But, the ensuing onslaught of produce at its peak tends to generate a healthy dose of contempt — or at least ennui. As the harvest fades, those final succulent fruits regain their prized status as we realize it’ll be many, many months before we savor their like again.

The textures of fresh fruit and vegetables differ dramatically from preserved. The nutrients may be captured and stored, but not that stop-you-in-your-tracks crisp burst of flavor. Whether crunchy or creamy, juicy or meaty, sweet or bitter, the taste experience is simply summed: The fresher the better, so enjoy it while it lasts.

This is just one more of the rhythms that have enveloped our lives since we began growing and storing more of our own foods. That reliable ebb and flow is comforting, bearing us along like the tide.

So, although a quick sauté may have enhanced the pleasure, I have to say that single bean was relatively incredible — a tad fuzzy on the tongue, certainly crisp, a bit sweet, and indescribably green.

Kevin begrudgingly agreed.

And, by next week, there’ll be many more.

Bean there, done that?

Give peach a chance

5/22/2015

“Do you want to grow a peach orchard?” my husband, Kevin, asked with that signature hey-why-not-it’d-be-fun twinkle in his eye.

I must say, it’s tempting. Oh, so tempting.

We had just come to the realization that the numerous “weeds” we’d begun pulling at the base of our established peach tree are not some strange, thin-leafed unwelcome usurper. They are, in fact, seedling peach trees.

Not just a few. Well over a dozen. Apparently, conditions were cold enough and wet enough this winter for germinating peach seeds. Who knew?

All those pits from over-ripened or too-pock-marked-to-bother-with peaches that fell to the ground and rotted after last year’s less-than-stellar harvest have resurrected themselves, promising juicy, sweet, heavenly globes of goodness, if we’ll just take the time and devote the space to shepherding them to maturity. It’s tempting. Oh, so tempting.

What's all the fuzz about?

But, the front yard is only so big. Besides, we need space to rotate tomato patches. And grow all the other vegetables we’ve added to our edible landscape repertoire.

The backyard, we’ve learned the hard, expensive way, is not fruit tree friendly. The three black walnuts that frame the southwest corner of our property are quick to poison most competition. Just about anywhere we thought a fruit tree would be safe, it wasn’t.

Only the tart cherry trees, which are tolerant of juglone — the anti-social chemical black walnuts exude from their roots, leaves and nuts — have thrived. Repeatedly, apple, pear and sweet cherry have succumbed.

Why add peaches to the list of the dead?

Despite a half acre (minus the footprint of the house) of eligible property, we just don’t have room for a peach orchard.

But it’s tempting. Oh, so tempting.

Like all my seedlings, I am loathe to cull these 6-inch-tall peach-trees-in-the-making. Clearly, they’re happy and healthy. No need for cold, moist stratification treatments. Mother Nature did all the work for us.

Plus, these cute, little trees embody so much promise. With a little love and tenderness on our part, we could soon be harvesting bushels of fuzzy, golden orbs dripping with sunshine, sharing the bounty with friends and family — fresh, frozen and preserved as peach butter or jam. Or baked into luscious pies and cobblers.

With delights like that dangling on the horizon, who wouldn’t want to grow a peach orchard?

It’s oh, so tempting!

A strategy for free-zer space

5/15/2015

And, so, we begin.

Both freezers aren’t exactly empty, and yet already we’ve begun preserving the 2015 harvest. The first diced rhubarb and blanched asparagus containers are safely tucked away, with more to follow.

It’s been an excellent yield so far with both. I’ve never seen our rhubarb so lush and prolific. And fresh asparagus spears are a feast for the soul.

Apparently, asparagus beetles feel the same way. First spied last spring, they’ve returned in full force.

Don't desparagus.

I read that the best companion plant to send them packing is tomato. Solanine — that nightshade chemical that can give potatoes a green tinge — isn’t to their liking. I figure it’s worth a try, so this weekend, several tomato transplants will take up residence in the asparagus bed.

Back in the kitchen, in preparation for the coming onslaught of preserved fruits and vegetables — and to forestall the freezer shelves becoming a jumbled mess — my husband, Kevin, and I devised a strategy to deplete what remains of last year’s stores.

— Earlier in the week, Kevin juiced the last of the frozen currants and berries. Some of the resultant purple nectar we’ll blend with our remaining quarts of apple juice for a sprightly quencher. Some we’ll condense to flavor ice cream and yogurt.

— The last of the beets, sweet potatoes and winter squash we’re making a concerted effort to plan meals around while it’s still cool.

— Shredded zucchini is tagged for snack bread, moist chocolate cake and our signature spicy muffins — a blend of cheddar cheese, zucchini, egg and flour, flavored with garlic, onion and roasted hot pepper. They’re one of our mainstays as a to-go breakfast or paired with salad for a light meal.

— Corn, edamame and red peppers will be used to jazz up barley, rice or pasta salads with asparagus or peas and beans.

— Garlic scape lumps/garlic cloves and roasted hot peppers flavor almost every meal.

— Roasted eggplant blended with tahini and seasonings lends itself well to dips and wraps, both more satisfying as the temperatures rise.

— Broth/stock will be used as needed to flavor sauces, soups and casseroles.

— Sliced apples won’t be neglected — because apple pie is always in season

— But, sadly, there are only enough peaches, cherries and blueberries for about six smoothies as a mid-afternoon gardening refresher. We’ll have to make sure we ration those!

I figure as long as we stick to this plan, plenty of space will be freed in time for what’s to come. After all, asparagus and rhubarb are only the beginning.