Blog Posts - FLYING WHALE STUDIOS

Sunshine is lovely — but where's the water?

5/8/2015

This spring has been a glorious revival of life — oh, so good for the spirits after such a long, intensely cold and snowy winter. But all this sun and unseasonable warmth have headed us prematurely down the road to drought. We haven’t arrived there yet, but with no rain in the forecast, there’s cause for concern.

So far, our fruit-bearing trees and shrubs are faring well — blossoming with abandon, no fear of a freeze or an ill-timed downpour. Pollinators that survived the harsh season behind us have plenty to buzz about: Sour cherries, sweet cherries, peaches, honeyberries, juneberries, strawberries. Currants and blueberries, gooseberries, black raspberries and aronias are soon to follow.

Without rain, doesn't it seem a bit fruitile?

The self-restrained grapes have been slow to open their buds. Without an accurate weather service to rely on, they’re in no hurry to rush things. Just in case. That hesitancy has saved them in the past, so I’m not complaining.

The annuals, however, are thirsty. Really thirsty.

I’ve been reluctant to sow any more seed until the promise of a shower. Watering cans do in a pinch, but they’re no substitute for a gentle overnight soak.

My husband, Kevin, and I have already started saving gray water, even looking for excuses to do dishes to justify another bucketful of life-sustaining liquid for the peas, lettuce, rashishes, beets, Swiss chard, pansies, basil, celery, parsley and onions struggling to establish themselves. We’ve also been dutifully supplying the necessary inch of water each week to the newer fruit trees. If it stays dry for another week, we’ll be watering garlic, asparagus and rhubarb, too.

There’s been no sign of life yet from the borage, carrots, parsnips or rutabagas, also sowed last month to take advantage of the early spring germination conditions they prefer, but which lasted a scant three weeks. I’m still hopeful that a future rainfall will be able to coax them into joining the party. And, I have plenty of extra carrot seed for subsequent plantings.

We have broccoli, cabbage, cauliflower, bokchoy, radicchio and kohlrabi transplants ready to go in after these temperatures in the 80s subside. A variety of herbs and companion plants — lavender, hyssop, thyme, lemon balm, marigolds, pyrethrum and pennyroyal — are also in the queue. Even more trays have tomatoes, peppers and eggplants hardening off on the front porch.

Tray, tray, tray again?

I’ve done all I can under controlled conditions inside. My charges are ready for the real world. But, first, we need some rain.

Postscript — And then it rained on Sunday. A lot.

Canada thistle here to stay

5/1/2015

“Oh. Those are going to be a problem,” a friend commented while touring the garden a couple of years ago, pointing to a curved line of weeds leading away from the grapevines. “You’ll never get rid of them.”

My husband, Kevin, and I had already identified the subject as a particularly pernicious weed. But, he was right. We’ll never be rid of it.

Known as Canada thistle, this perennial nuisance spreads primarily through its roots, boring a circuitous path as much as 3 feet deep through the garden and sending up clones every few inches. Its fleshy stem snaps easily at the T-juncture, leaving the main root free to keep snaking along and creating fresh clones. New mother plants are easily propagated from root pieces as short as a few millimeters.

In just a few years, that small patch our friend noticed has radiated octopi-like arms throughout a large portion of the garden.

A thorn in our side?

If we could eat it, Kevin remarked, we’d never go hungry. And, if we could sell it, we’d never have to worry about money again.

It’s that healthy and prolific.

We suspect our vegetative nemesis arrived with a load of horse or cow manure, although it may have been a gift from the city the year we availed ourselves of free mulch. (Another bonus from that adventure: Poison ivy. Free comes with a price!)

From the thistles’ home base near the trunk of the centermost grapevine, it’s easy to trace its diagonal paths across numerous raised beds. It pops up in walkways, beside companion plants, next to vegetables. It has even found its way into the tiered strawberry bed. So far, the brick sidewalk has kept it from spreading even farther.

Officially classified by the US Department of Agriculture as an invasive species, Canada thistle has a reputation for crowding out native species and reducing crop and forage yields. It has been running amok since the 1600s, when it is thought to have first been brought to the States from Europe in seed shipments.

On the commercial level, run-of-the mill herbicides aren’t terribly effective. Most farmers resort to more potent concoctions to keep it in check.

Since Kevin and I have eschewed such chemical restraints, and we don’t have access to sheep or goats, which might eat the thistles, we’re left with good-ol’-fashioned hand weeding. Pulling the little buggers as soon as they emerge helps deplete that deep main root of its energy reserves, thereby limiting its spread.

This mechanical method doesn’t get rid of the thistles for good, but it’s the best solution we have.

How to make the beds

4/24/2015

We awoke yesterday to a light dusting of snow clinging delicately to tulip leaves, recently spread mulch and even atop our ad hoc raised beds.

My husband, Kevin, refers to these mounds — at present home to cold-hardy seeds — as “graves.” The comparison unnerves me, but it’s regrettably apt: The dozen soil structures, roughly 2-feet-by-8-feet, are indeed reminiscent of a trendy memorial park (where everyone’s dying to get in...).

I try to ignore him and not picture that visual.

The trouble is, these hillocks sacrifice aesthetics while providing nearly all the benefits of raised beds.

These French-style beds:

— Allow soil to stay friable and light, for roots to expand as needed

— Allow for dense placement so vegetables can out-compete weeds, and the loose soil makes it easier to pull any that do take hold

— Create better drainage

— Extend the growing season, warming soil earlier/retaining heat longer

At high season, riotous growth obscures the shape and makes Kevin’s comparison moot. At other times of year — like now — more formal structures would be a bit easier on the eyes.

But, what form should these structures be? What materials should we use?

These are the questions that not only keep me up at night, but send me scurrying to Google during every spare minute. What I’ve learned hasn’t brought us any closer to a decision.

Basic wood frames create a neat, orderly look. Options include cedar and other naturally rot resistant woods; untreated pine; even all-in-one kits. Eventually, though, wood deteriorates and needs replacing. It’s also a bit utilitarian for the front yard.

Or, we could opt for composite wood or recycled plastic. I’m especially tickled by Togetherfarm Blocks made of food-grade recycled, BPA- and phthalate-free plastic. They hook together in any configuration — just like a certain multi-colored stackable block toy. Plastic would last a long time, but might eventually leach chemicals into the soil that could wind up in our food.

Galvanized steel is yet another option — either free-standing or framed by wood. Some look like horse watering troughs. Intriguing, but ultimately, again, not a look we want.

Some do-it-yourselfers create a border with just about any material at hand — bottles, shutters, woven twigs, cement blocks, repurposed gutters, wooden crates, even railroad ties. All of which we vetoed for a variety of reasons.

That leaves my material of choice: Rock. It’s strong. It’s durable. It’s natural.

Beds made of it would last a long time, look fantastic, and be sturdy enough that we could sit on the edge while we work (certainly an advantage as we age!). They could even be built in any shape we desired — rectangular, oval, curved, amoeba.

But rock is expensive. Free sources are difficult to transport. And, building with it is labor intensive and time consuming.

For now, we’ll have to make do with our French-style beds.

I’ll just keep ignoring what Kevin calls them.

Preventive measures

4/17/2015

We’ve learned the hard way to spend a few minutes in April to prevent hours of chores in mid-summer.

To that end, a load of mulch has been delivered, soon to be spread strategically to impede weed growth and preserve soil moisture for thirsty roots.

We’ve trimmed berry bushes, grapevines and fruit trees to promote air flow and check unrestrained growth.

We’ve sprayed plant-based horticultural oil on dormant trees and shrubs to control pests and disease.

We’ve planted snap peas and shell peas, beets and parsnips; and transplanted lettuce, pansies and onions — to launch the produce season and to fight weeds.

Plus, since so much of what we grow must wait until late May to be transplanted — tomatoes, eggplants, peppers, squash, even most beans — we’ve broadcast seeded several varieties of radishes to fill the space until conditions are right. Hundreds of daikon, cherry belle, sparkler white tip, purple plum, watermelon and French breakfast radishes may be more than we can eat, but even if they get tilled in as “green fertilizer” it’ll take less effort than hoeing and pulling weeds!

An almond tree grows in Geneva

4/10/2015

“There. It looks like a tree!”

My husband, Kevin, uttered this assessment after we stepped back from pruning the almond tree one evening earlier this week.

After barely surviving transplantation three years ago, the almond has grown like a weed — branches embracing the sun in all directions, evidently overjoyed to have lived. Despite what I thought was judicious pruning last spring, its out-of-control growth continued.

In other years, we’ve tackled this task in March, before the trees break dormancy. This winter’s deep snows and frigid temperatures delayed the project, but spring seems to have arrived in earnest and our window is slamming shut.

So, with rain threatening and a chill wind blowing, we circled the overgrown specimen, picturing the possibilities. After careful deliberation and a few tentative trims with the loppers, we hauled out the saw and made some serious, surgical cuts.

It does indeed now look like a tree. Let’s hope it grows like one.

There may still be snow, but life returns

4/3/2015

There may still be snow on the ground, especially in the northern lee of our house, but life is gradually reasserting itself after yet another fierce winter.

Where the white stuff has melted away, we have snow drops blooming and tulips, daffodils and rhubarb shooting up through mulch. I’ve noticed the currants’ buds starting to swell, and I can finally see the entire garlic patch through the kitchen window.

Though air temperatures remain (apart from yesterday) unseasonably cool, bright sunshine and longer days signal that change is on its way. Geese and songbirds are certainly responding, their joyful conversations drowning out the crows, whose intermittent squawks for months were the only avian sounds punctuating the winter air.

I’m delighted to report that all five grapevines made it through — although one just barely. After last weekend’s pruning session, our Himrod is sporting a single, lone cane. Its others were dry, cracked, desiccated ghosts. Not a hint of green living flesh.

I’ve got to give the vine credit. A year ago, my pruning mentor thought the Himrod was a goner, leaving its shorn trunk in place on the off chance it might come back. I had even researched replacement varieties, convinced we’d be pulling the vine out come fall.

Instead, our Himrod has become the little grapevine that could, refusing to succumb to consecutive harsh winters. The beating it has taken means it won’t likely produce grapes again this summer, but as long as it can use the sun’s energy to replenish its roots, our little Himrod is bound to keep chugging along.

Indoors, plant life has overflowed onto the sunporch. Trays of red and white cippolini-style onions sit happily beside pansies, cutting celery, a wide variety of herbs — Napoletano, Thai, lemon and dark opal basils; parsley, lavender, lemon balm, hyssop and pennyroyal — and slow-growing parsley root and celeriac. Buttercrunch lettuces in coconut fiber pots are almost large enough to start harvesting.

Back in the dining room, under grow lights, with roots warmed by a heating mat, are Thai and kamo eggplants, Santaka chili and banana peppers, jalapeños, red Marconi frying peppers and sweet, thick-walled Cal Wonders.

I’m still holding out hope for more than two Sarian ever-bearing strawberries, a single leek and stubborn Greek oregano. Plus, Sparky marigolds and several varieties of tomatoes should be up soon.

With all these signs of life, who cares if there’s still snow on the ground?

Three more trees; a new hope

3/27/2015

“If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Then quit. There’s no point in being a damn fool about it.”
— W.C. Fields

Try, try again.

Against our better judgment, my husband, Kevin, and I decided to take yet another leap of faith and give three more fruit trees a try. This week, we ordered a BlackGold sweet cherry, a Reliance peach and a Freedom apple tree from Cummins Nursery in Ithaca.

OK, I decided and he didn’t stop me.

The dream of picking our own fruit is just too intoxicating. We’re giddy when the sour cherries and peaches ripen on the only two trees we’ve managed to raise to maturity. Adding apples and sweet cherries would probably make us break out our dancing shoes.

The trouble is, to date, we’ve failed to keep so many fruit trees alive that even I’m losing count. To the best of my recollection, it’s three sweet cherry, one peach, one pear, and four apple trees. That’s an orchard in and of itself — and enough to sink even indomitable optimists like ourselves into despair.

To our credit, we do have one sweet cherry, one apple, one plum, one pear and a second sour cherry still happily growing. They have yet to produce fruit, but they haven’t given up the ghost, either.

We’ve laid most of the blame at the feet — make that roots, leaves and nuts — of the three black walnuts that frame the southwest borders of our property. The juglone toxin these trees exude to restrict competition must accumulate far from the dripline, even uphill.

For we haven’t neglected our young charges. We’ve sited the saplings from reputable nurseries in a well-drained area; dug deep, wide holes; composted; mulched and regularly watered. To no avail. Despite seeming healthy for up to two years, each has inexplicably died.

Frankly, we’ve been spoiled by the care-free nature of so many of the berries we’ve planted. Established black currants, black raspberries, honeyberries, gooseberries and aronia berries take care of themselves. The blueberries and cranberries need a little extra coddling — a little more water and a little more acid than they’d get on their own — but they’ve settled in and made themselves at home.

Our only failure in the berry kingdom was huckleberries. We watered, we mulched, we acidified, we composted. All for naught. For a native, hardy shrub, it may have been too much attention.

Regardless, we pulled them, tossed them on the compost pile and bid adieu.

It’s not so easy with the fruit trees. We’re haunted by the specters of well-pruned canopies and full branches laden with fruit — crisp, juicy apples; sunny, luscious peaches; dark, sweet cherries.

So, since our living sweet cherry, a Tartarian, and apple tree, a Spitzenburg, each need a pollinator, and since our peach tree is slowly dying from a peach tree borer attack, we are compelled to court disdain from W.C. Fields and give it another foolish go.

Sounds worth exploring

3/20/2015

Talk about a tease. A mere handful of days — some sunny, with temperatures nearing 50 — were more than enough after this harsh winter to elicit a collective sigh of relief throughout the region.

Replacing steady commiseration over snow-shoveling aches and pains, ice-damaged roof woes, and the latest forecast for yet another nighttime low below zero, were excited updates about ordering seeds, acquiring onion sets and starting transplants. With spring imminent, co-workers, friends and family heartily rejoiced with garden talk.

But Mother Nature doesn’t follow calendar deadlines. She couldn’t care less that today signals the start of a new season. Snow returned this week, resubmerging patches of soil that had oh-so-fleetingly surfaced from beneath a thick white blanket.

In the wake of winter redux, I’ve contented myself hovering over our seedling trays — compelling germination, recording progress, and watering as needed. In exchange for heavenly lungs-ful of fresh oxygen and the scent of chlorophyl, I murmer sweet nothings and share commentary on their progress with my husband, Kevin, who thinks I’m crazy.

But, studies show that plants do respond to sound, whether it’s music, conversation or the recorded human voice. The benefit comes from actual sound — not just our carbon dioxide-laden breath. Based on recent findings, it’s been theorized that plants use sound waves to communicate with each other and even with insects.

Researchers have found that bees buzz at the proper frequency for tomatoes and other flowering plants to release pollen. Broadcasting certain frequencies and sound intensities can increase plant yields and alter gene expression. One plant physiologist reported that corn seedling roots lean toward a 220-Hertz hum and produce responding clicks registering at the tail end of the human hearing range.

Much of this research is new, and a great deal remains unknown, but it’s clear that communicating with your plants is far from idle chatter. Our green, leafy charges are bound to respond — either with growth that we can measure or clicks we fail to catch.

That should give us something to talk about!

As the larder empties, it’s time for spring

3/13/2015

Last year’s garden peas, preserved to brighten winter’s dark, dreary days, have all been eaten. Only two containers of frozen asparagus remain. Packages of diced sweet peppers are dwindling. And, we’re down to a handful of frozen “lumps” of roasted hot peppers.

Freezer bags of corn, shredded zucchini and edamame, once stacked so tightly on the shelves, are also on the ebb. So, too, are the jars of apple sauce and salsa. And, just one more pie or two will use up the last gooseberries and black currants.

As much as the recent arrival of temperatures in the 50s and longer days have signaled that spring is nigh, it’s the dwindling stores of fruit and vegetables that have kicked my seasonal clock into gear. We need to start growing so we can start replenishing the larder!

Outside, the snow has yet to melt enough to prune fruit trees, berry bushes and grapes, but inside we have buttercrunch lettuce, pansies, cutting celery, onions and celeriac already started under lights. I’m waiting patiently for ever-bearing Sarian strawberries to germinate and lavender seeds to finish chilling in moist soil in the fridge. Next to be sown: Hot Asian peppers, jalapeños, parsley root, marigolds and a variety of herbs.

Lettuce give thanks...

So far, the first seedlings are humming along quite healthy, in no small part I’m sure, because we finally invested in a new heat mat, new thermostat and fresh grow bulbs. I’m also pleased with our new seed starter and transplant mixes.

Mary makes her garden grow.

By a stroke of Internet-sleuthing luck, I stumbled on GreenTree of Ithaca, which specializes in bio-active organic potting soils. I was intrigued by their marketing, so in early January — before area stores had even stocked garden supplies — my husband, Kevin, indulged me by heading south for a reconnaissance mission. He wasn’t surprised to return home with more than the sought-after knowledge — three bags of grow mixes, new seed trays and the aforementioned supplies came with us.

Who needs New Year’s resolutions, when you can rejuvenate the spirit by prepping for spring?

As temperatures plunged in the following weeks, I patiently sorted through our seed stores, perused dog-eared catalogs, placed my orders and marked the calendar for when to start what. Blizzard-worthy winds howled and snow drifts piled up while I hauled out a folding table and set up my growing station. By mid-February, I just couldn’t wait any longer.

Now, the dining room smells like a greenhouse as I contentedly greet the plants each morning with “sunlight” and a drink.

This morning ritual will suffice until the snow finishes melting, the ground dries, and we’re able to plant this year’s patch of peas.

The fruits of our labors

12/5/2014

The growing season has ended, the garden put to bed. All preservation chores are complete, the larders full. Even our holiday open house has concluded, the artists’ unsold wares reclaimed.

Up next? Hosting the family’s Christmas celebration.

But already thoughts turn to 2015: Landscape ideas. Hardscape desires. Seed needs and wants. Skills to learn. Equipment to acquire.

Ours is a forward-thinking life. No sooner is the seed ordered, than I’ve envisioned its growth and savored its potential flavor. On the flip side, no sooner have we harvested a fruit, than I’ve evaluated its quality and devised how best to improve upon it.

There’s a direct link between plan and result. Time is intertwined, looping between yesterday and tomorrow, transforming regrets into promises, while grounding intentions in experience.

This project to reconnect with our food has changed my husband, Kevin, and me: How we think. How we react. How we grow and evolve.

We are not who we were five years ago, when we impetuously smothered our expansive front lawn with aged horse manure so we could create an edible landscape. The process of nurturing plants has nurtured us. As the garden’s diversity has expanded, so have our palates, our friendships, our aspirations.

We have harvested far more than grapes and tomatoes and basil. Like the juice and sauce and pesto they became, we have been strengthened, enhanced and intensified by a garden that has taken over more than our lawn.

It has taken over our lives.

See you in the spring!