::: an eclectic garden :::

Sleeping Peas

2010-03-03T10:09:00.000-08:00

The garden is rife with opportunities to anthropomorphize. The plants are really thirsty, they reach for the sun and leap out of the ground, and they pout. We like to think of our gardens in terms we understand.

Pea planting this last weekend (late, I know) allowed me a chance to indulge one of my favorite plants-as-human fantasies. I imagine the seeds tucked in a bed of rich soil, sleeping and dreaming of spring. The sun will come and warm the soil. The seeds will swell and sprout and the cycle will begin again.

And this is happening all over the garden. Perennials that appear dead aboveground are still hibernating in the earth, with pale tiny leaves and shoots. Fruit buds on trees are tightly closed but all manner of hormonal changes are taking place as the days grow longer and temperatures begin to moderate. Tomato seeds, little more than flakes when planted, will imbibe water, absorb heat and soon push out a radicle and cotyledons.

Last night a dusting of wet snow fell on the garden. As I lay under blankets in the pre-dawn darkness I thought about my newly planted seeds under their own rich blankets of compost and snow, waiting out the capricious early spring weather, waiting and ready to go.

Witch Hazel

2009-02-07T09:38:00.000-08:00

Hamamelis spp.
Witch Hazel

Here in southern Oregon February is a liminal time. We are, literally, on the threshold. It is not yet spring, but it is no longer winter. Days are longer. Bulbs are pushing. And the Witch Hazel is blooming.

Two Hamamelis species are native to the eastern United States but here the Witch Hazel is planted as an ornamental. Its blooming marks for me the first sign of the seasons changing.

The coming week's storms are lined up in the Pacific but a walk around the park assures me that the stormy season is passing. Witch Hazel cultivars from pale yellow to lemon yellow to orange russet contrast against the grays and greens.

It won't be long now.

Server woes

2009-02-07T07:31:00.000-08:00

Server problems are nothing new but this problem seems permanent. I will switch to blogspot hosting while I try to find another solution. The new URL is:

aneclecticgarden.blogspot.com

On a Mission

2009-01-15T19:36:00.000-08:00

‘An abandoned blog’ is such a sad phrase. Better ‘a blog in hiatus’ or ‘a blog on sabbatical’ implying study and industry taking place in the background. But all good sabbaticals come to an end and it is time to rescue this blog from the comment spammers and rejoin the gardening blog community.

Helen at Gardening with Confidence recently suggested that gardeners consider developing a mission statement for their gardens. This initially sounded like a wonderful idea and I have read with interest other blogger's thoughtful posts declaring their own reasons for gardening. I was stumped, though, with my own garden. It is so very small, a mere corner of a yard, and not really my own as it is a rental property. Even coupled with my community garden plot, my garden lacks of a sense of permanence and it seemed hardly worthy of something as farsighted as a mission statement.

I stewed about it for a while and discovered the flaw in this thinking. My gardens are indeed temporary but what gardener can claim to have real control over the long run? Mother Nature is capricious, some say fickle. She blesses some plants with devious powers of reproduction, the better to take over small beds with their minty presence. She is ecumenical, welcoming all manner of creatures in to alter whatever imposed order I have created. She conjures up rainstorms, snowstorms, windstorms and drought. She is, in a word, unpredictable. But she is kind and allows me to take part in the daily miracles.

Gardeners are all temporary stewards, some more temporary than others. Looking back at my many years of gardening I realize that there is an underlying theme, a mission if you will, that emerges over time.

So my garden mission statement becomes clear: My garden will be a place of peace and abundance for the body, mind and spirit. It will welcome, nourish, teach and soothe. It will serve to honor its part in the harmony, in the dance, and in the continuity of our earth.

Lofty stuff for my little garden. But as my grandmother said: Hitch your wagon to a star.

Puttanesca sauce

2008-08-17T16:56:00.000-07:00

August ushers in the great tomato extravaganza. Until frost I will be bringing in big bags of assorted varieties and will be caught up in processing sauce to freeze. A couple of years ago I came across an article in the local newspaper for making roasted tomato sauce. This has been my mainstay technique. It is dead easy. But last year, when all the frozen sauce was gone, I purchased a commercial Puttanesca sauce that knocked my socks off. I knew that I must find a way to duplicate it.

With a little wandering around the internet I discovered a nice page on roasted tomato sauce. I also found a recipe for Puttanesca roasted tomatoes. Why not take these recipes and combine them?

I sliced enough tomatoes in chunks to fill a single layer on two rimmed cookie sheets. I then added to each pan:

Half an onion, cut in wedges and spread around
Several cloves of peeled garlic
A large handful each of fresh basil and fresh parsley
One half a small tin of anchovies
6 or 7 Kalamata olives, cut in chunks
¼ tsp hot pepper flakes (I used Allepo)
A generous drizzle of olive oil over it all

Roasting at 400 degrees until the tomatoes collapsed took about 40 minutes. (I would like to try slow roasting at a lower temperature but it is too HOT! to leave the oven on). When cool, I transferred one sheet’s contents to a food processor, threw in a heaping teaspoon of capers, and processed. (I think that putting the capers in with the tomatoes before roasting would be just fine.) The two cookie sheets yielded six cups of very delicious sauce.

High summer chores (albeit pleasurable) yield such treasure in the winter, not to mention reducing monthly food bills (ever increasing). Our household has been trying to do more preserving this year. M. is smoking and canning salmon that he catches. My pepper crop promises to be the best ever for freezing, drying and making hot pepper pastes and powders. We have concord grapes to steam juice if we can beat the raccoons to them.

And now it’s time to make more pesto!

Winter Dreams

2008-02-03T09:37:00.000-08:00

A gardener’s spring begins in winter, in the imagination. And the imagination is a kind companion, forgiving and forgetful, encouraging and enthusiastic. Last year’s failures are recast as character builders and learning experiences. The coming year is still a blank palette. The seed catalogs are spread from hell to breakfast. Ideas loom large but still seem achievable. Pragmatism may win later in the year but now is the time for optimistic indulgence.

And what indulgences! I am actually envisioning a gardening year where I thwart gophers, vanquish deer, redesign plots and finally grow tuberous begonias from seed. Quixotic you say? Well, we’ll see.

Fedco, my mainstay seed company, knows about these rose colored glasses that we don in the dead of winter. This year marks their 30th year of doing business and the catalog ‘s catch phrase reads “30 Years of Spring Fiction.” Extravagant descriptions, gardener’s purple prose, fill the pages and tempt the winter vulnerable to further excesses of ordering.

But honestly, who can resist a winter squash, Sweet Meat, that “grew over the bean trellis, vaulted the 8’ garden fence, and ran off into the woods like kudzu with pies attached.”

Last week's storm

2007-11-27T06:43:00.000-08:00

Standing in the eye of autumn’s bluster is an elemental pleasure. Secure in the knowledge that warm shelter is but a few steps away, I can freely breathe the wildness of a coming storm without worrying over finding a place to hunker down and wait out the weather.

In gust after huge exhaling gust, the wind showers me with a whirl of leaves; oak and maple, filbert and persimmon, gingko, dogwood and dove tree spin past me, get caught in air eddies and propel upward and on their way. No demure spring zephyr, the angrier fall wind can strip the leaves in one afternoon.

The gusts, ushering in a chilling rain, calm as suddenly as they began. The temperature drops noticeably; the leafless trees stand still in the brooding air.

In this brief between-time, the wind spent but the rain not begun, I am struck by the now exposed pattern of skeletal branches, from the thick scaffolds to the tiniest twigs far above. It is a fractal echo of leaf veins. The bare limbs reveal patterns within patterns.

The drizzle begins, settling in, a wet cloak under a darkening sky. Time to go in.

Giving thanks

2007-11-22T07:59:00.000-08:00

A litany of garden blessings:

Fresh parsley and sage, thyme and rosemary, all in the garden for holiday cooking.

A climate that allows for fresh herbs but still offers the wonders of winter.

My library of garden books to cozy up with in the cold dark time of introspection.

Kale and chard.

Leaf mulch and its complex microcosm.

Clear cold days coinciding with time off to finish putting the garden to bed.

Cockeyed optimism necessary for planting garlic in the face of gophers and deer.

A single leaf hanging at the very top of a bare tree like a silver star.

Rubber boots and warm wool socks.

M’s unflagging willingness to help with the heavy lifting and cheer on even the most harebrained garden ‘innovations’.

Candlegrove.

A garden mostly dead above but teeming with life below.

A clean slate.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

2007 Bean Report

2007-10-18T05:43:00.000-07:00

I grew several kinds of beans this last summer. Fresh eating bush varieties included Maxibel, Royal Burgundy and Pencil Pod Wax. I have long wanted to try growing beans for drying and chose Cannellini and Midnight Black Turtle Bean.

Things in the garden rarely go as planned.

The Maxibel, a haricot vert from Fedco, produced lavishly and boasted a remarkable flavor. The catalog cautioned to pick early and often, which is catalog-speak for lousy when over mature, so I harvested the Maxibels rather to the exclusion of the other fresh varieties. This left the wax and purple beans to swell with seeds, a bit of serendipity that gave me a chance to become reacquainted with what my southern raised mother called ‘shelly beans’. I simply couldn’t bear to toss those swollen pods in the compost.

And they are delicious. I found several recipes for a creamy fresh shell bean soup. I was a little leery, though; since the beans from the Pencil Pod Wax were dark I was afraid that the blended soup might turn out mud brown instead of the described ‘jade green’. So I opted for a hearty soup from roasted chicken broth, spinach, noodles, chicken sausage and, of course, a generous amount of shell beans. Yum.

The dried beans are almost ready to harvest. The plants are now permanently covered with reemay as we are firmly into frost season. And only one variety survived. Owing to my touchingly foolish belief that I would remember where each variety was planted I now have no idea which variety I am coddling through the vagaries of a Pacific Northwest fall.

But I like surprises. And it should be easy to tell! No risk of confusing cannellini with black beans.

Next year I will grow only Maxibel for fresh beans. I’ve tried for years to find a great fresh green bean and I think the search is over. And I am so happy to rediscover shell beans and finally try growing dried beans. There is much history for the heirloom bean varieties and I am looking forward to a little winter research into the subject.

Weather observation

2007-10-16T05:41:00.000-07:00

I shot this a few days ago. If the adage that a red sky in the morning predicts an inclement day then surely this kind of sunrise must portend an inclement season!

Our autumn weather pattern here in my corner of the PNW usually includes mild days and cool nights with occasional rain showers. This year is shaping up differently. We have had a few storms with high winds followed by chilly rainy days. The weekend was mild but the character of these last storms is more in keeping with our late November storms.

I looked out the window an hour ago and saw rays of watery sunlight shining through red Virginia Creeper, picking out and illuminating droplets of water. Now the sky has darkened and the wind has picked up.

As they say around these parts, "If you don't like the weather wait five minutes".

Metamorphosis

2007-10-02T09:55:00.001-07:00

I have celebrated late summer the last several years by searching any milkweed plant I see, hoping to find monarch butterfly eggs or larvae. The last couple of years the search has proved unproductive but this year’s efforts with coworkers yielded two large larvae. These provided another chance to observe the amazing phenomenon of metamorphosis.

The larva does little but eat until ready to pupate. At this point it will begin to wander but eventually will spin a small knot silk on a stem (or another suitable location) and hang with the head curved up. It attaches to the silk with curved hooks on its two hind prolegs. This is called the “J stage” and the larva remains in this stage for about 24 hours.

When the filaments on the head appear very limp it is time to start observing closely.. The skin of the larva starts splitting up the back and the larva gyrates rapidly, all the while remaining attached to the stem, and pushes the larval skin up to where the prolegs are attached to the silk.

At this point the chrysalis is very delicate and the skin must be discarded. In a split second the chrysalis pushes a black postlike cremaster into the knot of silk, twisting to embed the barbed hooks on the end into the silk filaments. It then pulls the hooked prolegs from the silk and flicks the skin away by more vigorous twisting and turning. In 2-4 hours the skin of the chrysalis will harden and it will hang like a green and gold jewel for about 10 days.

During the last day or so the colors of the butterfly’s wings are visible through the clear shell of the chrysalis.

When the butterfly emerges its wings are quite small.

Over the next hour the butterfly will pump fluid into the black veins on the wings and they will expand to full size.

I never tire of watching this miracle.

A thank you to Autumn

2007-09-23T11:50:00.000-07:00

What better time to resume posting to this blog than on the day that marks the Autumn equinox ? My calendar tells me that we passed this point at 2:31 this morning.

Changes in Autumn are incremental; the days are shorter by a couple of minutes, the night temperatures slightly cooler, and the shadows a little longer on the tawny hillsides. But taken together the whole seems greater than the sum of the parts.

The garden in Autumn is rich with lessons if anyone cares to listen. Or it can serve simply as a source of comfort. Pulling out spent bean plants can give rise to a meditation on the transitory nature of life. Alternatively, the rhythmic nature of the work, coupled with the warmth of the departing sun and the cool edge to the breeze, can induce what I think of as the gardening trance, a kind of benign mindlessness that has the power to heal.

Whichever mental path I choose, as I go about the business of cleaning and preparing the garden for winter, I win.

Much as autumn changes are small but cumulative, so are the tiny changes in the mental landscape that culminate in the return to center. Months of living out of balance are left behind as I step back on the turning wheel, picking up where I left off as if I had never been gone. The earth cycles move along in that curious duality of stability and transition and my tiny speck of a garden is no exception. It feels good to be back in synch and I am grateful.

Annual first tomato post

2007-07-07T09:07:00.000-07:00

There is a reason that so many garden bloggers post their first ripe tomato. It is akin to the clouds parting and a celestial ray of buttery sunshine pouring onto the garden, a heavenly host singing in the background.

Yes. It is that good.

My first ripe tomato this year was ‘Bloody Butcher’. Despite its rather base name the flavor was transcendent, still warm from the sun. The later tomatoes boast incredibly rich and complex flavors but the first tomato is incomparable after a winter of store bought tomatoes or, worse, no tomatoes.

For me it marks the real, non-calendar beginning of high summer. A seemingly endless succession of languid afternoons, thick fragranced evenings and a parade of summer crops to be enjoyed and preserved.

Getting by

2007-06-08T07:30:00.000-07:00

I have lately been engaging in what I call 'going through the motions' gardening. Taking a page from a friend's fake-it-til-you-make-it strategy for coping with bouts of extreme ennui, this involves continuing with tasks despite the overwhelming desire to stay abed, reading trashy fiction and eating Dove bars.

The work is getting done, the zest is absent. But life experience tells me that moving through such a malaise pays off. The garden can be a place of healing and the day-to-day work, no matter how reluctantly performed, keeps me where I need to be.

Genie at The Inadvertant Gardener expressed it well in this post.

I went out this morning to take some pictures and ponder the mystery of what happens when you just wait out the rough patches and see what happens on the other side...

Waiting out a rough patch, getting by and getting on with it. I know I'll wake up one morning and discover that the magic was never gone, it was only staying in the background weaving its wondrous and healing spells. And I will be so glad that I kept plugging away.

The Seedsower's Lament

2007-05-20T07:09:00.000-07:00

Certain garden events stand out in my mind as clear markers of the seasonal changes. The arrival of seed catalogs is a midwinter benchmark. Swelling daphne buds give me hope that spring will arrive, despite atmospheric evidence to the contrary. And I always feel a little thrill at the first appearance of cool weather vegetable starts in the nursery. But nothing says spring quite like that moment when the gardener surveys her flats of seedlings, purchased and started from seed, and whispers ‘My God, what was I thinking?’

This year is no exception. The four varieties of coleus (Palisandra, Limelight, Wizard Rose and Kong Rose) are certainly lovely but did I need to sow with such reckless abandon? And what doppelgänger slipped into the greenhouse and planted all those Amaranthus.? I can only offer Seasonal Affective Disorder as a feeble excuse. In the middle of a gray and rainy January who can resist the clarion call of the seed catalogs, trumpeting names like Dreadlocks, Fat Spike, Pygmy Torch and the always-tempting Elephant Head?

You can be sure that my small herb garden cannot accommodate ten fernleaf lavender plants. But this irrefutable fact certainly didn’t stop me from planting the seed. And how could I not buy Lavandula ‘Goodwin Creek Grey’ from the very people who developed and introduced this cultivar. The Master Gardeners Spring Garden Fair is always a source of grave temptation.

The list goes on (and on). I haven't even mentioned the nightshade surplus and the bags of free Gladiolus corms. Who could say no to free?

I’m sure that I am not the only gardener pulling on some gloves and getting down to the serious business of planting. This morning dawned with perfect transplanting conditions. The air is cool, the skies cloudy. The weather report calls for a chance of showers. I’m sure I will find room for most of these seedlings. And my neighbor said she would love to have some coleus.

Tohono Chul Park

2007-04-21T11:59:00.001-07:00

I recently traveled to Tucson to bring my parents’ belongings back to Oregon. When my parents were alive I tried to visit at least once a year and each time I included a trip to Tohono Chul Park, a 49 acre preserve of self guided trails and demonstration gardens. The park also contains a restaurant, art gallery, gift shops and a nursery offering native plants.

These designs are widely varied in theme from the whimsical to the serene...

A few years ago the park added the Desert Living Courtyard showcasing ten garden designs utilizing plants for arid climates. These designs are widely varied in theme from the whimsical to the serene and reflect the cultural sensibilities of the area. Each is intended as an outdoor living space offering relaxation and respite from the heat. They combine structural elements, art and water features with a wide array of plants suitable for different garden situations.

The garden rooms have matured over the past few years and each is filled with ideas for creating your own garden space. The basic design can be modified for your own climate by selecting appropriate plants. I was happy to discover that the plans for each design are available at the Park website. Each plan provides a planting diagram and plant list as well as detailed information about the structural and artistic components. The plant list is very informative, listing botanical and common names, spread, water requirements and landscape use. It even lets the reader know if the plant is available for purchase at the large park greenhouse.

Tohono Chul Park has always been a highlight of all my trips to Tucson. The addition of the Desert Living Courtyard added a creative dimension to my visits. These vignettes were obviously designed by gardeners who know that a garden space can offer much more than a collection of plants. Each is a little oasis offering a multi-sensory experience. The message I take from these gardens is captured by a quote found in the Moorish Garden: Nature is not a place to visit, it is home.

Let the spring garden begin!

2007-03-12T09:41:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I kicked off the spring garden season by planting allium seedlings. I started these several weeks ago and they were more than ready to go. I trimmed the tops, some of which were close to six inches, and got down to business.

I have planted purchased onion seedlings in the past and have always been particularly charmed by them. Each is a tiny replica of the mature plant complete with tiny green shoots, a miniature bulb and long wiry roots. They would be at home in some diminutive bowl on a miniature kitchen table in a dollhouse.

This appeal probably explains my inability to discard even one seedling. This is usually not a problem but the King Sieg leek germination must surely have been 100%. And each and every one is now in the ground. The allotted space was not big enough to accommodate all the seedlings so I planted them at a 2 inch spacing. Barbara Damrosch, in her classic The Garden Primer, recommends this planting because it allows early harvest of the younger leeks, giving the correct spacing for the mature plants. But I bet I will still be pulling leeks this time next year! I should probably start searching for leek recipes now.

Visiting the garden

2007-03-05T10:43:00.000-08:00

Gardening at a community garden has many advantages and a few drawbacks. But one of these drawbacks has a silver lining.

Because my plot is not outside the back door my visits this winter have been infrequent. Before last Saturday I had not been to the garden for several weeks. At that time I had spread the last leaves on one remaining bed and checked the garlic and shallots for signs of shoots. These beds I had mulched with a thick layer of leaves when I planted the sets in late fall. I poked around in the leaves and saw only one tiny green shoot. When the weather turned back to winter I imagined the garlic and shallots in their mulched beds, snug under the snow and basically dormant, waiting to emerge when the sun finally came to stay for a while.

And here’s the silver lining.

We were blessed with a sunny day last Saturday. The soil was still too saturated to work but I couldn’t resist a trip to the plot, if only to imagine what might be growing there in a scant few months. I was completely and pleasantly surprised to see healthy 4 inch garlic shoots and the beginning of shallots sprouting. Every garlic set had sprouted and grown (Big John’s Garden quality does it again!) during my absence.

Planting peas

2007-02-28T08:28:00.000-08:00

My spring garden is woefully off-schedule. Planting peas in January is usually an option, but if soil or weather conditions preclude an early planting then peas in my garden should be planted by mid-February, President’s day being a convenient marker. When the peas succumb to late spring heat the bed is free for peppers and eggplant. Those delicate prima donnas cannot be set out until night temperatures have warmed considerably, usually in late May.

Conditions in the garden this year are decidedly inhospitable to any direct sowing. The soil is waterlogged and cold. I have abandoned my plans for planting bush peas, usually the staple of my spring pea crop. By the time the soil is dry enough to work the planting window will have closed. Instead I have planted Sugar Snap peas in the greenhouse and will set out seedlings when (not if, ever the optimist) when more temperate weather arrives.

I have always direct seeded peas. Last year I pre-sprouted, trying to get around the low germination that comes with cold wet soil. But I have never set out seedlings. Peas starts are always part of the spring vegetable line-up at nurseries so transplanting must be an option. Given this year’s weather constraints I’ll give it a try. Since Sugar Snaps grow on a trellis I will only need to prepare a small area of soil at the base. This area is slightly raised, presumably better drained than the other beds and the trellis serves for cucumbers later in the year.

Gardeners are nothing if not adaptable and optimistic. The vagaries of weather may dictate what we can’t do, but we simply pull on our boots, step out in the mud or slush and do whatever we can do. I am so looking forward to sweet Sugar Snaps (on the veranda, sitting in dappled sun, with a glass of sparkling wine). ;) Here’s to winter dreams!

Daphne watch

2007-02-24T11:13:00.000-08:00

I would like to apologize in advance to all of the intrepid gardeners living and gardening in Zones 6 or lower. But I really must whine a bit. I had been watching the progress of buds on the fragrant daphne (Daphne odora) for the last two weeks. They were plumped up nicely and sported that lovely magenta color that promises fragrant blossoms, their delicate perfume carried on gentle March breezes. (At this point may I insert the sound of a needle being dragged across a record?)

Thursday brought a record snowfall. The snow was especially wet. Branches broke from the venerable old cypress down the block, power lines sagged, and the daphne bush was a white hump. Fragrant March breezes? Hmphh.

But the snow has now melted enough to reveal a daphne virtually unchanged. I have never experienced a snow so far along in the bud development so the bloom status remains to be seen. But the buds look healthy and I am cautiously optimistic.

Here in my corner of the PNW gardeners have been accustomed to a seemly progression of seasons with few surprises. But Mother Nature has seen fit to stop coddling us these last few seasons. Storms are stacked up out in the Pacific, ready for their marching orders. It is windy and cold today, the sky filled with flat, steel-gray clouds. I’ll watch the daphne and see if it lives up to one of its common names. It is, after all, known as winter daphne.

Value Seeds

2007-02-08T14:59:00.000-08:00

Imagine a cross between Thompson and Morgan Seeds and the Dollar Store. A place where a daydreaming gardener can find those special cultivars that TM is so famous for, where no seed packet is priced higher than 99 cents. A place somewhere in horticultural twilight zone you say? Check out Value Seeds.

Prevailing internet wisdom claims that Value Seeds is an overstock outlet for TM. A quick scan of both sites shows the same descriptions for many items. Some contributors at Garden Watchdog speculate that the seed is last year’s but many comments report good germination. And the selection, while small, contains some winners and boasts nine sweet pea cultivars.

This value is no frills, however. The seed packets are not marked with plant information, only with a number, much like the small foil envelopes inside the larger paper TM packets. Planting information is available on the web site. One customer recommends marking your packets with an identification as soon as you receive your order, matching the number on the packet with the invoice list that comes with your order.

Each spring I order many seeds and usually with no discernible self discipline. But placing an order for 12 seed packets with a total price of $9.77 including shipping effectively nips buyer's remorse in the bud. I look forward to posting a happy outcome when the seeds are germinated and thriving.

An Allium adventure

2007-02-03T11:24:00.000-08:00

Shallot seeds have germinated!!!

This year’s Experiment in Seeding^® is the Alliums. I have always opted for sets or starts for my onions, shallots and leeks. But this year, while in the blissful fog of catalog browsing, I decided to try my hand at seeding my Alliums.

My personal farming guru (PFG) has assured me that this is easy. Out of deference to said guru’s revered status as a consummate farmer I refrained from saying out loud that it might be easy for you, but what about me? But really, where’s the fun in any garden season that does not include some new experiment?

And I did my homework. Wading through much confusion in Allium nomenclature and lengthy explanations of the relationship between latitude and onion bulbing, I was able to determine the cultivars I wanted to try. I asked my PFG many questions, dropping in a reference to ‘day neutral’ to demonstrate my commitment. He was full of good advice so I went for it and ordered seed:

Onions
Allium cepa ‘Candy’ -
A. cepa 'Borrettana Cipollini'

Leeks
A. porrum ‘Bleu de Solaize’
A. porrum ‘King Sieg’

Shallots
A. ascalonicum ‘Prisma’
A.ascalonicum ‘Olympus’

I selected ‘Candy’ as a sweet hybrid, touted as an onion that will develop a bulb at any latitude. 'Borrettana Cipollini' made the cut because cipollini onions are, well, cute. Flat button shaped and described as superior in flavor. Fedco plans on offering a red cipollini next year. ‘Bleu de Solaize’ is a French heirloom from the 19th century. If it’s been around for that long then I surely must try it. ‘King Sieg’ is a cross of two well regarded varieties, King Richard with Siegfried Frost. It is supposed to take less time to mature. As for the shallots, few varieties were readily available, making me wonder if they are really that easy to grow from seed.

Playwright Alan Plater described a zealot as one ‘who redoubles his effort when he has forgotten the point’. An apt description. I don’t recall the reason I decided to try Alliums from seed. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But in the fashion of a zealot, I will redouble my efforts: watch for more germination, prep the bed, plant the seedlings and cross my fingers.

Seed starting

2007-01-21T11:36:00.000-08:00

Carol at May Dreams Garden posted a series of questions about seed sowing habits and was rewarded with many comments and blog posts concerning seeds. A subsequent post listing many of these answers made for fascinating reading. Responses ranged all along the spectrum, pointing up the marvelous diversity of gardening styles.

This whole series of posts set me to thinking about seed starting. Nurseries certainly offer plenty of starts including a respectable number of heirlooms. What cannot be found at the nurseries is often available at farmer’s markets. So why start seeds?

Pragmatic answers abound. Seed starting is economical, variety is vastly greater, and scheduling is not left to commercial interest. But for me there is some other intangible consideration that I can’t quite put my (green) finger on.

It could be as simple as the increasing daylength triggering my desire for garden activity. Opportunities are limited in January so seed starting fits the bill. My small corner of a shared greenhouse offers a warm space where I can almost imagine spring to be right around the corner. This alone could explain my annual seed starting ritual.

But still there is a more elusive appeal. I think I am a little closer to understanding after recently reading a passage from Heirloom Vegetable Gardening by William Woys Weaver. He writes of an elderly cousin Mary whom he credits with introducing him to the importance of plants:

She was adamant: this was a Quaker thing, a fitting activity for a pacifist, and a moral requirement for a nurturing temperament.

Reading this passage I am inclined to think that the intent of her belief can be carried beyond Quakers to include all spiritual disciplines. But the phrase that really caught my attention was ‘moral requirement for a nurturing temperament’. Does this mean a duty of those with such nurturing tendencies or rather a prerequisite of sorts? I would like to add this woman to my list of imaginary dinner guests, seat her next to Thomas Jefferson and sit back to listen!

My sense of all this is that gardeners possess a nurturing temperament, but on a more subconscious level. I don’t think much about the connection I feel when I sow the seeds, the deep thrill when they germinate and the satisfaction when I finally plant them in the earth. That’s just the way of it. Maybe for me this moral requirement is simply the unexamined visceral reverence for the miracle of a seed.

Woolgathering and analysis aside, seed starting serves a very important function. It serves to bridge the wildly extravagant imaginings of seed ordering and the down to earth spring planting. By the time the seedlings are hardened off and ready to plant, the inevitable failures and successes will have readied the gardener as well for the real work of the garden.

This week I will begin my seed starting with cool weather crops: parsley, lettuces and greens. Beginning the seed starting really marks my first day of spring.

Everything in its season; ain’t it grand?

In memoriam

2006-12-21T10:54:00.000-08:00

I returned to my garden a few weeks ago after a long absence. Late fall was my last opportunity to plant the garlic and shallots I had ordered a few months ago. Had I known at the time that life was about to pick me up like Dorothy in the tornado, dropping me later into a foggy November afternoon, perhaps I would have reconsidered that order. Or perhaps not.

I believe that a garden serves as an anchor, grounding the gardener in fundamental and unchanging cycles, offering a chance to be an active part of a beautiful earth. And that such an anchor provides comfort in the face of adversity or sorrow. Resuming gardening duties put that belief to the test.

My garden was much as I expected after being abandoned high in the harvest season. All dead. Skeletons of sunflowers loomed over giant squash lying in pools of decaying foliage, tomatoes were reduced to water balloons. Standing alone in a deserted community garden I was tempted to dwell on this death and decay. But that soon passed. If I wanted to finally taste ‘Red Toch’ garlic next summer I needed to plant it now. And so I planted. The familiar exercise of planting, at once mindful and mindless, began to work its magic, recalling the fragility of life and its underlying optimism.

My father often told me about his grandmother’s garden. Though not a gardener himself, he seemed to take particular pleasure in knowing that I was following her path. Whenever we spoke he would never fail to ask how my garden grew. I sat beside his bed only a few weeks ago and we spoke of Gram’s beautiful chamomile, his part in the harvest, and the fragrant tea she would brew from the flowers. His shared memory reaches across time, across death, and gives me comfort. In some way, then, I honor his memory with my garden.

Salvia

2006-05-20T19:25:00.000-07:00

I have long admired Betsy Clebsch for putting to paper her passionate devotion to the genus Salvia. Timber Press, my hands-down favorite publisher, introduced A Book of Salvias: Sages for Every Garden in 1997. It was expanded in 2003 to include 50 new species and cultivars and this new edition will no doubt find its way onto my bookshelf.

The recent renovation of my overgrown herb garden now includes eight species of Salvia. I did not intentionally plan to include so many. It is a happy coincidence that has already set me to thinking about including more obscure Salvia cousins. But until I can carve out additional garden space I will happily enjoy the the following:

S. coccinea 'Coral Nymph'
S. farinacea 'Blue Bedder'
S. greggii 'San Takao'
S. nemorosa 'Caradonna'
S. officinalis 'Berggarten'
S. officinalis 'Icterena'
S. officinalis 'Purpurascens'
S. patens 'Blue Angel'
S. splendens 'Whopper Lighthouse'
S. viridis 'Marble Arch Rose'
S. viridis 'Blue Denim'

'Blue Bedder', 'Blue Angel', 'Marble Arch Rose', 'Blue Denim' and 'Whopper Lighthouse' were grown from seed. I have in the past grown 'Coral Nymph' from seed as well. 'Caradonna' came from Audubon Workshop, one of several daughter companies of Gardens Alive!, and was a happy surprise. The bareroot plants were healthy and shot quickly into respectable plants in gallon pots before being transplanted into the garden. This cultivar is particularly beautiful, with deep blue-violet flowers borne on dark purple-black stems. It was discovered as a sport seedling of S. "Wasuve" by Zillmer nursery in Germany and went on to be awarded Outstanding New Perennial award by the International Hardy Plant Union. I bought these using a $25 introductory coupon and am experiencing the satisfaction bordering on smugness that comes from scoring a great bargain.

The planting commenced today and all are now enjoying spring rain to water them in. A few days of sun and I expect these Salvias to start growing into the beautiful specimens that Ms. Clebsch so lovingly describes.

Lavender

2006-05-12T19:52:00.000-07:00

I was recently reminded in the most intense way that lavenders are a very diverse group. I purchased a Spanish lavender, Lavandula stoechas 'Bella Rose' and placed it on the truck seat for the trip home. The small Toyota cab soon filled with a strong but not unpleasant camphor fragrance laced with classic lavender overtones.

The level of camphor volatiles in Spanish lavender is significantly higher than in the L. angustifolia or L.x intermedia. The fragrance lingered in the truck for a week, a bracing little jolt to start the day, and every bit as effective as a cup of coffee.

In spite of this experience I was surprised by the fragrance of the Fernleaf lavender, L. multifida, that I planted from seed this winter. It is described as "pungent". The fragrance is sharp and unexpected but the plant is attractive and rates a spot in the garden, maybe next to a lovely 'Hidcote blue'. I can inhale the heady fragrance of the neighboring plant and enjoy the striking blossoms of the fernleaf.

So many lavenders, so little time.

Windflowers

2006-03-28T17:44:00.000-08:00

Windflowers are blooming in our workplace arboretum. They have spread over the years through the spotty grass beneath the trees and have become a carpet of clear blue and white, reflecting a spring sky through winter-bare limbs.

The Grecian windflower, Anemone blanda, is one of those small flowers with a big personality. It is at once bold and demure, naturalizing almost aggressively but heliophilic to the extreme. It remains tightly closed at night and on cloudy days, resulting in vast washes of closed buds stubbornly waiting for the spring sunshine.

But when the sun appears...what a show. From a distance the colors are jewel bright and glow in the shafts of sunlight. Individually each daisy-like flower sits atop a slender stem, trembling like an aspen leaf in the breeze. Collectively this trembling gives the illusion of shimmering water.

Despite folklore to the contrary, the flowers in our small anemone sea are not short-lived. This is an especially welcome characteristic in early spring, when the vagaries of March weather may not yield a sunny day in a period of weeks.

I don't know who planted many of the flowers and trees in the arboretum. The windflowers are no exception. If I did I would send a picture, just to show how far the original planting has naturalized. And I would say thank you for that special gift that gardeners sometimes give, a small investment that compounds for years.

Vernal Equinox

2006-03-20T14:55:00.000-08:00

[Latin vernalis, from vernus, from ver, spring.]

[Middle English, from Old French equinoxe, from Medieval Latin aequinoxium, from Latin aequinoctium : aequi-, equi- + nox, noct-, night; see nekw-t- in Indo-European roots.]

Today marks the vernal equinox. The sun crosses the celestial equator, continuing north until the summer solstice. From now until June 21 the daylight will be greater than the darkness. Seeds will sprout, leaves will emerge, weather will stabilize and we’ll all marvel anew at the miracle of seasonality.

Or so I thought until stepping out this morning to a leaden sky, cold sharp wind and snow flurries. Here in the southern reaches of the PNW the first day of spring is usually, well, …springlike. So this morning’s decidedly wintry slap created a brief moment of cognitive dissonance. I know it really is spring by astronomical reckoning. My garden is showing sure signs as well. I planted early crops yesterday in my usual springtime manner. Stores, in a burst of optimism, are bringing out patio furniture. And here I am, reaching for my down jacket.

I don’t mind too much, though. The march toward balmy breezes is inexorable. The peas are up. The almond trees are in bloom. The frozen tomato sauce supply is dwindling. Whatever the weather says the seasonal dance proceeds on schedule.
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A technical note. The side column now has a link to my new garden photo gallery and a section showing random books from my garden booklist. Thanks to Kathy at Cold Climate Gardening for this post introducing me to Library Thing.

Peas

2006-03-18T07:56:00.000-08:00

It seemed like a good idea at the time. A small window of mild weather appeared in early February after weeks of rain, snow, ice, fog, sleet, and rain rain rain. What gardener could resist the temptation to plant peas?

The appropriate pea planting marker in this corner of the PNW is President’s Day, but weather trumps the calendar and I knew the dry period would only last a couple of days. I decided to hedge my bets this year by trying something new. I presprouted the seeds by soaking for a few hours then layering in damp paper towels for a couple of days until most seed had germinated. My hope was to forestall the inevitable low germination that occurs in cold wet spring weather.

This is how I found myself in the deserted community garden planting my sprouted seeds under a rapidly darkening sky. A strong cold wind was bringing an even colder storm. But presprouted seeds wouldn't wait for better conditions. The temperature dipped into the teens that night. Dry icy snow fell the next night. Cold high pressure followed. Night temperatures remained 10 to 15 degrees colder than normal. The only consolation was a short string of sunny days. My feeble hope was that the slowly strengthening rays would warm the soil enough to sustain some residual heat through the night.

Waiting for sprouts to emerge was the only option. And wait. And wait.

I finally abandoned my vision of a bumper crop of peas, enough to eat my fill and freeze the rest for a small burst of spring in the next winter. The peas had surely rotted in the cold waterlogged soil.

But now, 30+ days after planting, the peas have started to emerge, showing not the slightest weakness from the ordeal. The germination is less than 100% but high enough to entertain images of tender shell peas, sugar snaps in salads and snow peas braised with golden raisins. Let the 2006 gardening exravaganza begin!

(My new community garden plot allows for planting more peas this year.The 2006 selections are Coral and Northfield shell peas, Sugarsnap, and Dwarf Grey Sugar, an heirloom snow pea).

The Nightshade's Tale

2006-03-12T12:33:00.000-08:00

It was inevitable that my fascination with heirloom tomatoes would spawn an equal devotion to the mysterious Capsicum: the juicy sweet, the searing hot, and all manner of in betweens.

Before the 2005 garden I had never had a lot of luck growing peppers. But last year’s crop was successful enough to produce plenty to freeze, dry, and make custom chili paste (wonderful!!). This success also introduced me to what all the fuss is about. The flavor complexities, beautiful shapes and colors, and fascinating histories draw the unwary gardener in to the chilihead world. Once exposed to this cult-like group of enthusiasts there’s no turning back.

Witness my current level of involvement:

Last year’s pepper germination rate was somewhat unsatisfactory. I knew that some peppers are finicky when it comes to germination but when I had 0% germination for one variety I decided that this year I would try something new. After reading this thread over at the Gardenweb pepper forum I settled on a method.I placed seeds for each variety in half a coffee filter folded in quarters. These were layered between paper towels and placed on a tray, sprayed with water and slipped into a plastic bag. This bag now sits in a covered flat on a heat mat set to 80 degrees. (Can you say overkill?)

As soon as the seeds germinate they will be transferred to soilless mix in 128 cell plug trays to grow big enough to transplant into 4” pots.

This babying requires a bit more work than planting tomato seeds. (These were seeded directly into plug trays and I expect to see near to 100% germination.) I’m sure that such effort was probably not necessary for many of this year’s varieties but if it helps along the germination of some of the more recalcitrant seeds then it will have been worth it.

Here is a list of 2006 pepper varieties.

Hints of spring

2006-01-20T18:39:00.000-08:00

My senses tell me that we are locked in winter. Precipitation, in all its myriad forms, defines the outdoor experience. Rain, snow, fog, ice, sleet; all keep activities in the garden to a minimum. On some visceral level I want to hibernate, stay in the cave and bank the coals.

But some Earth based traditions recognize the first stirrings of spring and celebrate Imbolc on February 1 or 2nd. Imbolc (i mbolg, ‘in the belly’) reaches back to Celtic traditions and refers to the birthing of lambs. The lengthening days and the return of light are integral parts of this holiday as well. Pagans and Christians alike pay tribute to Brigid. The Christian church celebrates Candlemas. And of course, the secular Punxsutawney Phil bears a weighty responsibility as a predictor of spring.

My personal cues also point to the beginnings of spring. Daffodils are pushing, winter daphne buds are swelling and my greenhouse activities have begun. The lettuce and mâche seeds I planted last week have germinated. The parsley, as expected, has not. It’s said that parsley goes to the devil and back nine times before it sprouts. I expect mine is on trip three. But it will sprout and I suppose that’s what defines spring - the surety that seeds will give over to seedlings.

I am fascinated with this year’s lettuce. Though only cotyledons are visible, the expected color of ‘Maroon’ is already showing. Not surprising from a cultivar that is described variously as ‘intense burgundy’, ‘opulent ruby-red’ and ‘darkest maroon’. If these little seed leaves are showing such color I imagine that the lettuce will live up to its reputation.

Though seed germination is always intriguing, it is especially compelling in this still wintry weather. Any whisper of spring is enough of a harbinger of warmer times ahead. Stirrings ‘in the belly’ of my waterlogged garden belie the continuing rain’s winter chant and I know with a sunny certainty that spring really is just around the cloudy corner.

New tomato year

2006-01-14T10:04:00.000-08:00

After a couple of months of blissful tomato angst I have settled on the 2006 varieties and am ready to finish ordering seeds. Selecting the tomatoes I want to grow each year has always been a source of pleasant winter diversion but the last few years have seen me ratchet up to a tomato obsessive. Haunting the tomato forums at Gardenweb and Dave’s Garden only serves to enable. Oh darn.

Although I haven’t counted, I read that Seed Savers Exchange lists approximately 3000 heirloom tomato varieties. My garden plot allows for 20 plants. Hence the angst. Rudimentary math reveals that, magnificent medical advances notwithstanding, I will surely never live long enough to grow all of these. So I must choose carefully, weighing traits bandied about on the forums: earliness, balance, “real tomato” flavor, but with more than a nod to the pedigree and history, which are part of the allure. Last year’s rousing success with drying and saucing has also influenced my selections. I’ll be trying Principe Borghese, an Italian heirloom reputed to be especially fine for drying, and Speckled Roman and ~~Opalka~~ Federle, varieties considered superior for processing (I have recently read about Opalka's tendency to blossom end rot so am trying another much praised variety). I have spent hours studying catalogs and websites, drafted a list and then faced the challenge of finding the seeds. I am fortunate this year. All varieties are available and hopefully will arrive in time for my mid-February planting target.

For anyone thinking that such a fuss over tomatoes signals a pending full-blown manic episode I can only urge you to grow some heirloom tomatoes. Mania is best when shared and tomatoeheads are always looking for recruits. And given my track record with seedlings I will probably have enough extra plants to share.

So with no further ado I submit Tomatoes 2006

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Strata from My Bay Area Garden left a comment to an earlier post, requesting a follow up on last year’s tomato selections. I am happy to oblige.

Reading

2006-01-07T08:45:00.000-08:00

Whatever degree of winter cabin fever you might be experiencing there really is no better way to laugh in its face than some good garden reading. And some of the best garden reading can be found in the form of garden essays.

Chris Clarke, at Creek Running North, has released his e-book, The Irascible Gardener. This is a fine collection of essays gleaned from over ten years of garden writing and is tonic for the winter weary.

A small New Year's lecture to myself

2006-01-02T10:12:00.000-08:00

A wise friend once told me that gardeners play an integral part in helping turn the wheel of seasons. Her faith is touching and, I hope, not misplaced. It has sustained me. If I could move through the occasional ennui, doggedly at times, I would find myself in the tender blessed willow-green spring.

But faith is only as strong as the increasingly stronger tests. We find ourselves sharing this miraculous planet with a visionless but powerful few who seem bent on willfully careening toward a dark abyss of greed and hubris. (A little dramatic, admittedly, but their high visibility sometimes obscures my perspective.)

My duck-booted feet are firmly planted in midwinter. The storms are blowing in from the coast, bringing heavy rains and swelling the creeks and rivers to flood stage. The wheel is turning and always will, regardless of my participation.

So maybe my friend was speaking more of a certain kind of mindfulness. Maybe the gardener’s part is planting to foster an awareness, to honor the earth by being a participant in the cycles, to share the magic, spread the word. To be a proselytizer.

We are inextricably tied to our earth. The bond is not a choice, merely a fact. To celebrate this bond is to share commonality with anyone who has ever planted a seed and anyone who ever will. From the bowl of sky and stars above us to the tiniest cells in the soil and the sea, macrocosm to microcosm, what we share in the earth is stronger than any short-lived machinations of those fueled by a power lust. These come and go; the earth and its wonders are timeless.

</lecture>

The wheel turns.
Happy New Year.

Seeds

2005-12-23T16:38:00.000-08:00

Thanks to this post by Talitha Purdy at Cold Climate Gardening I am now a Fedco devotee. Fedco is a seed cooperative started in 1978 and offers a great selection of seed varieties, many organic, at reasonable prices. But it is so much more than that. The catalog is amazing. All newsprint, illustrated with black and white drawings and clipart, it is one of the most informative and enjoyable catalogs I have ever used. It is peppered with quotes, jokes, groaner puns, an illustrative diagram of "The Gardener's Brain (with Seat of compost pride& greed and First pea envy area) and very detailed growing information.

In addition, Fedco is unabashedly political, taking on agribusiness with its recent decision to drop the Seminis seed line now that Monsanto has bought the company. But the choice was not unilateral. Customers were given several choices and the majority indicated that they did not want to continue with a Monsanto business.

Beyond their biopolitical stance, what has endeared me to this company is the honest descriptions of varieties. If low germination is a problem, the customer is not left to discover that at planting time. I was especially glad for the heads up on a pea variety that I wanted to order

Peas come 6-10 (6.64 average in 2004) to a pod, sweet and delicious if harvested promptly when a little under full size. Caution: Quality drops off rapidly after reaching full size. Since pods ripen very uniformly, noted CSA grower Elizabeth Henderson suggests making succession plantings.

Had I planted these and harvested a little late I might have been very disappointed with the variety. These kinds of descriptions are as valuable as talking with a fellow gardener over a glass of iced tea.

How this gem of a company escaped my notice for so long is a mystery.

Variations on a meme

2005-10-03T18:08:00.000-07:00

What better way to resume my garden blog than with a small meme from mercuryfern?

1. Go into your archive.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five other people to do the same.

I must depart from #5. I was not tagged and, in turn, will not tag anyone else; results will be less a chain letter, more an unexpected postcard from one of the fabulous gardens in the blogosphere.

Following the first four instructions yielded the following sentence, posted last fall.

Despite all the hints of the approaching change of season, I have been lulled by the buttery light of the last few days.

Well, here's to synchronicity. This last week has also been filled with stunning interplays of light and shadow. I have varied my commute route to include a certain back road where long shadows of yellow poplars reach down sloping golden-green pastures. This particular vista is a special autumn gift, the alchemy of October light and the shortening days. It has become a seasonal touchstone that makes me catch my breath whenever I round the curve.

I hope anyone who perpetuates this little meme will enjoy whatever thought meandering it brings.

The plot thickens

2005-08-17T19:04:00.000-07:00

Be careful what you wish for. That little adage has been mocking me for the last few weeks, though I am really happy for the turn of events that landed me with a 20x20 community garden plot.

When I secured a 10x10 plot I was thrilled. The bed was prepared, thanks to M. Tomatoes were ready to plant and the scheduled planting was set for Saturday, the 14th of May. Late on the afternoon of Friday the 13th (auspicious, no?) I received a call notifying me that a larger plot had become available. Would I like to claim it? You bet, said I.

A Saturday morning visitation proved to be a bit of a shock. I had signed on for 400 square feet of WEEDS; thick, lush barnyard and quack grasses, runners stretching underground into the next county.

Though a prudent gardener would have spent the entire weekend ridding the space of said runners, my rootbound tomato seedlings dictated the timeline and we chose the weedeater-rototiller path. Thus began the new community garden plot.

I did take enough time to map a bed layout, an enjoyable Excel exercise. Armed with my map, a ball of string and some stakes, and a 25’ tape, I laid out the beds for hand digging and soil amendment.

A summer garden is a wonder to behold. I planted this garden over the span of a couple of weekends in May. Now, a mere twelve weeks later, the tomatoes are pushing six feet, the beans and cucumbers are climbing skyward, and the sunflowers are big smiles atop 8 foot stalks.

Small wonder that gardening is such a popular pastime. Few other pursuits yield such tangible results in such a short time.

First tomato

2005-06-25T07:55:00.000-07:00

I admit to engaging in a bit of shameless crowing. A ripe tomato in June! And another will be ready in a few days. The rest will be more on schedule but many plants have full size fruit so the wait will not be too long.

What a wonderful treat to return from a few days out of town and find that the tomato I had been watching was A) still on the vine and not carried away by some marauder and B) ripe and ready to eat.

The variety is ‘Stupice’, an heirloom noted for earliness. It was not on my tomato list for this year, but a friend had started seeds and discovered that some of the seedlings were potato leaf (the real ‘Stupice’) and some standard leaf. I suggested that she might grow out one of each for fun and she handed me two plants.

Now most gardeners might have politely declined, offering some lame excuse such as lack of room in the tomato bed. But any reader who has been bitten by the tomato bug knows that there is always room for more. So I planted the two plants and have been rewarded. The standard leaf plant is huge and loaded with oblong fruit with pointy ends. The seed was from a commercial source so I assume that the rogue plant was from a mix up in the packing rather than a cross-pollination issue. After a bit of research I have discovered that several heirloom varieties have little points at the end: Amish Gold, Wonder Light, Polish Linguisa to name a few. So I will wait and probably never be sure about the pedigree of the pretender.

But I’m very glad I accepted these plants. The tomato was absolutely delicious and gave me a chance to practice the particular style of understatement peculiar to gardeners. For those interested here are a few simple guidelines.

Never start a conversation with a fellow gardener by announcing your particular horticultural victory. Let it be almost an afterthought.

Strive for a slightly offhand manner, as if you always get ripe tomatoes in early June.

Above all, refrain from cackling with justifiable glee.

I am sorry to report that I did let slip the smallest of cackles.

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Update

Thanks to Kathy at Cold Climate Gardening for the heads-up on some serious tomato competition. I am tossing my feed cap into the ring over at Dr. Charles Examining Room tomato contest.

'Stupice' 2005

Wet spring musings

2005-06-06T10:04:00.000-07:00

The Pacific Northwest has a largely deserved reputation for copious rains. But my corner of the PNW is usually blessed with drier spring weather than the rest of the region. Not so this year!

According to the National Weather Service our rainfall in May was 2.97 inches. This is 1.76 inches above average, well over twice what we can expect. This has certainly helped forestall the predicted drought conditions for the coming summer. The litany “we need the rain” can be overheard at grocery stores, garden centers and employee lunchrooms. And it’s true.

But focus down from the big picture into one corner of my garden. The increased rain has encouraged a weed I had formerly dismissed and has elevated it to the coveted LFW (least favorite weeds) status.

I am speaking of the Western Buttercup, Ranunculus occidentalis. While researching this menace I discovered that the genus name Ranunculus comes from the Latin rana or “little frog”, referring to the habit of growing in moist locales. Pair this with occidentalis, from the west, and my garden scourge sports a rather whimsical moniker, little frog of the west. (Note the initials LFW. Coincidence? I think not!)

Is it possible that recalling that fanciful name will help restore some humorous perspective to the odious task of clearing out a jungle of this weed? I hope it does because the invasiveness of this buttercup is astonishing, in a “Little Shop of Horrors” way.

The balance of climatic conditions gives any region its own gardening persona. Alter one condition and expect changes. The local explosion of mushrooms should have been a clue.

Such a departure from the usual numbers and varieties of spring fungi is peculiar enough to alert the mindful gardener that this spring is different and that other, more sinister, plants may be exploding as well. Reading such signs is essential to gardening and should be second nature, regardless of the hectic pace of living.

My little frog of the west provided yet another small nudge, a reminder to pay attention, here in the gardening department of continuing education.

A Kitchen Herb Pot

2005-05-08T09:54:00.000-07:00

The front bed of my garden has gone wild. Once devoted to herbs, it has been overtaken by the decidedly tasteless wild marjoram, rose yarrow and that grass-that-will-not-be-named. Add to those a curry plant that is looking sickly, a rosemary that is easily 4 feet in diameter and a lavender that resembles a coast cypress and you have a renovation that is daunting.

Faced with a project that could be tackled only on weekends, and only in captured moments between preparing vegetable beds, transplanting and seeding, I found myself coveting a culinary herb pot.

And why not, I asked myself. This would be a simple solution, satisfying need for fresh herbs through the summer and allowing me to proceed with the herb bed renovation at a practical pace. With many of my kitchen herbs in a convenient pot, I could plant a few of the more esoteric or magical herbs and find spots for the perennials I seeded this winter with such reckless abandon (all germinated and accounted for, thank you very much)!

And so it came to pass.

A project like this is a gardener’s dream. I put it together in less than a couple of hours (not counting the leisurely pleasure of herb selection at the local nursery).

If you are looking for a thoroughly gratifying garden project, here follows my recipe for kitchen herb pot. Like all good recipes, it can be modified to suit individual tastes.

1 half whiskey barrel
Garden Bloome Potting Mix
Many herbs of your choice

I selected the following for planting around the edge of the pot (from the top clockwise):

Italian oregano
Caraway thyme
Lime thyme
Garlic chives
Silver thyme
Chives
Oregano thyme
Culinary thyme
Lemon thyme

In the center I planted

Tricolor sage
French tarragon
Purple sage
‘Rachel’s Gold’ sage

(In case you are wondering about the conspicuous absence of parsley, chervil and other shade tolerant herbs, well, that is a container story for another day.)

Last night’s dinner marked the official opening of the new kitchen herb pot. I had recently picked a batch of asparagus and had lovely new herbs just a few steps away when, in a bit of serendipity, a recipe for Herbed Asparagus Orecchiette appeared in an email! I snipped sprigs from the lemon, lime, silver and culinary thymes and substituted Italian oregano for marjoram. The dinner experience was a ringing endorsement of the new herb garden annex.

Late bloomer

2005-05-07T17:56:00.000-07:00

The daffodils were all pretty much finished when I noticed a pot with three daffodil buds. A friend had given me the bulbs in January and I planted them, not really expecting to see anything from such a late planting.

What a wonderful treat. I don't know the name but the double blossoms are gorgeous, the colors rich and complex. Thanks W.

A Promise Kept (Tulipa)

2005-05-03T05:50:00.000-07:00

Tulips encourage strong opinions among some gardeners. There are those who shun the hybridized tulips as garish or, worse, lacking character. Others wax poetic about drifts of bright tall tulips and regard the species tulips as insignificant.

I find myself with one foot planted firmly in each camp.

Big Eartha was a winner, the color a silky rose. Not at all a mundane pink, it contrasted beautifully with the bright reds and purples of the Crusaders blend.

Tulipa bakeri, a species tulip I had never grown, was a total success. It showed up early and stayed late, behavior unbecoming in a dinner guest but so welcome in spring flowers.

This tulip was labeled, rather vaguely, 'Species Tulip'. I believe it is Tulipa tarda.

Henry Mitchell, in The Essential Earthman, speaks to the charms of this particular species:

I used to wonder why anyone would fool with T. tarda... First of all, it sometimes grows to six inches instead of two, but mainly this is a fine example of a modest plant whose virtues are never quite captured in print. I first grew it only to try to comprehend why merchants kept selling it. Now I know. It is one of those plants you never want to be without. It is as exuberant and vigorous as it is small. It costs only a few cents, and looks fine against cobblestones.

I would add only this to Mr. Mitchell's observations. The pods provided an interest of their own long after the flowers had faded and the petals were blown away in an April storm.

Lesson learned (maybe)

2005-04-28T17:43:00.000-07:00

This year’s tomato seedlings presented a baffling problem. Varieties planted at the same time and under the same conditions exhibited widely variable vigor. Some grew large and healthy while others failed to thrive, some looking stunted and chlorotic.

Isis seedlings

I posted a query to the Gardenweb tomato forum (that wonderfully enabling gathering place for tomato fanatics) and was answered quickly by Craig, tomato grower extraordinaire. He had experienced similar size variability and said that the smaller plants would catch up. And some did seem to be growing but others stayed small and sickly.

At my wits end (tomato planting time was right around the corner), I removed a few weak plants from their pots and discovered what I think was the problem.

When I transplant seedlings I prepare a mix of commercial potting mix and coir, usually 4 or 5 to 1. The coir improves texture, making it more wettable and giving it a loamy consistency. The commercial organic mix provides a variety of nutrients necessary to get the seedlings off to a good start. It appeared that I mixed one batch of potting mix with a much higher proportion of coir. The seedlings planted in this batch were not getting the same amount of necessary nutrients; coir is essentially nutrient free.

I have since transplanted all the seedlings into new and carefully prepared potting mix and they have leapt back to life.

It seems to me that there are some life lessons that we are doomed to repeat, in one guise or another, until we get them right or move beyond these earthly coils. This tomato experience illustrates one of mine. Working quickly and efficiently is not the same as hurrying. Hurrying has a frenetic, anxious component that clouds the mind and increases the chance of mistakes. I was in a hurry when I made that batch of mix and transplanted my seedlings. Had I taken a moment to breathe and focus I would have noticed the error and saved myself a lot of grief.

Lesson learned? I really hope so. I’m so ready to move on to the next assignment!

A Promise Kept (Narcissus)

2005-04-09T07:34:00.000-07:00

Planting bulbs in the fall may be a leap of faith for me but the first tender sprouts continuing to grow through snow, rain by the bucketload and fierce March winds is a promise kept. Last November I put my faith in the bulbs. Plump, squat, tiny or as big as an egg, covered with papery brown skin, they rustled dryly when I reached in the bag. The life inside was a mere promise.

Whatever botanical alchemy transformed the dry nubs is now complete and the results are everything the garden faithful could hope for.

Narcissus cyclamineus 'Jetfire'
These were stunning! The colors were almost fluorescent against rainy April skies.

Narcissus bulbocodium conspicuus ‘Hoop Petticoat’
This one was a surprise. The 'hoop' is dainty and much smaller than I expected, tiny and delicate with grassy foliage.

Narcissus triandrus 'Hawera'
These are so sweet. The petals recurve slightly on multiple blossoms. I hope they naturalize as well as I read.

Tomato plot

2005-03-15T14:41:00.000-08:00

This will be the year of the tomato. My name has finally reached the top of the waiting list for a community garden plot! This plot will give me a place to plant my tomatoes far from my nemesis, the stink bug.

The area surrounding the gardens is blessedly free of blackberries, a haven for the cursed insect when it is not dining on tomatoes and vectoring diseases. In fact, the adjacent property is an open field, soon to be developed as a greenspace and hopefully more garden plots.

The plot is small, 10 x 10, but I am on a waiting list for a larger plot. In the meantime I will be trying the square foot garden spacing of 1 tomato plant/4 square feet. I can plant my cherry tomatoes at home as they seem to hold up under insect assault better than the larger cultivars. This leaves twelve heirloom tomato plants for the new plot, leaving room for beans, peppers and eggplant, basil and flowers.

I love community gardens. They bring together gardeners from diverse backgrounds and offer rich opportunities for learning. Strolling through the plots I noticed a wide range of designs and styles; a free form plot with meandering paths dividing irregular beds, a plot with radiating paths between wedge shaped beds and a raised center, built up beds surrounded by stones or wood, pots, and all manner of trellises ranging from bamboo teepees to sturdy wooden frames. Add the occasional lawn chair or rocker and a true cross-section of gardening personalities emerges.

Taken as a whole, these remind me of a themed patchwork quilt where each member contributes a distinctively personal square. The common thread is a celebration of all things growing. I am so looking forward to adding my little tomato patch to the mix!

Oh, Daphne!

2005-03-12T08:53:00.000-08:00

The fragrance of winter daphne, Daphne odora, transports me as close to the gates of heaven as I am ever likely to get. Winter weary, anxious for tender sprouts and warm breezes, I am always surprised to see buds on the daphne so early each year. Anything that smells that good must surely be a fragile hothouse beauty, unsuited for the night’s freezing temperatures.

But the delicate blossoms are tough. They hang in through frosts and one day a single blossom on the little nosegays (an apt descriptor of the flower clusters) begins to open. This signals spring as surely as the lengthening days and in spite of whatever little meteorological surprises Mother Nature may have up her voluminous blue sleeve.

Daphne may be tough but she is not easy. This particular daphne marks my third attempt to succeed with a container planting. The plant does not like exposure to drying winds. It does not like to be waterlogged. But neither does it like to dry out. This year’s success I chalk up to a merciful universe and no particular expertise on my part.

Many years ago I lived in a tiny apartment across from a private college in the Willamette Valley. Planted against one brick building was a veritable hedge of winter daphne. I often would lie on the grass next to that building, breathing in the heady scent of hundreds of blossoms. This experience defines an entire period of my life.

Prevailing wisdom maintains that, of all the senses, the sense of smell is the most powerful stimulus of memory. I believe this is true because each spring when I lean over my small daphne plant and inhale the heady aroma I am back on that lawn, floating on a cloud of fragrance, looking up at the sky.

Planting peas

2005-03-01T14:42:00.000-08:00

Early pea planting in my garden is a dicey proposition. If peas don’t go in early enough they will not have time to mature before the beds are needed for summer crops. But the weather must cooperate; ideally a few dry days, followed by a day of rain and then some sunny days to keep the soil warm so the seed does not rot in the ground. Not much to ask from capricious February!

Unbelievably the weather has been mild, though without rain. Mega snap peas, such a hit last year, and Dakota, a shelling pea that matures in 57 days, are in the ground. The long promised rain has failed to materialize and I have had to water but the sun has provided enough warmth and I expect to see sprouts soon.

Planting shell peas is a luxury. A great deal of space is needed to provide enough peas for a few meals but the flavor is so special when picked fresh and cooked right away.

Besides, planting peas is the first outdoor gardening task of the season. The beds, dug and planted, look tidy and usually inspire me to prepare a bed for the lettuce seedlings, which will be big enough to go out in a couple of weeks.

The domino effect in gardening is never more evident than in this early spring. The pea planting brings on the lettuce bed preparation. But the rosemary must be pruned to increase light to the lettuce. Yikes, are those hollyhocks I see under the rosemary? They must be moved. But the preferred spot is choked with vinca, which must be removed to the last hair-size rootlet.

And so it went the entire morning. Pea domino hits lettuce domino hits rosemary…. But these first early spring tasks provide an opportunity to get reacquainted with the garden. And as it is with old friends, a few months absence dissolves immediately. In no time I found myself back in that serene mindful balance that garden puttering seems to foster.It feels good to be back!

Garden notes

2005-02-11T05:56:00.000-08:00

This part of the gardener’s year I find my record keeping to be more meticulous than in late spring or summer. Every year I hope this will change and I will keep records of bloom and yield as carefully as I now note seeding, germination and transplanting. I know how valuable these early spring notes are and I believe that later notes would prove equally helpful.

My plots and records have evolved. I recently happened across a plot of a garden from several years ago. At the time I took special delight in the “illumination” of the plot. Dotted with colorful little blobs meant to represent lettuce or tomatoes, these plot plans were fun, though not so accurate, and lacking much real information to help me the following year.

So many tools are available now to the garden record keeper. Cook’s Garden has, in past years, offered a five year garden journal. Though it is already out of stock this year, I recommend this format if you take small notes. One page per day is divided into five sections, enabling you to see what you were up to in past years.Seeds of Change offers their beautiful Garden Cycle, a weekly format journal that has a special place to record weather information. The journal is also available at Pinetree. And the kind folks at Seeds of Change also offer an electronic version of the Garden Cycle, free at their site with registration.

And speaking of weather information, Weather Underground provides weather data summaries for local data. Each day’s actual and average minimum and maximum temperatures and precipitation are shown in a printable monthly calendar format. For those of us in the Pacific Northwest, Agrimet provides extensive historical weather information which includes what appears to be every measurable weather phenomenon known to man! This is provided in a space delimited format, ready to copy into Excel, convert to columns and sort in whatever way suits your needs.

Ah, Excel. I use this program to track seed orders, seeding, germination and weather. Kathy, at Cold Climate Gardens, suggests using a spreadsheet for the catalog comparison shopping ritual, finding the best price, factoring in shipping etc. Excel is also useful for drawing up a plot plan, though some creativity is required for irregularly shaped plots.

If one is not inclined to use a spreadsheet many garden planning programs are available with a range of prices. Garden Manager, Garden Organizer Deluxe and My Garden Journal are a few. Though I have not used these the descriptions are very tempting.

The variety of resources available for garden planning gives the gardener more choices than a few years ago. Good record keeping makes for a better garden and finding a way that suits your particular style makes the task easier and maybe even fun!

Spring tonic

2005-02-02T08:57:00.000-08:00

The classic spring tonic is a collection of bitter greens and herbs selected for their purifying characteristics. Stewed together, the unappetizing result is reputed to cleanse and invigorate the blood, supposedly thick and flaccid after months of inactivity.

Whatever. To my mind planting greens is the ultimate tonic. Five lettuces, two cresses and two mâches; these are the first seeds I’m planting this late winter and they will provide seedlings for my early spring garden. The very act of planting provides a wakeup call after a long winter’s nap.

The routine in itself is therapeutic. I sterilize all the containers in chlorine bleach solution and lay them out to dry. I then turn my attention to the seedling mix. In past years I used peat moss in this mix. But last year I became a coir dust devotee. Coir dust, often referred to as simply coir, is far superior to peat in all respects. It is renewable, pH neutral and is readily wetted. Peat always seemed almost hydrophobic, a bad quality in a seed starting mix! A coir brick magically absorbs water and turns into a fluffy planting medium.

Coir is a byproduct obtained from the processing of coconut shells to extract coir fiber. Once considered a problem to dispose of, the coir dust is now used in many agricultural applications, including peat substitutes and coir pots.

My starting mix is roughly equal amounts of coir, vermiculite and perlite. This is a sterile non-nutritive mix, light enough to allow tiny germinating seedlings to push through and free of soil contaminants.

After planting I put some kind of clear plastic dome on the flats and place on a heat mat. The dome serves to retain heat and keep humidity high. This little microenvironment is conducive to germination but must be watched carefully. As soon as seedlings appear I remove the dome to increase air circulation and discourage damping off.

Once I’ve planted I begin my annual waiting dance. Each morning I check for germination. Never mind that the seeds were planted only one day earlier. I have even resorted to using a hand lens to spot germination still not visible to the naked eye. I only hope no one comes into the greenhouse to find me in the middle of this microscopic examination.

But I really can’t help myself. Germination is a small miracle. I never tire of watching the annual affirmation. It renews me and gives me a little nudge toward resuming garden activities. My spring tonic indeed. And it works every time.

My greens roll call:

Red Sails Lettuce
Simpson Elite Lettuce
Redina Lettuce
Green Ice Lettuce
New Red Fire Lettuce
Upland Cress
Broadleaf Cress
Bistro Mâche
Piedmont Mâche

A small rant and a modest proposal

2005-01-21T10:12:00.000-08:00

When the world wearies and society ceases to satisfy, there is always the garden.
Minnie Aumonier

Wearies? Events have steamrolled right over the wearying, blew by demoralizing, and are careening toward debilitating. The miasma that passes for civil discourse settles over the spirit like a heavy dark cloak - light cannot pass in or out; or possibly a black hole, sucking energy, both personal and planetary.

Maybe it’s time to take a cue from another Aumonier quote

There is always music amongst the trees in the garden, but our hearts must be very quiet to hear it.

Maybe it’s time to turn off the radio. Do I really need to hear the litany of largely undeserved self-congratulations coming from politicians and leaders of every stripe?

Maybe it’s time to remove political and news blogs from my Bloglines list.

Maybe it’s time to visit garden forums, where the disagreements concern the advisability of winter sowing tomatoes in Zone 5.

Maybe it’s time to settle down with some garden writing, seed catalogs and my garden journal. A little perspective, please.

When you’re hanging on by a thread, identify that thread and do all you can to strengthen it. Gardening is my thread, consistently providing therapy through years of ups and downs. If this blink in time seems a bit crazier, well, perhaps it is. Gardening serves as a gentle reminder that the wheel turns and seasons come and go, each filled with its own impossibly tender beauty.

So maybe it’s time to go outside and look for tulip noses poking through the damp earth and reaching into the winter mist.

Seeds

2005-01-13T20:42:00.000-08:00

Winter flu can take the fun out of seed catalog browsing. The catalogs sat on the bed, next to the Kleenex, but I just couldn’t bring my fuzzy stuffed brain to process all those lovely descriptions and photographs.

Fortunately, as gardeners have learned, all things run their course. My pile of seed catalogs has been devoured and thoroughly cross referenced, a parsimonious process starting with a compilation of a wish list of special seeds followed by checking their availability in the Pinetree catalog, a source of smaller and less expensive seed packets.

Not that I don’t order some from other companies. My seed orders this year include Pinetree, Cook’s, Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds, Tomatofest, Territorial Seeds, Parks, Golden Harvest Organic and Milk Ranch Specialty Potatoes . How do I justify the expense of many different shipping costs? It is a circuitous rationalization beginning with a calculation of how much I would spend if, for example, I were a downhill skier and bought a season pass. Cost of said pass is $399. I’d say that the few dollars in shipping is chump change by comparison. In fact, one can creatively pursue this faulty logic to justify all means of exorbitance - “I have saved so much by not buying that ski pass. Now what shall I do with all that money?”

Just kidding.

Still, I view my gardening expenses as relatively modest when compared to many other hobbies/obsessions.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Each year I love to try some new (to me) heirloom tomatoes plus a few new plants. I’ll save the rather lengthy tomato list for another day, but here are some other interesting finds for this year:

'Purple Ribbon' lavender from Pinetree, a Lavandula stoechas subsp. pedunculata that blooms the first year from seed.

Asparagus fern, a mix of Asparagus densiflorus 'Meyersii' and A.densiflorus 'Sprengeri', also from Pinetree.

Whopper Lighthouse, a Salvia splendens from Parks, described as reaching 30”

Giant Exhibition Coleus collection, also from Parks. I have grown Palisandra and Limelight from this series and was happy to discover this collection. It also includes Tartan, Copper Queen and Scarlet II.

Diva cucumber, a Beit Alpha cuke with mid eastern heritage and parthenocarpic to boot.

Several mâche varieties from Cook’s. After reading a fascinating article in the Food Issue of the New Yorker last fall I am compelled to at least try to grow this gourmet green myself.

Blowout sales

2005-01-05T10:25:00.000-08:00

‘Twas the season for blowout sales. Garden Djinn recently posted her good fortune in this regard. Pre-holiday sales abounded as stores tried to clear space for new seasonal offerings.

Having filled almost (the operative word!) every available space and container with tulips and daffodils, I was restricted to a bag of the lovely 'Tete-a-tete' to tuck in among larger cousins.

Yes. Limited by space. Restricted to one small bag. Heh.

Living close to the Jackson and Perkins mothership is always a mixed blessing. Thinking myself safe from the call of the sale, I wandered through the bins of marked down bulbs and stumbled upon iris rhizomes for fifty cents. Not your nameless, generic irises but named and award winning cultivars. What gardener can resist a 700% markdown?! A quick trip home and a few Googles later I was able to come up with colors and hence a planting scheme.

I am unashamed to admit that I really love bearded irises. There, I’ve said it. They are sometimes considered passé or even blowsy or garish. To any reader who feels this way - I beg you to reconsider. The showy flowers are complex, with satiny petals suitable for stunning photographs, and the subtle fragrances, which differ among the cultivars, can be enchanting.

And they are easily hybridized. I am so intrigued by the very idea. If a gardener feels that she has produced a winner she can submit it to the American Iris Society. If deemed worthy, the hybrid can be registered and named. I have always intended to try my hand at hybridizing. Perhaps this spring...and the naming might be fun (Eclectic Moon, Witches Wine, Sweet City?).

My finds:

Sivlerado - light blue and white
Rip City - red
Goodnight Moon - yellow
Dazzling Gold - yellow and red
Sweeter than Wine - cream/purple bicolor
Gnu Blues - pale blue streaked with dark blue
Impressionist – rose /raspberry bicolor
Witches Wand – Violet-black, orange beard

Tempting fate

2004-12-27T17:34:00.000-08:00

Coincidence? I think not.

As described in the previous post, we were treated to ice crystal “snow” against beautiful blue sky and thin winter light. But the afternoon brought a warm strong wind. Though no clouds were in sight I awoke Sunday to rain. As the temperature dropped the rain turned to snow, which continued for several hours.

Snow gives the phrase “winter interest” a new meaning for any of us remiss enough to still have tomato cages in the garden. And I am quite certain that garden designers who speak of “vertical features” are not describing bamboo teepees in the snow.

Still, the said garden structures, a mere few hours earlier standing in mute reproach ,were softened and transformed.

Our snows are notoriously short lived. This morning the snow was almost gone and the cages and teepees are once again stern, admonishing me to get off my dead a** and clean up the garden!

Here in the southern part of the PNW there is no winter long blanket of forgiving snow, no white cloak to cover testimonies to this gardener's negligence.

Now if a dry day could possibly fall on a weekend?

White Christmas

2004-12-25T16:26:00.000-08:00

This year my corner of the world has a unique version of a white Christmas. The last two mornings we have enjoyed a frozen fog as thick and white as a dusting of snow. Looking out I was deceived momentarily but could see hard blue patches through the fog and realized that this white frosting was not snow but ice crystals.

Another snow-like phenomenon occurred as the sun and wind worked their magic. Ice crystals began to fall and drift, much as snowflakes. Ephemeral, fleeting, and a bit of an anachronism, the sky by now a cold blue bowl with icy flakes drifting about. A holiday treat to be sure.

A joyous Yule to all.

Winter solstice

2004-12-21T05:36:00.000-08:00

Today is the winter solstice – “sun stands still”. Midwinter. Soon the sun will begin rising further north. In my corner of the world the sun continues to rise later into January but the sunset is later as well and after December 26th the days will slowly begin to lengthen.

I sometimes try to imagine how intense the darkness and cold, how complete the sense of abandonment must have felt to early man. It’s no wonder so many myths find origin around the solstice.

Our lives are woven into the natural light cycles; the day, month and year. Each sunrise, each waxing crescent moon stands as a small reminder of this. Circles within circles within seasons.

Gardeners live by these cycles. We know that the earth is never dead. Beneath frozen ground are seeds, bulbs, corms, roots; all waiting, suspended in varying degrees of torpor, waiting for the light.

Winter solstice has long been my favorite marker of the seasons. When I celebrate this dichotomy of dark and light I feel as if I am part of a force so elemental that it reaches past conscious knowing to both the deep within and the vast beyond.

For we are the stars. For we sing.
For we sing with our light.
For we are birds made of fire.
For we spread our wings over the sky.
Our light is a voice.
We cut a road for the soul
for it's journey through death.

Excerpted from Song of the Stars Passamaquoddy

Cookie hooky

2004-12-17T13:13:00.000-08:00

I took a day off work yesterday to do some power baking. In past years my holiday baking has been squeezed into after dinner work nights and weekends. Circumstances were such that this plan would not work this year. The solution, to take a weekday for baking, was such a rousing success that I plan to make this an annual event.

What does baking have to do with gardening? My satisfaction with the results of a long baking marathon is comparable to the pleasure I feel after a day of early spring garden prep and planting. I laid out the seven large plates of cookies, left the room, and returned for the viewing. They looked darn good. This leave and return method works equally well for a newly planted bed or a freshly cleaned room. Tired but happy, I sealed each type in its own bag. Now comes the enjoyable task of making up tins, plates and bags to distribute or mail.

Another similarity between cookie baking and gardening is the selection process. I have certain standby recipes that I bake each year, much as I plant certain tried and true tomato, lettuce and potato varieties. And part of the baking fun each year is finding new recipes to try. I enjoy this almost as much as browsing my seed catalogs for new varieties to plant in the spring.

This year’s finalists:

Sugar Cookies (not cut out, a melt in your mouth round cookie)
Orange Sable Cookies with Candied Ginger
Almond Crescents
Soft Ginger Cookies (a new spice cookie recipe in the ongoing search for the perfect one, this one is very close)
Cardamom Butter Cookies
Cranberry White Chocolate Cookies
Chocolate Peppermint Meringues

Dark

2004-12-13T06:04:00.000-08:00

It’s dark. Dark when I leave the house in the morning, dark when I return in the evening. A friend describes this as “oh dark 30”. In other words, when using light as a criterion there is no reason to put too fine a point on what time it is. It is oh dark 30.

A few days ago Candlegrove pointed out that in her region she would be observing her earliest sunset of the year. An electronic trip the U.S. Naval Observatory provided me with similar information. The earliest sunset in my corner of the world occurred on December 2 at 4:39. Actually this time of sunset has remained static since that day and will not change until December 15. Sunrise is later each morning and the days are growing steadily shorter.

Christopher Dewdney, in his recent book Acquainted with the Night: Excursions Through the World After Dark, describes the three twilights:

…there are three stages of twilight: civil twilight, which arrives shortly after sunset and marks the time when car headlights should be switched on; nautical twilight which arrives half an hour after civil twilight when it is dark enough that the brightest stars are visible for navigation purposes; and astronomical twilight, which starts more than an hour after sunset when even the faintest stars are visible.

Evening twilights are especially observable in the summer when gardeners tend to be outside at dusk. Watching the slow progression of darkness descending is calming, centering and restful. In the winter I find the progression of sister dawn to be more apparent. As I journey to work I can observe the reverse twilight phases as the rising sun dispels the darkness. My alertness increases as dark gray shapes give way to discernible objects.

Hunger for the light in this season of prolonged darkness is reflected in all cultures. It is primeval, a basic need for any non-nocturnal animal. Candlegrove provides a comprehensive look at the role light plays in shaping our annual holidays and observances.

Each year my community holds an early evening Festival of Lights celebration and parade. Robed figures with candle lanterns walk beside marching bands, instruments festooned with twinkling lights. Carolers and young angels with shimmering wings abound and a llama with a colorful light necklace paces regally through the crowd. The city hangs thousands of tiny lights, which are lit as a culmination of the festival. These welcome me home from work each evening. I will do my part today and put up strings of lights, then walk down the hill and look up to my door. The lights never fail to make me smile, small beacons in the inky darkness.

We come together during this time of the year to “drive cold winter away”. We sing and gather to celebrate whatever gives meaning to the season. Reasons to mark this time of year may vary among religions and cultures but the common thread of light unites us. Light in the winter is faith. Our candles and decorative lights are an affirmation.

Winter Sowing

2004-11-30T10:24:00.000-08:00

A recent Herb Quarterly column by Jim Long caught my attention. A sidebar on cool season herbs advises planting certain seeds in the fall and early winter. Included in his list are cilantro, dill, poppy and larkspur. Long says he usually plants between Halloween and Thanksgiving but sometimes as late as Christmas.

I have dabbled in fall and winter sowing, without any serious focus or follow-up. But my dill languished this last season and the article boldly predicts superior results from fall sown dill:

If planted in the early winter, larkspur and dill arise out of the ground at the desired time and grow into robust, healthy plants that produce throughout their own cool season.

Robust! Healthy! Unlike my own dill, which failed to thrive. This was undoubtedly due in part to transplanting, a practice that can send dill into a permanent pout. I am cautiously converted and my dill seed is waiting for the happy coincidence of daylight and my presence at home, a coincidence that occurs with great regularity on Saturdays and Sundays.

Winter sowing is a popular topic with an active forum at Gardenweb. Followers are enthusiastic and opinionated. But their practice is a bit different from what I have in mind. I intend to plant the seed in the ground, in a location where I want the plants to grow. Winter sowers plant in containers. As a consequence my seedlings will be harder to spot, especially when covered with decaying leaves.

There is something arcane and and almost mystical about the whole process. Much as with bulbs, I can fantasize at length about what is happening under the ground when the dark damp days of December and January keep me inside.

O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth.

- John Davies, Ode to the West Wind

My seeds will hardly lie like corpses. Tiny sprouts and fragile root hairs will begin to reach through the cold soil without even a hint above ground to betray the small miracle below. The seeds will follow their own schedule, one as old as plant life itself.

It is the stuff of winter rumination, a tenuous thread connecting the gardener to the year's cycle. Chill wind, dark and snow to the contrary, there’s much activity continuing, out of sight.

Giving thanks

2004-11-25T09:54:00.000-08:00

A garden provides many opportunities to reflect on larger themes. Thanksgiving, while now distanced from its original bountiful harvest theme,still encourages introspection and an appreciative inventory of reasons to garden. My abbreviated list of reasons to be thankful:

Today’s promised rain. I imagine this soaking rain will, before too long, reach the tulip bulbs and begin the cycle that results in such a colorful display in the spring.

My discovery of a new source for the tulips, Colorblends. I have mentioned this company in previous posts. If the bulbs’ size and health are any indication I am optimistic about my spring garden.

The thyme and flat leaf parsley still growing. It is so satisfying to venture out into the dripping gloom of a late November garden to harvest some ingredients for stuffing (new recipe courtesy of Bakerina).

SO’s uncomplaining willingness to double dig my small raised beds and wrestle the bale size bags of potting mix from the truck down to the garden. In addition, the truckloads of manure he has hauled in must not go unnoticed in this litany.

The arrival of the Thompson and Morgan catalog, a harbinger of the upcoming catalog season. Their offerings are always unique, and though I feel a bit humbled and out of my league when browsing through the pages, I always enjoy the glimpse into a kind of garden I strive for.

The digital camera. My mastery of the SLR is below minimal and my skills with the digital are similar. But the ability to chronicle garden events is vastly enhanced and the ease of use encourages more frequent photographs.

The myriad of jewel moments part of every day in the garden, some of which appear in 100 things.

Candlegrove. This website has been my winter mainstay since it began. It never fails to ground me and remind me that our seasonal celebrations have deep and diverse roots and a rich history.

Other garden bloggers. Their posts have made me laugh, cry, and simply sit and think. They have introduced me to new authors, new plants and new attitudes and I appreciate their sharing.

In an increasingly chaotic world I take comfort from these gifts in my life. Many use this holiday as a reminder to appreciate what good fortune they find in their lives and I am grateful for any nudge toward mindfulness, a practice our gardens can teach us to cultivate.

Ten thousand flowers in the spring.
the moon in autumn,
a cool breeze in summer,
snow in winter.
If your mind isn’t clouded by unnecessary things,
This is the best season of your life.

Wu-Men

Fun with frost

2004-11-22T17:42:00.000-08:00

I woke to hard frost yesterday morning, the second of the season. This one, fortunately, fell on a weekend morning. Fortunately? Well…yes. Sunrise was an hour away and a thick fog cloaked everything. I was pleasantly surprised when the wind came up briefly and the fog blew out of the garden, followed by weak rays of sunrise. This presented a perfect opportunity to capture some frost pictures before the icy crystals melted away with the first touch of sun.

Frost can transform plants both mundane and reviled into lacy confections. Witness the seed spike from overly exuberant lemon balm (Melissa officinalis):

Or the invasive garden thug, Himalayan blackberry (Rubus discolor):

But the Cinderella moment won't last long and soon true identities will emerge from beneath their icing.

Frost is interesting in its own right. Water vapor normally passes through a liquid state before freezing. But in the case of frost, the vapor skips the liquid phase and moves on to the frozen state, a process called deposition. Frost isn’t simply frozen dew.

I once saw a short film clip of ice crystals forming on a window as if painted on with an invisible brush. I would love to devise some kind of time lapse setup to capture the frost forming in the garden, the crystals appearing as if by magic from the atmospheric microcosm surrounding each leaf, tendril and blade.

The morning’s frost was quite heavy.The lawn below my garden looked as if it had been covered by a blanket of snow and the seed heads of the heliopsis (Heliopsis helianthoides sp.) were capped with thick spiky haystacks of ice:

As the sun rose higher some of the rays found lawn and garden, creating a patchwork of white, green and brown, a brief winter camouflage.

In a few minutes all had melted and it was time to go back inside to warm up and have some tea. Another lovely Sunday morning spent in the garden chapel.

Leaves

2004-11-17T06:08:00.000-08:00

Many leaves are still hanging on the trees and in the long thin afternoon light they glow, each tree standing in a matching pool of brilliant color. This year’s scarlets and lemon yellows have been some of the best I’ve ever seen, though I imagine I think that every year, and every year it is true. What an incredible gift.

I recently read one of my favorite essays by Henry David Thoreau, Autumnal Tints. This is an annual pleasure. His descriptions bring me right to his side, walking along with the naturalist and sharing his joy at the magnificent colors. However, I do take issue with his dismissal of the science behind nature’s wonders as somehow dry and without soul:

The physiologist says it [ripening of fruit] is "due to an increased absorption of oxygen." That is the scientific account of the matter, -- only a reassertion of the fact.But I am more interested in the rosy cheek than I am to know
what particular diet the maiden fed on.

Most students who pursue the botanical sciences do so out of awe for the natural world, awe that learning science only serves to deepen. Knowing that autumn’s brilliant color show results from the cessation of chlorophyll production doesn’t detract from my appreciation of the stunning array of pigments that remain. That knowledge makes the summer leaves more mysterious, as if they are concealing some delicious secret, waiting for the right time to favor us with a glimpse of their complexity beyond the cool green shade.

When the leaves hang on well into November the chances are good that we may experience that glorious phenomenon of a cold bright morning filled with leaves dropping almost simultaneously.

Under normal circumstances the base of each leaf has by now formed an abscission layer, a layer of thin walled cells that eventually break down through enzyme activity. When this layer is weakened the leaf will eventually drop from the tree. But if the weather cooperates with clear skies and a hard freeze the stage is set for a dramatic and sudden leaf fall. This probably results from moisture freezing in the abscission layer. The cells rupture when the sun warms and melts these ice crystals and suddenly a rainfall of leaves begins. This doesn’t happen every year but it is unforgettable, standing under a big tree, watching the leaves pile up around your feet.

Some trees prefer to keep their leaves through the winter. Pin oak leaves are an example of a mascescent leaf, one that withers without falling off. When walking by pin oak trees on a December night the scratching sound of the dry mahogany leaves in the wind hurries behind me like some winter wraith, conjuring up thoughts of a warm room and lamplight.

In Autumnal Tints Mr. Thoreau seems to express a mistrust of science, as if knowledge could somehow snatch away the mystery and wonder of the natural world. I submit that knowing some of the mechanisms of our natural miracles can’t help but foster more wonder. As we unravel one mystery two more are revealed, hinting that Mother Nature really does have the last word and is smiling all the while.

Fog

2004-11-13T10:50:00.000-08:00

Our fog season has begun. This valley is visited by dense fog each winter. Flights cannot leave and the airport is sometimes forced to seed the fog. When the temperature dips to the low twenties the fog freezes on the road, creating treacherous driving conditions. Headlights pointing into the fog serve only to reflect and navigation is a matter of watching the fog lines painted on the road, hopefully renewed this past summer by diligent road crews.

But if you don’t need to fly or drive you can enjoy the isolated little world that a heavy fog creates. When wrapped in enough layers to insulate against the bone chilling cold, walking in the fog can be a sensory deprivation experience. Standing at the end of the road that leads to the work orchard, I cannot see a single tree and am astonished at how dependent I am on visual cues. And aural cues are no better. Fog muffles sound much as snow does and is often more disorienting. So I am without visual cues and sounds are directionless. The walk takes on a dreamlike quality.

Driving to work I often leave home under clear skies. But the fog bank is visible as I drive down the hill, a gray blanket insulating the valley floor. I once drove down from a small coast range mountain into a fog bank and was treated to a most bizarre sight. A horse pasture along the road was at the leading edge of the approaching fog bank. The pasture was dotted with horse heads, the bodies invisible in the fog.

This kind of selective detail shows in the garden as well. A sunflower head, seed long since depleted by birds, is etched against a gauzy backdrop. A few grapes, still hanging, show dark purple against a muted yellow haze of remaining leaves. Fog watching becomes a game. Details pop in and out through the day until dusk turns the fog a dark gray and all details blur.

Little wonder that fog plays a leading role in spooky stories reserved for long winter nights. It is otherworldly. This simple weather phenomenon reminds us that we share a common need for the sensory familiar, the touchstones we instinctively use to steer through our daily lives. Without orientation the imagination must fill in, sometimes with unpredictable results.

Gray Fog

A fog drifts in, the heavy laden
Cold white ghost of the sea —
One by one the hills go out,
The road and the pepper-tree.

I watch the fog float in at the window
With the whole world gone blind,
Everything, even my longing, drowses,
Even the thoughts in my mind.

I put my head on my hands before me,
There is nothing left to be done or said,
There is nothing to hope for, I am tired,
And heavy as the dead.

Sara Teasdale
From Flame and Shadow | Macmillian, 1920

I am glad our foggy winters don't have such a depressing effect on me. The fog will frequently burn off later in the day to reveal what has been beyond the veil all along - brittle blue winter sky. And bulbs are waiting to be planted.

The Illuminated Gourd

2004-10-31T13:02:00.000-08:00

Halloween. All Hallow’s Eve. Day of the Dead, All Souls' Day. All names for this holiday hovering around the end of October, with each tradition giving a nod, sometimes very well disguised, to the approaching winter. A time when harvest is definitely a memory and long nights can give rise to flights of fantasy.

Today the sun moves in and out of clouds, the wind is cold and blowing leaves everywhere. A perfect brew of fall colors and smells with a chill to remind us that winter is emphatically waiting around the corner.

Halloween is rich in traditions, sometimes conflicting. But one part of the holiday that most agree on is carving pumpkins. Pumpkins for carving have been bred for size and other appealing jack-o-lantern qualities. These come at the expense of flavor so if you are really interested in fresh pumpkin you will need to look for pumpkins bred for sweet flesh.

Pumpkins came late to the carving party, however. Turnips were carved in Ireland. This tradition was brought to America, where pumpkins were more abundant than turnips, and our modern day preference for the illuminated gourd was born.

When I light the candles in my newly carved pumpkins I get an eerie but exciting little thrill. I like to think this harks back to a deeper collective consciousness, but whatever the source, this particular tradition is one of the most evocative. I line them up,stand back,and hugging my sweater close, admire my handiwork.

Scary, somber, silly faces seem suspended in mid-air, shining through the cold dark. Quintessential Halloween.

Fall lettuce

2004-10-27T18:40:00.000-07:00

My fall lettuce is an enigma this year. I planted purchased seedlings since I have never had luck with fall lettuce from seed. I selected varieties much as I select seed for spring planting; a nice mix of color and texture. I went with Red Sails, Red Romaine and Buttercrunch. These were set out in early September, in a planter that gets morning sun.

The results have been interesting. The red color is almost absent, unlike my spring plantings, and probably due to the afternoon shade. The stalks are elongating but not putting on a flower head. The lettuce is still delicious, meatier than spring lettuce and not yet bitter.

I have a theory. Lettuce is a long day crop, needing over twelve hours of daylight to set seed, and hot weather has been demonstrated to hasten bolting. The seedlings were set out as the days were getting shorter but a couple of weeks ago we had a period where temperatures hovered around 90. Photoperiod trumped heat, resulting in the growth that precedes flowering, but lacking long enough days, the flowers did not follow.

All this speculation aside, I have been downright stingy with this lettuce. Planting seedlings means I do not plant nearly as many as in the spring when I start them from seed. And the lettuce is the last fresh green I will enjoy until April. So I mete out a few leaves to be mixed with market lettuce and spinach. My reluctance to use it all reminds me of long ago, playing outside as dusk descended. Just as I couldn’t bear to let even a photon of light be lost by going indoors I now find myself, an adult, unwilling to let the lettuce go as long as there are any leaves left to last until a killing frost. Curious

A not so simple gift

2004-10-19T18:50:00.000-07:00

My bulb order from Colorblends has arrived! Not only are the bulbs fat and fresh but a bonus gift was included – a rain gauge!

I am fascinated with weather but have never done more than cursory observation. However, noting daily weather details appeals to the technician in me. For several years I happily helped with a southern Oregon phenology, tracking bloom dates for certain representative flowers and trees, and egg deposition and development for particular insects. I was endlessly fascinated with poring over previous years and noting similarities and differences from year to year.

And now my own rain gauge. A simple free gift has me haunting ebay, looking around for barometers, minimum-maximum thermometers, paraphenalia coveted by lovers of climatic minutiae.

But it truly does get worse, if you can imagine. If I record the data in a spreadsheet I can map and graph weather data for my own garden. Do you see where this madness is going? Never mind that weather collection data is readily available for this region, and in vastly more sophisticated form. This would be my own garden! Carried to its unhealthy extreme I could get a GPS unit and locate said rain gauge with excruciating precision. GAWD!

(Taking a deep breath)

I am familiar with the use of weather data for tracking and observing effects on fruit development, disease occurrence and other horticultural concerns. But don’t I get enough of that at work? Why not just smell the flowers when I get home?

Notwithstanding I am grateful for my new gift. Now that the rains have started it will be nice to observe the rain in my own microcosm. I have always been suspect of weather data that bears no resemblance to what I observe outside my window.

But I think I’ll leave prediction to the professionals. Weather prediction has a Delphic quality to it, oracular prophecy borne of divine spark, and certainly not to be trespassed on by a climatic bookkeeper.

Basil silliness

2004-10-17T11:53:00.000-07:00

I thought the Indian summer would last longer. Planned a picnic in the park, a lazy affair of finger food, a blanket, books and sky gazing through yellow leaves. I woke this morning to wind and fast moving clouds with sun peeking in and out and electric blue patches of sky teasing me into thinking the storm might blow over. It did not. The wind stopped, the rains came. Time to put on the prognosticator’s hat.

This is a gambling time of year here in the northwest. The rain will help bring a new flush of leaves on the basil, especially if some sun follows. So the odds makers get to work. I visit no fewer than three weather predictions, choosing the one I like the most. Clouds will keep the night temperatures above freezing. But when the needed sun arrives the danger of frost looms. What is the pesto addict to do? Every year the same balancing act plays out. I want to get another batch of pesto. The basil is still producing, though flower heads have begun to appear since the last harvest. To cut or not to cut? The gardening faerie on my shoulder starts to whisper.

In previous years reemay protected the basil from the early light frosts.

A little protection can eke out an extra two or three weeks.

With temperatures last week edging toward 90, a warm weather crop like basil might be expected to keep growing a while longer.

It’s the same annual song every fall. When it comes to my basil (i.e. pesto) I have brought rationalizing to an art form over the last several years. It seems I cannot give up on it until the heavy frosts come or the leaves become small and slightly bitter. So the basil stays. I’m sure I knew what my decision would be from the outset. But why spoil the fun of second guessing the weather? A small personal joke, a ritual enacted with reliability each year and never failing to make me smile at my foolishness.

Remind Me of Apples

2004-10-10T09:54:00.000-07:00

When picking apples I imagine the poet Robert Francis, with his ladder and picking bucket, finding inspiration for his poem Remind Me of Apples.

Apple picking is a feast for the senses. On a ladder, looking up through the leaves, the apples hang bright red contrasted against the deep blue October sky. The air has a cool edge to it, but the sun is warm on skin. The scent, almost floral, lingering in the trees reminds me that the apple is a cousin of the rose. Who wouldn’t want to call up these images while standing in the parched garden of late August?

'Gala apples'

I had the good fortune of picking some Braeburn apples at work last week. The station’s apple block has four popular commercial varieties: Gala, Fuji, Braeburn and Granny Smith. But several years ago we had a large varietal block with plantings of numerous old and new varieties that ripened over a long period of time. One of my most pleasant assignments came when I was instructed to go out to the apple block and start tasting different varieties. If I found one that was ready I would pick a box or two for employees to enjoy over the winter. This would go on for several weeks and was one part of my job that I eagerly anticipated each year. I still miss that old block.

Although these sensory pleasures are reason enough to love to apples, their incredibly rich history is a bonus to anyone interested in horticultural lore. Firmly based in antiquity, the apple shows up in writings as early as fifth century B.C. Mitch Lynd, a seventh generation apple grower, has put together a summary of worldwide apple history. He touches only briefly, however, on the history of cultivation, an area of study that continues to fascinate both amateur and professional horticulturists.

7500 apple varieties are cultivated worldwide, 2500 in the United States. Only 200 of these are grown commercially. What of the remainder? The interest in heirloom apples keeps the old varieties alive. The Lady apple, also known as pomme d'Api or simply Api, is still in production today and is said to date back to Roman times.

The fascination with growing heirloom apples, (or any other cultivated fruit, vegetable herb or flower) strikes a deep chord with me. The idea that I can grow something now, in 2004, that was grown so long ago somehow creates a bond, a kinship with my ancestors. As we move along at a breakneck pace, this commonality of garden experience offers a curious comfort, an opportunity to close my eyes and imagine a gardener like myself picking apples, the same sun warm on her shoulders as is now on mine. This goes far to restore a sense of perspective and never fails to help reorder my thinking.

Robert Francis probably had no idea of the cascade of thought his poem could trigger. Or maybe he did. So if you get a chance to pick some apples this season, take advantage of the opportunity. I hope your mental journey while doing so is as enjoyable as mine.

Small garden musings

2004-10-02T08:18:00.000-07:00

E. A. Bowles, in the last chapter of My Garden in Autumn and Winter, sums up his garden philosophy:

So if only the owner of a garden will plant enough plants of the most different types and habits procurable, there ought to be never a day in which he cannot find some pleasure in watching growth or decay, structure of bud, leaf, blossom, fruit or stem, no minute of the daylight hours of the working days in which there is no interesting or health giving work to be done; and no bed of the garden that will not provide some offering for a friend, whether it be cut flowers, ripe seeds or divisions of roots.

This mirrors my own feelings with regard to gardens. But my tiny garden space is such a constraint. It is difficult to think in the large and flowing terms encouraged by such a philosophy. I would love to indulge old loves and new fascinations in my garden. Daylilies, irises, salvias, roses, herbs; all deserve their own space to flourish and provide the diversity of intangible and tangible rewards that Bowles describes.

In the interest of full disclosure I must admit that my very small herb bed has gone quite wild, being overrun by those two wantons, wild marjoram and rose yarrow. This past year I gave in to a seductive but flawed attitude; if I do not have the space to create the kind of herb garden I covet then I won’t even be bothered with working with what I have.

Of course this kind of petulance is necessarily short lived. What gardener can look very long at a potential space, however small it might be, and not begin drawing up mental plans? There a numerous design books that address small garden spaces and I am nothing if not a good pupil. With some pleasantly diverting selection and some daunting excavation maybe I can renovate the herb bed to include sufficient 'different types and habits procurable' to provide daily interest.

Maybe all gardeners have similar stories, but somehow I always picture other’s gardens as flawless. This rosy illusion is not unlike the domestic harmony I imagine behind lighted windows at dusk. Both happy fictions.

But this year’s herb bed episode has given me pause. If such a small matter can intimidate me would I even be capable of handling a large gardening space if fate suddenly provided one? I like to think so and will continue to hope for the opportunity to find out.

Nemesis

2004-09-27T05:59:00.000-07:00

Nemesis, the Greek goddess of vengeance, is said to be a ‘personification of the gods' retribution for violation of sacred law’. I would like to know what horticultural commandment I flouted to deserve a visitation, nay, a plague of stink bugs on my tomatoes.

My garden is adjacent to a large thicket of blackberries, which are reputed to be a stink bug magnet. I also have two large comfrey plants in the garden. These attract large numbers as well. But the insects are not content with such fare. They attack the tomatoes ruthlessly, vectoring diseases with their mouthparts.

I have determined that the culprit is the Conchuela stink bug (Chlorochroa ligata (Say)). This stink bug ranges from olive green to grayish brown with an orange margin along the thorax and wings and a spot of similar color on the scutellum.

Stink bugs, when not viewed through the filter of an irate gardener, are interesting insects. When disturbed they release a strong, unpleasant smelling liquid as a deterrent to predators. The smell is faintly almond like, owing to the cyanide compounds present. The family (Pentatomidae) is diverse, with some predators and several very colorful members.

Any infestation of this magnitude causes me to review my organic policy. I have never sprayed any synthetic pesticides in my garden and would prefer not to start now. But stink bugs are famously difficult to control using organic methods. In fact, in the most ideal of circumstances, the best control one can expect is 30-50%. Still, I cannot bring myself to resort to the heavier control methods so I will attempt some partial control this fall. Stink bugs overwinter as adults so the population of nymphs (immature stink bugs) is quite high in the fall, making this a good time to spray insecticidal soaps. These products can reduce the nymph population but are ineffective in controlling adults.

The issue of organic versus synthetic control is a contentious one, with arguments deteriorating to acrimonious name-calling on some of the garden forums I visit. I think it is really a matter of personal preference. Chemicals are chemicals and organic pesticides can be just as toxic as their synthetic brethren, despite their botanical origins. It is more a continuum of available options. If I start with the most benign option and it produces results I have saved myself time and money.

Still, I may be moving the tomatoes to a community garden plot next year. Options are not necessarily linear and when I reach the fork in the road where I must choose between the heavier poisons and relocation I think I know which path I’ll choose.

Autumnal equinox

2004-09-22T05:13:00.000-07:00

Today is the autumnal equinox. The word itself has deep roots [Middle English, from Old French equinoxe, from Medieval Latin aequinoxium, from Latin aequinoctium : aequi-, equi- + nox, noct-, night.], reflecting the long held fascination our ancestors had with celestial matters. From now until the winter solstice the days will be shorter than the nights as the sun continues moving north, a procession sure and comforting in its cyclical reliability.

This time of balance is curiously energizing, even as the lengthening nights draw us inside, both physically and metaphorically. But these opposite tugs are oddly compatible. The coming days, shorter but awash with golden autumn light, offer opportunities to enjoy the lingering good weather to get the garden ready for winter. The coming longer nights, chilly and pungent with wood smoke, are perfect for slowing down, reading and thinking.

To honor this instinctual response to the seasonal change feels right. Our modern world negates the need for many winter preparations. But it seems likely that shifting our balance, once physically necessary for conservation of energy, still serves another purpose, more spiritual or psychological, but just as necessary.

It is just this kind of woolgathering that longer nights encourage.

Every milepost in the year’s progression is special, with its own unique gifts. But autumn has always been and will remain my favorite. Its offerings are at once sensual and cerebral, another appropriate dichotomy that celebrates the equinox.

No grows

2004-09-20T17:46:00.000-07:00

I am fortunate to live within walking distance of a beautiful park where I walk frequently. The groundskeepers have put in several flowerbed “islands” throughout the park with some stunning displays this year. One that caught my eye and set me thinking is a display of ‘Tangerine Gem’ marigold and ‘White Star’ zinnia border surrounding cleome and ‘Purple Majesty’ millet. The cleome are an object of envy, being a plant that I seem to be unable to grow.

While walking by this bed yesterday I began to dwell on plants that I have a problem with. Cleome, certainly, should not be so difficult but I have met with failure each time I try. Moonflowers are another seemingly impossible plant. This year has been the most successful of any, though the plants did not bloom (calling this a success should give some idea of performance in previous years). But my pathetic nasturtiums cause the most anguish. Each time I walk by the planter and see them I feel acute embarrassment, as if some hidden character flaw has been revealed for the entire world to see. I do not know one gardener who cannot grow beautiful nasturtiums. They are a hit in children’s gardens for their ease.

So...what gives? Each spring I start out with cockeyed optimism, convinced that this is the year, o yes. But so far it has not been the year. It seems to me that there are two divergent lessons here. One is that persistence will eventually be rewarded. The other is that a graceful submission to one’s shortcomings is a mark of gardening maturity.

It really is a matter of spin, I suppose. Persistence is stubborness, graceful submission is defeatism. Most gardeners I know fall in the stubborn, er, persistent camp and, happily, hope will spring eternal when the seed catalogs arrive. I see nasturtiums in my future.

First fall rain

2004-09-18T09:47:00.000-07:00

Our first fall rain blew in last night. Yesterday afternoon was windy with a hint of a chill and bathed in that flat, almost metallic, light that heralds an approaching storm front. The temperature dropped in the night but the rain was intermittent and more a heavy mist than the rains we see in later in the year. Still, with predictions of a 5000 foot snow level tonight, it is time for fall chores.

Despite all the hints of the approaching change of season, I have been lulled by the buttery light of the last few days. All my senses have conspired to keep me in some languid stasis, drifting about with all the time in the world. Today that lull must end. The temperature drop is a wakeup call. There will be plenty of glorious autumn days ahead but a little taste of cool evenings to come is a sure motivator.

Autumn chores are not unpleasant. Put on a sweater (it is first sweater day of the year) and step out into the cool morning. Clouds and sun, the occasional shower, a rainbow…what’s not to like? Last night I put together a mental inventory of fall tasks but committing them to electronic paper is more binding. So here goes:

Find Reemay to cover the basil, tomatoes and eggplant when the inevitable frost warning comes
Buy new bulb food and locate bulb planter
Put away garden tools. ( I like to think that this year I will treat the tools correctly).
Tuck in a few more pansies.
Plant asters
Begin readying tender outdoor plants for their journey back to the greenhouse.
Plant iris rhizomes (a little late, I know)

Chores for this time of the year are mostly small and lend themselves to puttering and daydreaming, a satisfying way to spend the first cool cloudy day of the season. Just as the garden is winding down, leaves beginning to yellow, growth suspended, so I find myself introspective and deliberate as I go about my tasks. It is in keeping with the cycle of the wheel and I am enjoying every minute of it. All of this triggered from a simple fall rain.

Grapes

2004-09-15T17:50:00.000-07:00

The rich sweet smell of ripening Concord grapes (Vitus vinifera) is another sensory signal that fall is not far away. I have two venerable old Concord vines with trunks the size of small trees. The yields are usually heavy and perfect to make strong juice with a steam juicer. In recent years, however, raccoons have pretty much put an end to any thought of juice-making. They climb up the arbors, snatch the grapes and throw the skins on the ground, to be tracked into the house. But at least I can still enjoy the smell.

'Sungold Red'

Fortunately, at my place of employment (referred to simply as ‘the station’ by employees), we planted a varietal trial block of table grapes several years ago. And even more fortunately, when the trial was over the block did not suffer the precipitous fate of other similar trials. The table grapes have remained and yield gorgeous, pendulous clusters each year.

Before this block was planted I was unaware of the wonderful varieties available to the home grape grower. Commonly grown commercial varieties were, and still are, limited to Thompson Seedless and Flame. So the varieties in the trial, with the exception of Flame, were all new to me. The flavor depth and complexity when tasting the different varieties was quite a surprise as was the unexpectedly rich palette of colors ranging from blue-black to rich ruby red to amber and translucent green. Each year the grape block offers one of the first of many pleasurable opportunities to dive into autumn.

The varieties:

'Himrod' – hybrid of Thompson Seedless and American
'Interlaken' – green-gold seedless
'Lakemont' – another hybrid of Thompson Seedless
'Sungold Red' – deep ruby-red gold
'Beauty' – blue-black seedless
'Flame' – light red seedless
'Ruby' – European red
'Black Monukka' – European medium purple black, mostly seedless

Chop wood, carry water

2004-09-12T11:45:00.000-07:00

"Before enlightenment, chop wood and carry water.
After enlightenment, chop wood and carry water."
--Wu Li

Substitute deadhead and weed and you have a gardener’s version of the old Zen proverb.

Deadheading offers a chance to drift in a stream of consciousness, ponder a problem, or simply be out enjoying the early morning. This morning offered a brew of all three. It was a particularly beautiful morning with lots of clouds, a light breeze from the south smelling of rain, and some bickering hummingbirds flitting around and chittering. The problem solving kept drifting away into some bizarre Rorschach dreaminess with shapes emerging from the seedheads of the Heliopsis. It soon became apparent that it was time to let said problem drop into the subconscious to be solved by the “little gray cells” as Hercule Poirot so succinctly put it.

Weeding is another matter, confirming that enlightenment is light years away. Weeding is adversarial. Weeding is a personal vendetta. Weeding is an entrenched refusal to let go of old wrongs and perceived transgressions. Every memory of weedy triumph is burned into my brain, growing in hindsight. But it is my relationship with quack grass that really brings out my inner bitch. I swear at the long rhizomes, ripping at them with an unbecoming vengeance and sending dirt flying everywhere. Enlightenment indeed.

I suppose it is something to strive for. When I can approach weeding with the same equanimity as deadheading then I hope it will signal that new level of mindfulness. Yeah, right. The day I can approach that vile monocot without a significant spike in my blood pressure is the day you can stop the presses because I will be at the Vatican applying for sainthood.

Pansies

2004-09-08T21:35:00.000-07:00

The appearance of winter pansies in the garden shops is always a cure for the aforementioned summer doldrums. Cheerful and bright when summer flowers are starting to fade, they will often bloom into late fall. If we have a mild winter they may still be blooming on the porch next spring.

William Thomas, gardener for one Lord Gambier at Iver in England, is thought to be primarily responsible for the cross breeding that gave rise to modern pansies, as described by Dr. John Grimshaw in The Gardener’s Atlas:

In 1813 he brought Thompson some plants of Viola tricolor and suggested that he try to “improve” them. At first Thompson bred for size and colors by simple selection, but he later began to hybridize V. tricolor with other species including the yellow-flowered European mountain plant V. lutea and the purple Siberian V. altaica, which are both perennials.

Some sources indicate that V. cornuta, an alpine pansy from the Pyrenees of France and Spain, was included in later cross breeding that resulted in the today's pansy (Viola x wittrockiana). This alpine pansy was also bred to create the modern viola.

The only problem I have with pansies and violas is the enormous selection. I spend an inordinate amount of time selecting, putting back, picking up and holding next to another color…and so on. This year is no exception. I finally settled on two violas, ‘Penny Beaconsfield’ and ‘Sorbet Yellow Delight’ and two pansies, ‘Crystal Bowl Scarlet’ and ‘Imperial Antique Shades’. I am still watching for ‘Jolly Joker’ a dark purple and orange bi-color that has always struck me as perfect for Halloween.

The pansies were not ready to photograph but below are the two violas.

Doldrums

2004-09-06T11:58:00.000-07:00

Comforting rituals, reliable markers of the wheel of the year, define a gardener’s month to month journey. The miracle of a seed, the first tender lettuce, the bounty of summer crops; all are a pleasure to experience anew as the months pass.

The late summer garden doldrums, while not particularly enjoyable, are as much a part of my gardening year and as reliable. My garden in the doldrums is getting blowsy, overrun with weeds and generally down at the heel. It is harder to continue weeding when all the signs of cooler, rainier weather and coming winter are there to read. The light is changing. Not only does the sun rise later and set earlier, but that almost imperceptible lengthening of shadows, which will give rise to that most glorious light of autumn, is beginning.

Humans are not immune to circadian rhythms. We have light receptors and respond physiologically to subtle changes in light. If we are wired to recognize changes of light in a 24-hour cycle why not in larger cycles? Is it surprising that we begin to slow our garden activities though the daytime temperatures tell us it is still summer? No more surprising than the late winter surge of energy and the compulsion to start seeds regardless of the inhospitable conditions outside the window.

Still, the listlessness that marks my summer garden doldrums is always a bit unnerving. I suppose that when I am able to accept this as part of that wonderful ebb and flow that draws gardeners to cultivate and nurture then I will have learned yet another of the many lessons that gardening has to teach.

Bulbs

2004-09-04T13:43:00.000-07:00

The bulb catalogs are arriving. Browsing for bulbs differs in quality from the rainy-day catalog ritual of January. Even in the middle of winter, spring has inevitability. Looking out to the dripping sunflower stalks looming gray in the mist, one can still imagine sunlight on the April garden. Bulb shopping, however, is a small act of faith. Spring is not a given on the continuum of seasons. It is fully two and one half seasons away. Planting bulbs is not, as leaps of faith go, as dramatic as planting a tree. But in a world gone mad it is possibly the biggest leap I can manage at this time.

With regard to bulbs, glossy pictures and great prices have always seduced me. Last year’s experience may have changed that. Admittedly the planting was late. But I once planted well into December and was nevertheless rewarded with stunning displays. Last year’s performance was tepid, with less than half of the bulbs blooming, and many of those stunted. This failure has served to reinforce the adage ‘you get what you pay for’.

As a consequence, I have been looking around for a new bulb source. Colorblends (Schipper and Co.) offers an extensive selection and wholesale prices but you must buy in bulk. They received rave reviews at Garden Watchdog (a great resource for discovering information about garden retailers).

In keeping with that time-honored tradition of garden shopping, overindulgence, I submit my selections:

Tulipa Bakeri ‘Lilac Wonder’
Narcissus bulbocodium conspicuus ‘Hoop Petticoat’
Narcissus jonquilla ‘Pipit’
Narcisuss ‘Cheerfulness’
Tulipa The Crusaders blend
Tulipa 'Big Eartha'
Later added two from Ebay
Narcissus triandrus 'Hawera'
Narcissus cyclamineus 'Jetfire'

I was delighted to note that several of the above are included in the gardens of Paghat the Ratgirl. If these are good enough for her garden they are certainly good enough for mine.

Hopefully, this year’s bulb planting will be more timely.

Coleus monstruoso

2004-09-01T12:35:00.000-07:00

Well, not really. This is Giant Exhibition Limelight (Solenostemon scutellarioides, previously known as Coleus blumei)

The leaves on this beauty are 6 inches long and four inches wide and the color leaps out in the shade, mixing well with darker foliage plants. A couple of years ago I grew Limelight with Palisandra, a purple, almost black, Giant Exhibition coleus. Now I see that Park’s is offering a collection (not mix) of this series. In addition to Limelight and Palisandra , it includes Tartan (green, cream, burgundy, and hot pink), Copper Queen and Scarlet II. I suppose I will need to wrestle with my mixed feelings about Park’s because, come January, I know I ~~will want~~ must order these.

For years Park's was the only source I could find for Fairway Rose coleus( outside of a mix). This coleus has always been essential to one of my favorite shade combinations. Paired with just the right shade of magenta impatiens to match the center of the coleus and filled in with white lobelia it makes quite a show.

It was while browsing for Fairway Rose that I ran across the Giant Exhibition series. I believe these are contemporary hybrids of the heirloom coleus that were said to be quite the rage in Victorian times.

I have always used coleus as a companion, a background to showcase other plants. The Giant Exhibitions are bold and take center stage in a planter. I'm looking forward to trying some of the other colors.

Pesto

2004-08-30T17:51:00.000-07:00

Now is the time for one of the more pleasant tasks of the summer – making pesto to freeze for the winter.

I had intended to do a comparison of two varieties of basil and their resulting pestos. I started from seed, nursed and set out 20 (more or less) plants of each variety. Pinching the plants back to encourage bushiness, I sat back smugly to watch them grow. A few days later I went to check on them and discovered all the new growth had been eaten. The plants looked so miserable and I doubted that they would recover. So I bought some plants of unknown pedigree and tucked them in among the pathetic sticks that were my beautiful starts. Of course, the original varieties recovered, but now the nameless plants are among the special varieties so the pesto taste test will be postponed until next year.

The upside is that my basil is yielding heavily. I harvested 8 cups of leaves yesterday and made two batches of pesto to freeze, saving some for dinner ( fresh salmon spritzed with fresh lemon juice, spread with pesto and baked…yum!). I put the pesto in ice cube trays and when it is frozen remove the cubes and place in freezer bags.

So here is this year’s recipe. It is last year’s recipe with some tweaks courtesy of The Best Recipe from the editors of Cook’s Illustrated magazine.

Pesto is a tonic in the winter, when the fog has settled in for days and the garden is covered in darkness both when I leave for work and when I get home. A little winter surprise and a reminder of green summer in the monochromatic season of rest.

A new mantis

2004-08-28T08:53:00.000-07:00

I brought a new resident predator to the garden yesterday. I spied it sitting on the edge of a box while at work and thought it would be a nice addition to the garden.

There are two species of praying mantis (family Mantidae) in this region. Stagmomantis Carolina, the Carolina mantis, is native. Tenodera aridifolia, the Chinese mantis, was introduced to the U.S. in the early 1900's for pest control. I have not keyed my new guest (how rude would that be?) but am inclined to think it is the Carolina mantis, whose wings are shorter and do not extend to the end of the abdomen.

The arrival in my garden was marked by much fanfare and turned into a photoshoot. Mantids move slowly and seem to preen for the camera, turning their heads and moving their front legs into the classic "praying" pose that gave rise to the name. The Greek word mantis translates as prophet or seer.

Mantids are thought of as good predators in a garden. Unfortunately they are indiscriminate in their selection of prey and are just as likely to feed on your beneficials as on your pests. But never mind. I love having them in the garden and will be watching for the characteristic egg cases, which show up in some strange places. One year I found one on a shovel handle! For those unfamiliar with the egg case, here is a picture.

Fingerling potatoes

2004-08-24T17:22:00.000-07:00

I have been stealing a few fingerling potatoes. I know if I wait longer they will grow but I simply cannot wait until the vines die back. By very carefully lifting the plants with a four tine garden fork I am able to get enough for an occasional special dinner. With Italian parsley and a bit of olive oil they are so delicious that I often wonder why I don’t plant the whole garden to potatoes and tomatoes!. But a wise friend points out that those few square feet make them all the more special.

This year I discovered an incredible source for seed potatoes. Milk Ranch Specialty Potatoes has an amazing selection and very reasonable prices. This prompted me to try a couple of new varieties in addition to my old favorite, Russian Banana. I also ordered Austrian Crescent and Rose Finn Apple. Austrian Crescent has won, hands down, for very good size, yield and, most importantly, flavor. It is tied with Russian Banana, my mainstay for so many years.

My limited space does not allow for a crop of potatoes for winter keeping. But enough fingerlings for a few memorable meals are something to look forward to.

In the immortal words of Winnie-the-Pooh, channeling A. A. Milne:

What I say is, if a man really likes potatoes, he must be a pretty decent sort of fellow.

Well, I try.

Kitchen Garden Day

2004-08-22T14:41:00.000-07:00

Today is Kitchen Garden Day. Described as “global, decentralized celebration of delicious local foods produced on a human scale”, it is intended to bring together those gardeners who enjoy growing their own fruits, vegetables and herbs and preparing them in healthy, creative ways. Started by Kitchen Gardeners International, the day serves to remind gardeners of the satisfaction to be gained from harvesting locally grown produce.

My own celebration is small. It was to have begun with planting some lettuce and peas followed by a dinner including fingerling potatoes with parsley and the first summer squash of the year. Mother Nature, an unpredictable guest at any party, had other ideas. Sheets of rain precluded planting and turned potato digging into a rather soupy mess. Still, this is all part of the joy of kitchen gardening. The rain has brought out a myriad of rich fragrances that can only be found in the garden, and only after a rain, making the treasure hunt for potatoes a feast for the senses (muddy touch included). It is a pleasure to mark another year as a kitchen gardener.

Eggplant - take two

2004-08-21T14:25:00.000-07:00

Let the eggplant harvest commence! Four varieties are now at harvestable stage. The larger will go into Roman Style Eggplant, the smaller for grilling. Believe it or not, there is an eggplant page boasting 2655 eggplant recipes (and counting)! Summer has really arrived!

Clockwise from top left: Rosa Bianca, White Cloud, Vittoria, Louisiana Long Green.

A fall garden

2004-08-19T15:33:00.000-07:00

The cool season vegetable seedlings are now available at the nurseries. With the temperatures nudging toward 100 it is hard to think about the fall garden but now is the time. The light is subtly different, and the afternoon shadows seem longer. If the speed with which the summer passed is any indication I had best be getting my seedlings in the ground before the narrow window passes.

Each year I am sorely tempted by the crucifers, despite my complete inability to grow any of them successfully. In my imaginary fall garden Brussels sprouts stand tall and packed with those lovely mini-cabbages from top to bottom and I serve my own cauliflower and broccoli at Thanksgiving dinner. A gardener’s imagination is a powerful force. But pragmatism will probably triumph. Lettuces and chard will do quite nicely if I plant them under a reemay umbrella. Add some radishes and peas to complete this year’s fall garden.

But I have not yet been to the nursery. My imaginative twin may still win. A quick visit to one Master Gardener page (admittedly not from Oregon) hasn’t really helped matters:

When I plant cauliflower in early spring, I get small, ricey discolored heads; when I plant for the fall, I cut snowy white heads with excellent flavor. I have similar good results with fall plantings of Brussels sprouts.

A siren song similar to seed catalogs in the spring! Cauliflower isn’t all that hard to grow. Is it?

an inordinate fondness

2004-08-13T09:52:00.000-07:00

The story, often repeated with variations, concerns a conversation between a cleric and population geneticist J.B.S. Haldane. The cleric asked Haldane what he could infer about the creator from observing the natural world. Haldane supposedly replied that the creator had “an inordinate fondness for beetles”.

The garden certainly supports this observation. The diversity of beetles I find while merely walking or watering is amazing. But getting a little closer to the ground while weeding often disturbs some remarkable beetles one would not see otherwise. My most recent discovery was a metallic green-gold beetle, about ¼ inch. The color was quite vivid but when I looked at it later it was red-orange with three black spots on each wing. I keyed it to the family Chrysomelidae, subfamily Cassidinae. These are the tortoise beetles, the name owing to the tortoise shell shape. But the color change became more puzzling. When I looked at the beetle the next morning I was surprised to see the metallic coloring again. Numerous Google word combinations later I happened upon a Texas A&M page describing the golden tortoise beetle, Charidotella sexpunctata bicolor (Fabricius) (= Metriona bicolor (Fabricius)). The metallic coloring of this beetle disappears when disturbed. This phenomenon is described in more detail in an article originally appearing in Scarabogram, Sept. 1994, New Series No. 173, pp. 2-3:

The gold color is caused by a thin layer of moisture between the cuticle and an inner layer of the elytra. Apparently the insect is able to "voluntarily" squeeze this layer, reducing its thickness and eliminating the gold color. This change also occurs involuntarily when the beetle is under moisture stress, and, of course, when it dies.

This moisture reflects light, resulting in the appearance of metallic gold, and illustrates the structural coloring responsible for much of the iridescence observed in insects.

When I first came across Haldane’s quote many years ago I presumed he was referring to the sheer numbers of beetles in the world. Coleoptera is the largest order of insects with a quarter of a million species worldwide, 30,000 in North America. These numbers could certainly have prompted the comment. But after studying the beetles and observing my own local representatives I think it more likely that Haldane saw the enormous complexity and diversity of the beetles as an apt expression of “an inordinate fondness”.

Salvia

2004-08-05T21:13:00.000-07:00

I have read glowing descriptions of Salvia patens or gentian sage and have always wanted to grow it. Betsy Clebsh, in A Book of Salvias, echoes its popularity:

Since Salvia patens was introduced to horticulture in 1838, it has been extensively grown and deservedly praised. William Robinson (1933) says that without question, it is one of the best plants in cultivation. Many gardeners today wholeheartedly agree with him.

I now count myself among those gardeners. Every year I buy many of my basic seeds from Pinetree Garden Seeds. This company usually offers a few interesting flower seeds. I saw the description of S. patens 'Blue Angel' and decided to try it. I was not disappointed. The size of the blossoms was a complete surprise. And the clear blue really is unlike any salvia I have grown.

I have just discovered that S. patens 'Guanajuato' is supposed to have blossoms up to 2"! I will be trying to hunt down some seed this winter.

So many salvias... so little room.

Beloved, Let Us Once More Praise the Rain

2004-08-04T05:41:00.000-07:00

Conrad Aiken described Monday's rain perfectly in this poem. We were first treated to a dazzling show complete with window-rattling thunderclaps and lightening bolts illuminating the whole horizon. A long, soaking rain followed, satisfying the garden for at least a couple of days. No amount of watering, by hand or with the drip system, can wake the garden like a deep rain. The colors are all saturated, the leaves plumped and ready to face what promises to be another week of hot weather, and the sky cleared of the ever present summer haze and remnants of smoke from a nearby forest fire.

The garden and I were both heat weary. Truly I do praise the rain.

A promised Bambi diatribe

2004-08-01T07:30:00.000-07:00

Walt Disney did gardeners a great disservice when he made the movie “Bambi”. Any gardener who has met with deer knows that they are not a cartoonish embodiment of saccharin anthropomorphism but rather more akin to some hybrid mammalian cockroach. Tolerance is being sorely tested. I have patched the deer fence, urged fellow gardeners to close the gates, sprayed foul smelling fertilizers, but each day brings new losses. Tomatoes? Mown down, lovely promising green fruit gone. Peppers? A few sticks, some pulled completely from the ground, with only the firecracker hot thai left intact. Beans? A topknot of foliage crowns each bamboo teepee, presumably unreachable.

On rainy, cold January days, deer nightmares of previous years are blessedly washed away, and the gardener turns to that pleasant task of seed selection and ordering. The chasm between what I imagined when selecting, planting and nurturing and the reality of plants cut down in a doe-eyed blink is vast. Were I prescient and able to see the decimation of my summer garden would I have even bothered? Surely a question all gardeners have at one time or another answered with a resounding YES. Of course I would bother. Gardening is thought of as a destination driven activity. Plant seeds; eat fruits of labor, mmm, good. But gardening for serious gardeners really is as much about the journey as the destination. I learn in my garden, I find peace in my garden and sometimes I cry in my garden. It is a place of comfort and centering.

Now I must be off to the grange to buy blood meal. Why, I hear it deters the deer, you know……

Eggplant

2004-07-29T10:16:00.000-07:00

I am very happy to be back. So rather than spoil my first entry, after such a long absence, with a Bambi diatribe I prefer to gush about my beautiful eggplant setting fruit (and from such unpromising beginnings). Unlike my tomatoes, the eggplant germination was a bit low this year. Add to that the unfortunate greenhouse slug problem and, well, you get the picture. I imagined I would be without enough varieties of one of my favorite garden plants so I bought (!!) two additional varieties at the Jackson County Master Gardeners Spring Garden Fair. Of course, at that point my seeded plants suddenly took off. Varieties this year:

Rosa Bianca
Louisiana Long Green
Vittoria
Lavender Touch
Bride
Antigua
White Cloud

The selections seem a little heavy on the bicolors but I have a special fondness for the beautiful lavender, rose and white streaks that many exhibit.

Eggplant are so voluptuous. Right from the beginning, with the beautiful scalloped foliage and the huge lavender flowers, they beg to be drawn, painted or photographed. The pendulous fruit epitomize high summer here in southern Oregon. Our season is barely long enough and the nights stay cool often into June, resulting in eggplant that seem to pout. But when the summer weather settles in the plants respond. Add fertilizer to these heavy feeders (I tried a great one this year from Golden Harvest Organics) and the rewards begin in late July and early August. Why look…here we are now!

Here is the always lovely Rosa Bianca:

Short and sweet

2004-05-28T18:07:00.000-07:00

The last couple of weeks remind me of the reason for planting early spring crops. Each February I rethink the effort to plant snow peas and lettuce. They will be enjoyed for such a short time. Our springs frequently change abruptly to hot weather and these crops suffer. In addition, the beds are needed for the summer crops mentioned earlier. Already I have transplanted the eggplant and peppers into gallon pots, where they can stretch out a bit while they wait for their own raised bed, presently occupied by peas.

Those first salads of tender lettuce and spinach with homemade blue cheese dressing dissolve any doubts I might have had! These are nightly appreciated. The snow and snap peas, those that make it in from the garden, stir-fried lightly in a tiny drizzle of fruity olive oil then tossed with golden raisins....well, there it is.

Lettuce varieties for 2004: 'Plato', 'New Red Fire', 'Green Ice', 'Buttercrunch', 'Cimmaron' all from Pinetree Seeds. Also 'Crispy Frills' a freebie from someone.

Spinach varieties for 2004 : 'Space', Corretta'. Also from Pinetree

Pea varieties for 2004 : 'Mega' snap peas and "Oregon Sugar Pod II' snow peas from Territoral Seeds

Basil day

2004-05-22T09:07:00.000-07:00

It’s time to plant the basil (Ocimum basilicum). The weather should be mild with afternoon showers…perfect. Setting out basil seedlings is a true pleasure, the fragrance evoking a summer state of mind.

Continuing the annual pursuit of the perfect pesto, I selected two varieties for this year’s trial. The names were similar and I expected the plants to be similar as well. I was mistaken. The leaves of ‘Genovese’ from Kitchen Garden Seeds are lance shaped and pointed while ‘Profuma di Genova’ from Renee’s Garden Seeds has round broad leaves.

Other basils, apart from the main pesto crop, include the lovely 2002 AAS winner ‘Magical Michael’ from Park’s. Though not particularly useful as a culinary herb, the fragrant, showy blooms certainly make it worth growing.

Had I known that I would have extra space in front of the newly redesigned tomato bed I certainly would have also started some ‘Spicy Globe’ basil for this spot. I only hope I can find some seedlings at a garden shop!

Planting the basil seedlings marks the beginning of the summer season more convincingly than any particular calendar day. Basil is the essence of summer, holding the promise of months of garden abundance, and the annual planting of the basil bed is one gardening ritual that personifies the whole gardening experience. Here’s to summer!

Planting

2004-05-18T18:40:00.000-07:00

The ritual of planting the summer crops has a certain comfort. I plant the same seedlings each year, at about the same time. These are the summer crops. Tomatoes, cucumbers and squash are planted right away but waiting to plant eggplant and peppers is a function of a small garden; the peas must finish first to free the bed for these extra tender seedlings. In this climate waiting serves a purpose as the night temperatures will have warmed enough to (hopefully) assure success to those particularly cold-sensitive plants. This year provided an additional bonus – rain after transplanting. I would have hoped for warmer temperatures, but the blessed rain for new transplants cannot be better. Life is good.

Out of place, indeed

2004-05-15T07:45:00.000-07:00

Describing a weed as merely a "plant out of place" has always seemed a little glib. We can probably all agree that quack grass qualifies as a weed but what of those plants, sought out and planted with intent, that prove unruly?

When I took possession of my present garden I was delighted to find a small bed devoted to herbs. It was in disrepair but with the good bones of well established plants such as lavender and rosemary. I started my planning during the grey rains of Oregon winter, a strategy that has proved the undoing of more than one gardener! I remembered the vivid,almost dayglo, quality of flowers I had seen the previous summer. Nothing would do but to plant rose yarrow (Achillea millefolium 'Cerise Queen').

And it was lovely with gorgeous magenta/crimson blossoms against the dark green, ferny foliage. The second year I came to understand that a plant's sole purpose (anthropomorphic, you say?) is to produce more of itself. Rose yarrow now carpets the entire herb bed. I'm sure it would put on a lovely show, but what happens to my Lady's Mantle (Alchemilla vulgaris) and other low growing herbs?

A lesson learned regarding plants out of place, put in place or
otherwise. Hmmm, perhaps I can pawn some seedlings off on unsuspecting neighbors.... but that would be unkind.

An embarrassment of tomatoes

2004-05-11T17:34:00.000-07:00

Who could imagine 100% germination? The names were so intriguing, the descriptions and pictures so seductive ( and did I mention 100% germination?). I found myself with 100 plus tomato plants. Pressing them on family, friends, friends of friends, and the occasional stranger with the slightly crazed look of a gardener in spring, I have thinned the number by half. Surely any heirloom tomato fan who sees the varieties I chose this year will understand how this came to pass.