Lammas and the potatoes

 

Lammastide is the time of early harvest, traditionally grains, but, here, potatoes. I don’t have enough land to grow enough wheat and oats to feed us, or the technology to harvest and separate out the grain, but I can produce potatoes. And, if I put them in the ground early enough, they need less water and are ready to give up their beds to other crops in early August.  The pandemic, plus a seed potato shortage, has made this a bit more challenging this year, but I pulled them on Monday, August Second, Lammastide.

This year, I put in a half bed of kennebucks, a large white potato that is a solid producer. They grew alongside leeks and carrots to create a “soup bed”; the potato leaves, despite my best efforts,  overwhelmed the celery before I could really get going. Next year. They came out—22 pounds—last week and were quickly replaced by the direct seeded fall crops. Arugula. Watermelon radish. Tat Soi. Lettuce.  If last year is ever an indication, these greens will keep producing until Winter Solstice.  They are already up.

This morning, I tackled the full bed, planted a couple of weeks later. Even with the water turned off for two weeks, a few vines were still lush. I tried working around them, but gave up. Two rows of Yukon Gold (17 pounds, medium sized tubers) and two rows of Blue (16 pounds, not as lovely as some other years) appeared as I expected, in terms of size and production. But, then, I had run a small row of huckleberries down the middle of the bed and they were….amazing. Huge! They beat out the Kennebecks, which are traditionally the largest potato. Clear and clean. Beautiful tubers. Deep purple outside, golden inside, and, I remember from last fall, yummy all the way through. 22 pounds from less than four. The bed emptied pretty quickly. I use my hands first, finding about 70 percent of the tubers while the compost I dumped on the straw mulch last week works its way into the bed. Then I take the pitchfork, with bare feet, and gently dig up the rest. This allows me to prep the bed for the next fall crop while harvesting the spring planting. Any big chunks of straw are set to the side, to be laid back on the bed later.

Once everything was out, I planted two rows of potatoes for a late fall harvest. It’s not as big, but it works! Then the hoses went back down, followed by the straw mulch. The other side of the bed will be filled with fall starts next week—kale and mustard, first, then the broccoli and fennel and cabbage. Depending on the fall, we will have a late harvest of potatoes and greens. Meanwhile, harvest begins.

Apple collection on Tuesday….

               

Garden Volunteers

Add caption

Volunteers. Given time and space, they move in and take over. Weeded out too vigorously, and the garden is barren, orderly, and empty of surprises.  In an established patch, they are in balance. In June, the choices we have made all spring become clear.

There are a wide variety of volunteers… first, the free seeders. I bought one packet of borage 18 years ago and we have never lacked for the herb since, which is fine because we love the flowers and the chickens love the leaves and seeds. Love in a Mist has taken over the dry shade under the apple tree and creates a bank of blooms and funky seedheads in May and June. One lemon balm plant has become hundreds. Lovage, while less prolific, is huge when it does appear. Feverfew creates a nice filler in a bouquet, as does the Lady’s Mantle that has moved into the paths between garden beds. Wild seeded cosmos and nasturtiums bloom before the May planted every year.

Once you have  potato crop, you always have a potato crop, a friend observed one spring. It’s true. Every one of my beds has at least one potato, every year, despite constant rotations and careful harvest. They appear in early March, telling me that the soil is warm enough to plant the crop. I can pull a few plants for the Fourth of July and have new potato salad for dinner. There is usually at least one very vigorous plant  sprawling out of the compost bins until the chickens eat the leaves. When I weigh the harvest, I calculate in the volunteers.

Three years ago, I tossed the insides of our carving pumpkins into the garden. The next spring, before I realized it, a vine was sprawling across the beans, so I rigged up a trellis and rope and lifted it above my head. Four huge, round pumpkins grew off of the vines, slowing turning orange in late August. They became the Halloween pumpkins. Last October, when I tossed those seeds, I was thoughtful about their placement and settled them at the base of my new cattle panel hoop. In April, they seeds sprouted and the vines are well on their way up and out. There is another vine crawling out of the potato bed…

The structure of the vegetable garden is orderly and linear—all of the beds are ten feet long, four feet across, raised boxes, with three foot paths between. They are sized to hold the chicken coop—four feet by five—during the winter months.  The main paths end in blue gates that lead to the chicken run and the compost bins. Each bed has its own soaker hose, which can be turned on and off at will. This imposed order is essential. However, the cheerful chaos of a volunteer pumpkin vine making a run for freedom and flowers blooming where they were not planted break the patterns every day.

 

Compost Piles

One of the benefits of the Stay Home, Save Lives spring has been the ability to wander out into the back yard and see how things are growing.  When my eyes are tired of looking at the screen, they are happy to rest on the hunt for the cabbage worm eating in the center of the broccoli plant. And, because it has been warm, wet season, everything is growing madly.

We  are also working on the compost mounds. The pruning and trimming of shrubs and trees is finally done—the Camilla has to wait until after the bloom—and everything has been hauled back and piled up next to the fence. Over the next few weeks, we will cut it all up, using everything from the Big Loppers to hand trimmers—and the occasional stomp—and fill the wire bins. We should work from one bin to the next, so that there is an order to the decomposition, but, occasionally we give into convenience and toss branches into the nearest bin. Mark has used a chipper in the past and it produced some really nice compost in a much shorter period of time, but it was loud and not conducive to Deep Thought, so he has returned to the hand cutting method. These days, as he is also working from home, he will wander out to the pile and trim while considering a sticky problem. Cutting compost is an ongoing meditative process.

Occasionally, we grow an extra potato.

There are three wire bins. We prefer bins because of their flexibility; when one is full and ready to be sifted, Mark pulls the wire away, sets it up into its new spot, and begins (with the help of the chickens) to sift out the finished compost and to toss the pieces that need some more time into the new circle. We add the kitchen and garden scraps to that bin while the others work in peace. There is room for five full bins in the work area, but we only have three, so we can move things around. By late July, there will be one hoop of fresh chopped material, one sprawled on the ground being sifted, and one working on decomposition.  There will also be an old garbage bin full of sifted compost for me to distribute to the raspberry and gooseberry beds out front.

Working on the compost mounds is a steady process and cycle in our lives. Tucked into the back corner, it s never tidy, never done, and a constant work in progress.

September Gold

One of the hardest things about early September is having to move back inside for hours on end. We all feel it; even the cat is more inclined to sprawl in the sun, soaking up the dry heat before the long damp season begins.

It is the golden season. The light is a clear, liquid gold, pouring over the landscape. Everything turns golden—the fields, the leaves, the crops, the flowers, all gather in this light and reflect it back. In my garden, small pumpkins emerge from the tangle of green leaves—there are eight?! I had only counted five all summer long. Three were hidden. Sungold tomato vines sprawl over the others, small golden suns everywhere. We eat them constantly. The goldenrod is blooming and every pollinator from miles around is collecting on it, so it hums.   My fall crops are growing madly; they are in the brightest bed. Along the fence, one volunteer pumpkin vines is making a final run for it; it has grown three feet in the last two weeks and has a tiny fruit hanging from it. We will see if anything comes of it.

Harvest is everywhere. Last summer vegetables compete with the early squashes in the Farmer’s Market. All sorts of fruits spill over, all ready to be processed for winter. We bring in the potatoes and onions, dried beans and corn. The time of reckoning…what went well? What did not? It’s serious for us, home gardeners, far more serious for the local farmers. These six weeks between Lammastide and the Fall equinox determine how well we will eat this winter. Soon, we will break out the wool socks, start the wood stove, consider baked beans for dinner. Until then, though, I am stretching my bare feet towards the sun, holding onto these golden days as long as possible.

Open Streets, Corvallis

Highway 99 runs through Corvallis. It begins as a two lane country highway, winding peacefully  through hazelnut orchards, seed farms, and mint fields, but, when it hits Corvallis from the south, it becomes a behemoth—five lanes with bike lanes and sidewalks—with lots of open land around it, so there is no reason to slow down.  It is a menace as a bicyclist; riders spend hours talking about how to avoid it, which is difficult because it is the spine for the entire South Corvallis community.  No one walks on the sidewalks if they can avoid it. Last week, a traffic calming pedestrian crossing light was taken out by a car.

Ten past one, Sunday afternoon. The side streets are crowded with people on bikes, all ready to surge forward across Highway 99 when given the signal. Three official crossing guards stand at attention, holding signs. “Slow.” “Stop.”  They move into the highway and gesture to five figures in the crowd. The five, dressed in exaggerated costumes from 1958, run into the street. One pushes a tricycle. The audience follows them onto the highway to watch. They strike poses and break into “Greased Lightening” from Grease. They dance and sing around the trike, adding streamers. The audience dances and sways in time to the beat. The pavement is warm, but not burning. Cars pile up behind the barriers. They have altered the lines to the song to fit the moment. Everyone laughs. At the end, they strike a pose, then run off the highway. The crowd breaks up, humming, moves along the Open Streets.

Along the route, children ride their bikes, swaying and swirling and playing with balance as we all love to do when we know the road is clear.  Some stop and draw with sidewalk chalk, leaving reminders that it was, for a few hours, okay to create art in the middle of the street.  One little girl learns to ride her bike without training wheels because she has the ability to think just about pedaling, not direction or cars, for an hour.  Parents stand around and talk in the road. Other families set up face painting stands, play live music from 1967 in the driveway, park vintage cars on the grass for an impromptu car show.  Bicyclists are everywhere. “It’s a fiesta,” one crossing guard explains to a neighbor who needs to drive through the street to get to work. The driver moves slowly through the crowd.

In the parks, neighbors listen to music, dance, eat pizza, give opinions on city issues, and hang out in the shade, gossiping. Kids climb over the play structures, chase each other around with water bottles, and yell. A few dogs hunt for scraps. Three folks decide to have a potato sack race and fall over, laughing. Although there are racks, bikes are everywhere along the perimeters.

Streets, even highways, are for everyone—walkers, bicyclists, trucks haulers, families in autos,  skateboarders… Cars do not own the roads. We all do. And, for brief moments in late August, Open Streets reminds us of this fact. We all share the road.

Lammastide

In the circle of the year, Lammastide is the beginning of the grain harvest. Wheat, oats, barley—all of the northern grains that fed the community—were harvested and brought to the church for a festival and a blessing, also known as the Loaf Mass, in early August. Here in the Pacific Northwest, the big harvests begin at the same time. Fields of wheat are drying down. Straw and hay dust turn the sunlight  golden. Fruit tree branches bend over from the weight. The annual veggies are at their peak of growth and production. In the next six weeks, all of the madness of summer food processing will dominate kitchens and cellars.  Pickling.  Drying. Canning in light syrup.  Making jams and preserves. Tucking potatoes into paper bags and storing them away from the light.  Food driers and crockpots run overnight to keep up with the food tumbling in during this season. 

Summer Canning

The morning is cool and quiet, cloudy. In the dining room, the red currants are draining; the gooseberries have been tipped and tailed. After breakfast, I wander to the basement, find the steam canner, gather the jars and long loops of rings handing on Christmas cords. Half way up the stairs, the lids are tucked in amongst the cleaning supplies.  Metal changes on metal as I dump everything on the kitchen table. It is time for the summer rituals to begin.

First, I boil the currant juice. Poured into half pint jars and sealed, we can drink the juice with fizzy water in the winter. Vitamin C. It is a deep red and stains the counter. The canner, with the usual quart of honey weight on the lid, rattles and steams. In the living room, NPR explains the news. While the currants seal, I make the gooseberry jam, boiling sugar and berries together, testing the transformation of juice into jam. It finishes just before the timer buzzes for the currants. Move quickly—trade the jars. Replace the lid, the weight, start the timer once more.  Clean up. Summer work on quiet mornings, before the day grows warm.

National Tomato Eating Week Proclamation

Proclamation

Tomato Eating Week

August 28- September 2nd

Whereas,  It has been a very good tomato year on the Urban Homestead; and

Whereas,  All over the country, gardens and kitchen counters are bursting with tomatoes right now; and

Whereas,   A vine-ripened, home-grown sun-warmed tomato is not the same fruit as those pink balls of mealiness that you can find in winter and so must be eaten immediately; and

Whereas, Winter is long and Tomato Season is short; and

Whereas,   We have all made enough salsa, sauce, chutney, and oven roasted tomatoes to last through the winter. 

I, Charlyn Ellis, Urban Homesteader,  do hereby proclaim  the last week in August National Tomato  Eating  Week, thereby giving every gardener in America permission to eat tomatoes and eggs for breakfast, tomato and mayo sandwiches for lunch, and tomato cobbler for dinner until they are all gone.

Tomato Cobbler

3T butter

1 onion, chopped

2 cloves of garlic

1t thyme

3 large tomatoes as well as 2 cups of cherry tomatoes (six cups total)

1t sugar

3T flour

Sautee the onion, garlic, thyme, and chopped tomatoes until soft. Toss in the flour and stir, then add cherry tomatoes.

If you are going to eat it all in one sitting, leave the mixture in a cast iron rying pan (the colors are lovely). If not, transfer the mixture into something that will not alter the flavor of the leftovers.

Scoop the topping  onto the tomato mixture and bake until brown and bubbly.

Topping:

1 c flour

.5 c cornmeal

1.5 t BP

1 t sugar

6 T butter

2/3 c milk

2 t mustard

1 t thyme

Combine dry, work in the butter, then add the wet. Stir lightly. It’s a wet mixture.

.

Why Dry?

            When I first began food preservation, I was very interested in applesauce and jam; they were both easy and familiar. I’d made applesauce back in high school, large pots of it, and froze it in “seal-a-meal” bags, laid in our small freezer like slabs of bacon.  There were hundreds of recipes for jam; once I figured out the slight shift in bubble structure that indicated the perfect “jamming” temperature, I was off.  Our shelves were lined with half pints of blackberry jam and pints of applesauce, followed by a foray into Dilly Beans. Life was good and I repeated the process the next year, adding home canned fruit—until we had a serious backlog of jam and pickled beans. Then I realized that we did not eat much jam and the canned fruit, except of peaches, was too sweet, unless we had an old batch of sour yogurt. And I was still buying dried fruit for work and backpacking trips. Something was off. I bought a cheap food drier and we have never looked back.

            Drying fruit makes far more sense than canning.

First, it is fast and easy. I can slice up a pile of apples (peal still on) after dinner, laid them out in the drier, turn it on, and go to bed. If I set the timer to turn off in six hours, we have dried fruit in the morning. I toss it into my vintage Magic Mason jars, check it off of the master list, and put it on the basement shelf. Italian plums and figs require a little push and spread motion to expose more surface to the air, but, overall, drying fruit is a one step process.

Second, it is healthy. I gather my fruit at the peak of the season and process it directly, with no added sugars or preservatives. Much of it is organically grown, either by design, in my backyard, or neglect, when I harvest from the abandoned alley trees around the neighborhood. Drying preserves all of the fiber, most of the nutrients, and all of the flavor. Mixed bags of dried fruit are our favorite winter snack; we both keep a stash in our desk drawers.

Dried fruit is tasty. We have all purchased pieces of fruit from the grocery store that are well traveled and know the consequences. Despite the fancy label, an apple in March often tastes dry and mealy and an orange is often a disappointment. A piece of dried fruit, however, is always good. Peaches and pears are sweet and flavorful throughout the winter when dried. Over the last few years, we have moved almost totally away from buying “fresh” fruit out of season, because of the dried fruit stash in the basement. Why bother?

Finally, dried fruit is flexible, unlike canned fruit. It travels well, so we take it backpacking and camping, as well as to work. We eat jars of dried fruit out of hand all winter long. When we long for “fleshy” fruit, I make compotes, mixing several types together with some warm juice to plump it up. I also toss handfuls into oatmeal and granola, muffins and scones, and pasta sauces.

When I first started drying, several friends asked about the carbon footprint of running the drier all day, and, it is true that our electric bill goes up in August. Wouldn’t it be more energy efficient to purchase the fruit that was dried commercially? Although I have not done any calculations, I am not convinced this is so. The fruit I dry travels less than five miles to my house, always on bike or foot. It is often raised without any summer water; it is not sprayed with chemicals. This reduces the carbon footprint considerably. Then, it is not shipped from the factory to the store, then to my home. We have also totally eliminated packaging. Finally, unlike canning, the jars and lids can be used over and over again. I have some lids with six or seven years of notes on them! When I consider all of these factors, I am not concerned about my drier. And, yes, I am interested in a solar drier, although I wonder if it would work given the dropping light levels and cool nights that come around at the peak of drying season.

 If I were beginning food preservation again, I would start with a drier, not a canner. I use my steam canner all summer long, processing pickles and roasted tomatoes, as well as canned peaches, applesauce, and grape juice. But the drier processes the most important foods we put up for the winter—all of our foraged fruits.

Lemon Icebox Pie: the perfect pie for a 98 degree day

8 oz cream cheese

1 can sweetened condensed milk

zest and juice of three lemons

Toss it all into the food processor and whirl until smooth. Pour into a graham cracker crust and set in the refrigerator overnight. Top with whipped cream.

Timing for Fall/Winter crops

Just planted fall crops

            Despite Steve Soloman’s recommendation to leave half of Pacific Northwest garden beds for fall/winter crops, I have always struggled with the timing.  Seeds planted after the Summer solstice never grow well, if they germinate at all. Plants put in later do not thrive; they know that my energy is pulled off, towards the new school year, when September begins. And, if I do get the sowing times correct, there is never a real space for the plants in late July, when they have to be in the ground.  This year, however, I think I have figured it out --and I am praying that writing about my success does not bring on a horde of locusts or hungry chickens in the early morning.

Step one: plant early varieties of potatoes together in one bed, as early as possible, like when the volunteers start to push up in early March.  Not only will this give you a nice July harvest of taters, and eliminate some watering, it will also  free up a bed just when you need the space.

Step two: plant the seeds in six-packs in early June, as part of the last round of seed starting. They can sit on the potting bench, in the shade, right on the pathway between bike parking and the house. It is easy to cheer them on and keep them moist.

Step three: after about three weeks, bump them up into four inch pots. This, I think, is key. Trying to keep young plants in a tiny pot makes them rootbound and retards their growth. In a four inch pot, they have room to move around and develop some nice roots while waiting for a space in the garden beds.

Step four: harvest the early potatoes in late July, after they have dried down. While digging the potatoes, turn in all of the straw and leaf much that has surrounded them for months, thus increasing the organic matter in the soil.

Step five: plant out, tossing a handful of Biofish fertilizer into each deeply dug hole.  Water in, and place your signs.  I was so pleased with the final results that I even corrected the misspelling of “cauliflower” on one of the signs….although it was washed off the next day.

Apple Butter

Gather a laundry basket full of apples, preferably from an abandoned/unloved tree. Rinse them off, let them dry in the sun, and haul inside. Chunk the fruit, cutting out bruises, worms, and rotten bits, but not worrying about peeling or cores. Toss into a big pot as full as possible, add about a cup of water, and cook quickly down to mashed apple. Set your food mill, with the medium hole screen, on top of the crockpot and send the pulp through the mill. When the crockpot is full-- and mine just about matches a pull pot-- add a cup of sugar, a tablespoon of cinnamon, and turn it on low. Leave on for about 24 hours, stirring whenever you walk by. Preserve in half pint jars-- hot butter into clean jars, then  canned for 15 minutes-- and eat on toast all winter. My crockpot, full, makes eight half pints of apple butter. 

Blueberry Picking

          Blueberry picking….the ultimate July experience in the Willamette Valley.  Our valley is packed with farms—berry, vegetable, fruit, nuts, wheat and oats, mint—and many have farm stands and u-pick sections, but, everyone agrees, blueberries are the best. They are tasty, there are lots of subtle variations in the flavor, they have a long season, and, best of all, there are no thorns to dodge while you pick.  I went out to pick earlier this week, armed with two large Nancy’s yogurt containers (just enough for a pie, with some table nibbles left over) and a bucket.

            In was a warm, sunny morning and the place was hopping. Everyone picks early here, to avoid the mid-day sun. A little breeze blew across the fields.  I wandered  to the far corner, searching for the perfect combination of ripe berries, loaded bushes, and quiet.  I started to pick.

 Plonk, plonk, plonk. The berries landed in the bucket as I stripped them from the laden branch. Nearby, two college kids discussed the relative merits of small, but flavorful, berries versus large, easy to harvest berries.

              Plonk, plonk, plonk. My bucket began to fill. In the distance, I could hear a small family picking. Two women  discussed the merits of various elementary schools in Corvallis (a preferred topic in our town), while their kids ran around eating and picking. As always, one small boy was on the constant look-out for the biggest, ripest patch and called everyone over every time he found a new one. “Look at these!” echoed over the fields.  “Don’t eat them all,” his mother admonished.

               Plonk, plonk, plonk. My mind drifted from the deeply philosophical to the pragmatic. Picking berries is one of those perfect occupations that require just enough of your brain so that you can think. A pie. Dried berries. A bowl for eating…is there enough to can as well?

        

        Plonk, plonk, plonk. The big bucket was filled. Onto the pie and traveling containers…I tucked the bucket into the shade of a bush. Cars hummed by on the secondary highway near the farm, creating a quiet background sound. The family left. It was only me and a few other serious pickers left, the people who pick fifty pounds for the freezer and eat our local berries all winter long on their cereal.  I could hear their berries hit the bottom of the bucket as well. “Good picking this year,” someone comments. “But early,” someone else replied. Climate change hung in the air for a moment, but we all brushed it aside. It was warm, and sunny, and the blueberries were ripe.

Blueberry Pie

Make a double crust.

Six cups of blueberries
1/2 cup of sugar
peel of one lemon
3 T flour
pinch of cinnamon

Mix it all together and pour into crust. Either weave a lattice top or use a small cookie cutter to create an attractive top. (Stars or hearts work well.) Back in 350 oven until bubbly.

     It is hot—mid to high 90s every day by 4 in the afternoon. In some parts of the country, this is normal, but in the Willamette Valley, it is not. The only other heat spells like this we have had have been tied to the three times I’ve rented power sanders to refinish floors, and they only lasted a few days (until I returned the sander, each time). It is, too be fair, a dry heat, but still, we lack strategies  to deal with heat.

1. Dress appropriately. I am always amazed by people who deny the weather, wearing nylons and suit jackets on hot days, flip-flops through the snow, and sweatshirts in the rain. As a well-prepared hiker, I have mastered the art of the layer and dress for the weather. When we are in the South, the Land of Frigid Air Conditioning, this becomes a bit of a problem, but as long as I am here, it makes a huge difference.  Loose shorts and cotton tank tops are my preferred style when the temperature rises.
2. Open, then shut, the doors and windows. When we are home, we play games with the front door and the side windows. In the early morning, we open the house up wide. When it is hotter outside than in, we close down the house, especially in the west-facing front. We draw the curtains and shut up the windows and doors during the hottest part of the day. When the temperature flips again, we open everything back up.  We also have a fan that can bring air up from the basement, which is always cooler than the air outside.
3. Sleep outside. We have rediscovered this lovely lifestyle this summer. On the first hot night, we hauled the air mattress out, made the bed with several layers of light blankets, hung up a sheet to block the bed from the eyes on the back alley, and settled in. By ten-thirty, the air was cool enough for one blanket; by morning, we had several. Our bodies start the day cooler and that lasts for several hours. We are much better rested than we would be tossing around inside. The cats love it, too.
4. Timing is everything. Because we are outside, we wake up around six thirty. I like to start on the physical projects early in the day, baking bread, canning pickles, cleaning house, digging up plants, well before the heat rises. Then, when the day is too warm for labor, I can take to the hammock with a book or do some work on-line. In the evening, I complete tasks.  Everyone in the back yard lays low by three thirty. The cats and rabbit sprawl on the ground, pressing their tummies into the cool earth. The chickens perch in the shade and nap. Even the bees are quiet, fanning the entrance to the hive.
5. Just deal. In 1988, I was a baker during a very hot summer. Looking back at the records, the day time temperature did not drop below ninety for six weeks. Add East Coast humidity to the picture, and it was muggy. We had all sorts of cooling tricks as we worked in front of the huge black ovens. We froze wet towels and wrapped them around our necks. We had cooling mint and orange blossom sprays in the refrigerator.  We drank lots of water and mixed all sorts of juices with seltzer on ice. We pinned our hair up off of our necks and occasionally thrust our heads under the cooling spray of the sink. Occasionally, you would find someone sitting in the walk in for a minute. But, mostly, we worked. And we nodded patiently when a customer leaned over the counter to ask “Hot enough for you?”  Yeah, it was hot, but people still have to eat, so we kept on. And we had a rule—no complaining. 

Macaroni Salad, Aunty Marilyn’s style

So, this was my first discovery that not everyone made their macaroni salad the same way. I went to my first “adult” potluck while I was in college. It was late May, and warm, so I made this salad. When we arrived, three other people had also made macaroni salad and all three were different.  We were all astounded and spent the rest of the dinner comparing notes. I still think mine is the best.

Cook a box of elbow macaroni. Don’t get the fancy imported stuff, this is not that kind of dish.

While the macaroni cooks, chop up a medium sized red onion. Strive for a fine chop. When you have finished, open a small jar of sweet gerkin pickles and chop them the same size. Toss in a big bowl, along with about 2/3 of the pickle juice. Add a can of tuna fish.

Drain the macaroni and add to the bowl. Stir it all up. Then take out the mayonnaise jar and toss in a good sized glop. Stir. Consider. Add some celery seed if you are feeling fancy. Add some more mayo. Remember, this is a mid-sixties dish. This is not health food. Stir.

Refrigerate. It really is best made a day ahead.  Eat at a cook-out with charred hamburgers. Eat the remains for breakfast the next day.

Canning Season has Begun

         

  Some years, the preserving season comes on quickly. This was one. It has been a warm, dry spring, so I should not have been surprised when my friend Maureen, who has two lovely cherry trees, casually informed me that the cherries were ready. Cherries wait for no man; they must be picked and preserved within twenty four hours, unlike later fruits and veg, which can sit in the larder for a few days until there is time in the schedule book. I dug out the two picking buckets, scrubbed out some dirt from last season, and headed over.

            Her trees are beautiful. Green healthy leaves with the deep red fruit hidden underneath in dense clusters, the center pruned out so a tree climber can hoist herself up to the highest point for the ripest fruit, and a convenient branch to rest the bucket on while picking high. We picked for forty five minutes and filled our two buckets with glistening fruit. But it was already beginning the downward slide; some were bird pecked and others beginning to rot. Just in time.

            At home, we set up the pitting assembly line with the food dryer between us. I pit, Mark splits and arranges on a tray. It took an episode of This American Life  to complete the task in the cool evening. While Mark set up the dryer in the dining room, where it would hum into the night, I pitted six more pints for canning. As always, we had lids left over from last year. You never know, really, when the season will end and exactly how many lids you will need. The steam canner made quick work of the six jars and by bedtime, we had processed two thirds of the fruit. This morning, I ran another, smaller, load through the dryer and tossed some into the freezer for a pie. We are, after all, leaving for vacation in the morning.

            So the season has begun. I have tucked raspberries and cherries into the freezer, washed off the canning equipment, and stashed the canner in the larder half way down the cellar stairs, where it will spend the summer.  Next week, I will inventory what we have left and what we need to set aside for this summer, but we will always jump on an offer of free fruit. 

Cherry Pie

Make and roll out two crusts. Lay one in the pie pan and set the other aside to turn into lattice work.

5-6 cups of cherries

2T of tapioca

.5 c of sugar 

.5 t salt

Mix fruit, sugar, etc together and spread into pie shell. Using a knife or pastry wheel (much cooler looking!), cut strips of dough. Lay across the fruit and weave together.

Bake in 350 oven until bubbly. Eat with vanilla ice cream in the back yard.

Summer Water

     

potato bed with hoses

      The Pacific Northwest is defined by our relationship with water; we have two seasons—cool and wet and warm and dry. Settlement is along rivers and our summers are cooled by the sea breeze that sweeps inward in the late afternoons. During wet winters, we may not see the sun or moon for months, but we enjoy hunkering down under the sheltering clouds, walking home in the misty dark. Then, one day, somewhere between Memorial Day and the Forth of July, the rains stop. The clouds break. The sun comes out and stays out until the fall equinox storms move in late in September. The change in weather marks a significant shift in water use and distribution in our house. Let’s just say not much leaves the property during the dry season.

            The shift happened this weekend. After a nice rain, a dramatic midnight thunderstorm, and a power outage at school (hope springs eternal for being sent home early…) early in the week, the clouds parted. Saturday morning, I went downstairs to find the dish pan and scoured it out to catch all of the sink water. Then I rummaged through the stack of five gallon buckets for the short, wide one with the decent handle to transport the dish water to the various wine barrels holding fruit trees and bushes around the house. Finally, I made the watering chart and placed the pink flamingo magnet on the kiwi vines.

      

shower stall

      That evening, after a warm day at the Mother Earth News Fair, we set up the outdoor shower. Mark attached the hose to the basement sink; it was an easy task because we had already threaded the hose through the unused drier vent last summer. Meanwhile, I found the towels, soap, and shampoo, and cleaned out the tub. Leaves swept out quickly, then I scrubbed it down with an old cloth and flushed the system onto the ground, right where the bunny had dug a burrow. After our first shower washed out the tub, I hitched up the hose to redirect the water into the flowerbeds. From now on, we shower outside.

            When we come back from vacation in two weeks, I will hitch up the laundry system. We have a 55 gallon drum in the basement which catches three loads of laundry water. When it is full, after a week’s worth of washing, I hook up the same pump and move the water out to the flowerbeds that the shower does not reach. Tuesday mornings, as the clothes dry and the barrel drains, are unusually humid times. 

            Because we cannot water the vegetable gardens with greywater, I also spent some time messing around with garden hoses. One side of the garden is on an irrigation line that allows me to shut off the water to each bed separately, which is very handy as the summer winds down or a soaker hose springs a leak.  This week, I replaced an ancient sweat hose and mended a few leaks, then covered all of the lines with straw mulch.  The other side of the garden is one strung together system—old soaker hoses cut in half and attached to pieces of garden hose— which is fine for this year, as the entire three beds is planted t in potatoes and will all need to be shut off at the same time. When we rebuild those beds, we will replace the one long hose with the same system of hoses and valves that works so well on the other side. Once the whole system is mulched in, it works quite well, keeping water right where I want it. I know I have succeeded when the grass dries out between the beds.

watering chart

            Summer, the dry season, has begun. We are all collectively worried about the lack of snowpack in our mountains and the impact of the warm dry spring on our fruit crops. Here, we save whatever water we can, hauling it out to return to the earth.

Chard or beet greens and ricotta pie:

Make a pie shell.

Saute a large bunch of chopped greens with onion, thyme, and garlic.

Mix 4 oz of ricotta with 2 eggs and 3/4 cup of milk or cream. Add cooked greens and pour into the pie shell.

Bake in 350 oven until firm, abot 45 minutes.

Annotated Homesteading Bibliography

   For the past week, I have been reading Nick Hornsby’s collection of essays   Ten Years in the Tub, where he lists the books he purchased for the month, and then comments upon the books he actually read that same month. Any serious reader knows that the two lists are not the same, but tracking the books that actually caught his interest, and how they wove into his life, makes for lively reading. I can recommend it. It also got me thinking about our significant books, the ones I head back to, over and over again. This bibliography is for homesteading—The Best Books ever will wait for a slow, hot summer afternoon, after I finish reading The Long Winter by Laura Ingalls Wilder one more time.

   

Cookbooks:

 Betty Crocker Cookbook, 1958 edition

 My mother believed that this was a wedding present, but the dates do not line up. However, it was my first cookbook. It taught me to make bread and cookies, how to set a formal table, to look cheery when my husband came home from a long day’s work, and to have “something special” at every meal.  I still love reading the little biographies of the women who sent in recipes for publication.

 The Enchanted Broccoli Forest

Molly Katzen taught me how to cut vegetables, consider how a different seasoning changed the entire feel of the rice from Italian to Middle Eastern, to Chinese, and to talk to the yeasties.  It was my first vegetarian cookbook where the food tasted good. I have followed both Molly Katzen and the Moosewood Collective for thirty years; their food is easy and tasty.

Diet for a Small Planet

I bought this book when I was living by myself as a college senior. Meat was just expensive for one person and, after a summer as a meat wrapper, did not appeal. It revolutionized the way I viewed food. She was, however, a bad cook.

Chez Panisse Fruits and Vegetables and The Greens Cookbook

When we shifted over to eating mostly local produce, the beauty of these books was clear. The Chez Panisse books are just beautiful, but they also talk about what to do with cardoons (cook with cream!). The Greens recipes are sorted  subtly by seasonally available produce, starting in February (probably January in the Bay area) and working through the year.

Gardening:

Growing Vegetables West of the Cascades and Gardening when it Counts are the two best volumes on growing food in my bioregion, which is not the same as any other.  Steve Solomon is a clear and frisky writer and I have spent many winter hours reading over his work. The Territorial Seed Catalog is an excellent annual resource.

American Gardens of the Seventeenth, Eighteenth and Nineteenth Century Ann Leighton

This is a series of meticulously researched books examining the evolution of garden style which I used for research purposes throughout college and grad school.

Permaculture Handbook by Bill Mollison and The Earthcare Manual by Patrick Whitehead are my primary source materials for garden design and deep planning. There have been many, lightly written books extolling the beauties of permaculture design but I prefer the original works.

Design and Philosophy:

The Pattern Language by Christopher Alexander

This changes everything. After reading the Pattern Language, our entire view of the built environment shifted. Six foot porches—that explained why those balconies were never used.  Nine percent for parking?—that would transform our neighborhood. Site repair?

Walden by Thoreau

Our backpacking read for years, it is still relevant today, once you dig through the convoluted nineteenth century language.

One Man’s Meat  by E.B. White

White moved to the coast of Maine in the early 1930s but continued to write for The New Yorker. These essays capture his life on his saltwater farm. If I could write like anyone, I would want to write like White.

A Beekeeper’s Year by Sue Hubbell

I first read Hubbell in  The New Yorker years before I considered owning bees. I was reading her work in our hammock the day we had our first wild swarm. Her prose mixes science and philosophy beautifully, even if you do not love bees.

Chicken Tractors, Worms Eat My Garbage, The Humanuare Handbook, Greywater Design and The Home Energy Handbook  have all been useful and inspiring reference works.

 Ful-- Fava Bean "soup"

Fava beans are a little early this year, so we were able to eat ful after weeding onions at Sunbow on Memorial Day.

Start with about five pounds of fresh favas in the shell. Shell the beans, parboil for about three minutes, and peel. There will be a huge reduction in volume and a lot of fiddly work....

Saute three chopped cloves of garlic in about four tablespoons of olive oil. Juice a lemon. Chop a handful of parsley. Mix the favas into these seasonings, add salt and pepper, and warm up. Eat with fresh, warm flatbread and a huge salad for dinner. 

Three Fingered Jack

       

     Mark and I just came back from hiking around Three Fingered Jack, one of the Central Cascades more craggy peaks. It does not have the serenity of Mount Jefferson or the majesty of the Three Sisters, but, for a backpacking loop of simple pleasures and deep silences, it cannot be beat.  Much of the area was burned over eleven years ago, so examining the regeneration process is also quite interesting.

            We entered the wilderness Friday morning from the Marion Lake trailhead, which leads steadily but gently upwards through Doug Fir forest, along a small lake, and to several fine campsites on the lakeshore. The trail crosses the stream outlet on a rock bed while the water chuckles below, out of sight, which is pretty darn cool. After passing the lake and some excellent large streams, we climbed to Minto Pass, pausing to eat huckleberries and low bush blueberries which were lush throughout the burned over pass. I quickly understood why Native Americans set fire to the berry fields to keep them clear; I have never seen so many fat, juicy berries on a mountainside in my life!  We crossed the PCT and dropped down into Eastern Oregon, the dry side of the range, with a pretty quick shift in trees from hemlock and true fir to lodgepole pine and an occasional ponderosa. Eight miles in, we had lunch at Wasco Lake, which is where we should have stopped for the night. Three Fingered Jack loomed over us; while we ate we considered what it would be like climbing the crumbly core of the ancient volcano. Along the trail we encountered a crew of trail workers, some students doing soil studies, and several through-hikers.

            After lunch, we walked over to Jack Lake, moving in and out of the burned areas. The lakes and moist areas had protected some of the forest; the fire did not rage through and kill every tree on the mountainside. Beargrass and other wildflowers dominated the fields here. We did not turn left and head into Canyon Creek Meadows, where many day hikers were headed to check out the wild blooms, but stayed on the main trail down to the campsites. By three thirty, we were soaking our feet in the warm waters of Jack Lake. A good day—about ten miles.

            The next morning, we headed off, first to Square Lake and then to Berley. Mark was a little tired from a less-than-restful night; he had heard rustling and heavy footfalls in the dark, and was convinced a bear was eating our food. The next morning the only evidence of our nocturnal visitor was deer tracks. The trail was totally in the burn all morning, but it was still beautiful. The dead trees have weathered silvery gray and the views were amazing. Mount Jefferson protected our backs, while the Three Sisters lured us on. Before the burn, you could not see the mountains. We looked out over Eastern Oregon as we walked through snowbrush, lodgepole pines, and fireweed. This part of the trail follows the contours of the mountain, swinging around canyons more than dropping down into them and then out. A nice walk. We passed four guys heading in the opposite direction; at ten thirty, they were the first hikers we had each seen that day. By early lunch, we were at Square Lake, hot and ready for a swim before eating. Most of the lake was open because of the burn, but the campsites were still shaded by trees that had survived. There was no one around. The world was silent, except for a soft breeze. We spent two hours cooling off and enjoying the world before moving on; in retrospect, this would make an excellent stop for a second night, if we had camped at Wasco the night before.

            The afternoon over to Berley was hot. The entire south slope of Three Fingered Jack was covered in sweet smelling snowbrush, about shoulder height, which blocked the breezes but not the sun. We could see the highway below. For two miles, we trudged along until a cloud of dust kicked up by horses announced the trail junctions, and we turned onto the PCT. I do not like hot afternoon sun; it can make me ill. Mark trickled water over my head; I tied a wet facecloth around his neck. The trail was better as we turned north, away from the sun and into a few trees that provided occasional dappled shade. We both agreed that this would be a better morning walk. Berley Lakes are, for me, always elusive. The first turn in is marked by a small cairn, often knocked over and the second is always about fifteen steps further than I expect. We were thrilled to finally find this small mountain lake, totally surrounded by mature trees, in the late afternoon. We were the only campers that night. It was so quiet that we could hear the bugs buzzing on the other side of the lake. Amazingly peaceful. A hot day—about eleven miles.

            Sunday morning, we decided to poke around camp before heading out. There is a requisite amount of time that must be devoted to fiddling around camp on any backpacking trip. If it does not happen at night, it usually happens in the morning. I sorted the foodstuffs while Mark backflushed the water filter. We watched a hummingbird divebomb the pink cloth bag that was hanging on the line while another examined the reddish orange tent poles. We finished off the dried figs and peaches that had been snacks for Friday and Saturday. We knew that we were hiking through the Eight Lakes Basin for the day, looking at about seven miles total, through trees and burn, so why rush on?

            Sunday peace continued all day. We chatted with one woman horseback riding  who was astounded by the emptiness of the countryside. We ate second breakfast about two miles in at Santiam Lake, staring once again at Three Fingered Jack. Lunch was a long pause at Duffy Lake, considering the butte that frames one side of the pond.  Three guys walked along the trail heading out while we ate. Climbing out of Mowich Lake, we met the local backcountry ranger. He had been posting no campfire signs all along our route and felt that they were effective in shifting behavior, for the most part. “Some people, though, you just have to fine,” he grumbled. “They were all at Marion Lake last night. Overall, though, I have the best job in the world.”  He’d walked 14,000 miles in the wilderness in the last four years. Before we parted, he told us about a site at Blue Lake, a couple of miles further on.

            Blue Lake was incredible. The trail is more rugged. There are some steep climbs through the burn and along exposed rocks. Blue Lake perches on the ridgeline between the Eight Lakes Basin and Marion Lake basin, at about 5000 feet. From the trail, we saw Three Fingered Jack to our left, all craggy and broken with huge puffy clouds behind it and Mount Jefferson, serene and bulky to our right. Below were a series of small lakes and ponds. Huckleberry and blueberry bushes lined the trails into our night’s site. Fireweed flashed magenta at us. Pearly everlasting provided a creamy white accent. Mountain breezes ruffled the surface of the lake. Silence surrounded us. The sunset turned the puffy clouds pink and red and just after we climbed into the tent, deer walked through, heading for a drink. After that, silence.

            The last morning was a seven-mile drop down into Marion Lake. Once again, berries distracted us. Some clearings were full of beargrass, some of fireweed and pearly everlasting, others berries. Why? And why were lodgepole pines coming back were hemlocks had once grown?  How do the berry bushes survive?  How long will it take for the forest to return? When can we come back to these trails?

            By noon, we were in the world again, sitting on a creekside patio, ordering burgers (meat or salmon), fries, and coleslaw.  The food was excellent. Our feet were dusty and tired. Our hair needed washing. But the sounds of deep silence echoes in my mind as we began the long drive home, and will follow me well into fall.

Lucy and the Apple Harvest

     

      Lucy the Cat enjoys her role as supervisor. She loves to climb ladders, to sit in the driver’s seat of vehicles, to poke at eggs and other fragile objects resting on the table, and to demand attention whenever we have company. This week, she was totally engaged in  apple harvest and pressing.

Apple Harvest is a two part project. First, we took our ancient, wobbly wheelbarrow two blocks down the street to an old apple tree in the front yard of a shabby vacant rental that had dropped its fruit all over the yard and sidewalk. Dropped apples are excellent additions to the very dry summer compost pile—the moisture aids in decomposition and the scent makes the yard smell better. We gathered three loads worth and then studied the tree itself. There were still quite a few apples on the branches, so I spent half an hour with the apple picker and cleared the tree of excellent fruit. I had half of a large laundry basket full when I was finished.

       

     The next day, I took on our own Macintosh apple tree. I’d been picking for about a week, but I used the tall orchard ladder to really clean things up. When I was done, I had three piles—one eating, one compost, and one juicing. The eating apples went into the basement and the juicers filled the laundry basket in the back yard. Lucy was very interested in the sorting process.

            I borrowed a press from my friend Rich—Lucy had to bond with the box for several hours while I organized the day. It was a cool and sunny morning, perfect for outdoor food processing. Once everything was set up, she sat on the chair watching me chop up the apples in the masher, poking the fruit as it emerged until her paw was sticky. There is a real rhythm to the process of grabbing the apple, whacking it in half, checking for really nasty spots, tossing into the bin, and then cranking the masher, which is truly enhanced by old bluegrass music. A few bees wandered by to investigate the project as well. While I mashed fruit, the pulp began draining in the press.

            Once the press was full, I wrestled with the ratchet—I do not have a brain for ratchets—and began cranking down on the press. Juice flowed out. Lucy, of course, sensed the change in the center of action and wandered over to investigate. Steadily, the press bore down on the pulp, juice flowed out, and I used my feet to stabilize the entire operation. Sun, breeze, apples, cat, making tasty food from free fruit—life was pretty fine.  After two rounds of pressing, I had 14 quarts of  free  apple juice, which I pasteurized and canned for the winter (10 minutes in the steam canner, hot pack). It was a good day’s work. Lucy approved.

August Work List

August is a balancing act—between high summer and the long autumn, between growing and preserving, between staying home and heading for the mountains. And, some morning, we will wake up and realize that another summer has passed, that the air and light have changed, and winter is coming.

To Be Done:

• Dry apples, peaches, pears, zucchini, and any other possible fruit or vegetable that appears.
• Can peaches, pears, applesauce, and juices.
• Make pickles.
• Roast and can fifty pounds of tomatoes for winter soup, pizza, and sauces.
• House projects—scrape and paint inside and out. Repair items.
• Work on the compost. Spread sifted compost on early beds.
• Water seedlings that have been planted out for fall.
• Backpacking!
• Pull the potato crop and store in the basement. Clean the basement.
  
• Water the garden, slowly tapering off as beds empty out.
• Do your summer reading!
• Host the pie social.

Blueberry Pie

Pie crust—2 eight inch crusts. Make the top a lattice!

2c flour

.5 t salt

2/3 cup butter or margarine or a blend

5-6 T cold water

Filling

6 c of blueberries

4T flour

¾ c sugar

.5 t salt

zest of one lemon

2T butter in little pieces

Bake in 350 oven until bubbly.