Garden Volunteers

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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.

Rhubarb

When I was little, I found rhubarb terrifying. There was something about those big, crinkly leaves, the way it grew so quickly in the spring, the deep red stalks that gave me the creeps. I would hide behind the barn and peer around the corner, just to shiver at the sight. I did not like large vegetables, overgrown or otherwise. Even today, a huge zucchini emerging from the undergrowth will make me scream. There’s something wrong about it.

That being said, I have two rhubarb plants in my back garden and there are six more thriving in the school garden, where I have been working to restore order. So, it is the season. I made a rhubarb cake, which we love and ate quickly. Then I made some rhubarb pickles because I have been pickling everything lately. They were…ok. Maybe they are getting better over time, as the flavors meld. I’ll check again in couple of days. That left quite a bit of the plant, so I tried the rhubarb marmalade in the newspaper. Yum. I simplified the recipe a little bit and it feels more like a jam to me, but the flavors are amazing.  Who knew a scary plant could become so tasty.

Rhubarb Marmalade

Makes about 7 half pints

•About 2¼ pounds rhubarb, cut into ½-inch pieces to measure 8 cups

•4½ cups granulated sugar

•2 oranges, zested and chopped

•1 lemon, zested and chopped

•¼ cup finely chopped candied ginger

In non aluminum bowl, combine the rhubarb with the sugar. Cover and let stand overnight at room temperature.

Place the prepared oranges and lemon in a heavy pot, along with the rhubarb and sugar mixture, and the butter. Bring the mixture to a full rolling boil over medium high heat, stirring frequently. Reduce the heat to a slow boil and continue simmering, stirring frequently, until the mixture has reached the jelly stage (220 degrees from sea level up to 1,000 feet; 216 degrees at 2,000 feet; 214 degrees at 3,000 feet; 212 degrees at 4,000 feet; 211 degrees at 5,000 feet; 209 degrees at 6,000 feet; 207 degrees at 7,000 feet; 205 degrees at 8,000 feet), stirring constantly, about 8 minutes to 10 minutes.

Remove from heat, add ginger and rind. Let sit for about 2 minutes, then skim off any foam that has accumulated. Ladle the marmalade into individual containers for storage in the refrigerator or freezer.

For long-term storage at room temperature: Have 7 half-pint canning jars washed and ready for filling when the marmalade is through cooking. Prepare canning lids as manufacturer directs. While it is still hot, ladle into 1 clean and hot canning jar at a time, leaving ¼-inch head space. Wipe jar rim with a clean damp cloth. Attach lid. Fill and close remaining jars. Process in a boiling-water canner for 10 minutes 

Green Dream

Green dreams….

These days, I wake at dawn, grey light filtering through clouds, through my eyes. It is not time to rise, drink tea, get moving on the day, but to dream, halfway between waking and sleeping. I have green dreams. I think what is growing in the front yard, the hop vine adding several inches a day, waving above the trellis. I remember the bean seeds I planted in the warm moist ground the day before. I plan where  and what I need to do next, at home and at the school garden, which we are slowly bringing back to order.  Weeds and irrigation systems tangle in my brain with potato starts and mints to be replanted on the herb mound. These days, there is no sound of traffic, or early morning workers on the move. It is silent, except for the haunting whoo  of pigeons, calling for the friends. And the quiet rustle of plants, growing towards the light.

Green dreams.

When I pulled the tarot card for My Day, it was the Knight of Cups: what kindles your dreaming soul?

Snapshots from Stay at Home, Save Lives

  

              The greenhouse is packed. It’s always pretty full this time of year, when tomatoes have been bumped up, some summer greens are waiting to go out, and the vines have just been planted in the four inch pots. But, this year, it is also holding all of my classroom plants, with some hanging from the ceiling because there was no room on the shelves, as well as a napping cat, and my work computer on sunny mornings. Add in a sweater or other piece of clothing needing some sun, a used mug or two, and a folding chair so that we can both eat lunch in the steaming warmth of plant growth, and it is packed.

                The shed has been cleaned out. Much like the cozy room closet, I was looking for some wood stored in the open loft and discovered a mess.   

This time, it was hazelnut shells that the squirrels had feasted on as well as rodent droppings and some leaves that had blown in. I was handing down boards to Mark when I spotted the nests so he climbed up the ladder and sighed. “I guess we’d better haul everything out from below,” he observed. “It’ll only be worse if we don’t.” We exploded the shed, pulling everything, including the shelves, out. While Mark swept inside, I cleaned up the piles—corralling the bird netting back into its tub, putting remay into a tin so that it could not become a nest, sorting out stuff we no longer needed. After we were done, we tucked everything back in. And there was more space.

          

      I have succumbed to the sourdough trend. After the Yeast Panic early this week, I began a starter. I’ve always wondered about the wild yeasties floating around my kitchen and now they are cheerfully bubbling away on the top of my fridge. We had our first batch of sourdough pancakes for breakfast on Sunday morning.  I miss the library—figuring this out would be much easier if I could sit on the floor, surrounded by various cookbooks, because there are so many variations on this theme. MY book was written by a homesteading woman who spends her entire day in the kitchen and garden, raising five kids. Her system is pretty labor intensive and productive. I don’t need that much starter! So I will be experimenting, sorting out systems that work for us when life becomes more scheduled once again.

               

Sweater Compost

   

        

     While putting away the Easter decorations, I discovered that two of my oldest sweaters had been destroyed by moths. They had eaten their way through the middle of one sweater completely and were on their way through the second. To be fair—these sweaters were on their way out; I had been patching and repairing them for several years. But, it was still a shock. I quickly cleared out the entire closet, flinging the contents all over the living room. No more sweaters were damaged! My great-grandmother’s shawl was fine. I moved onto the chest of drawers that holds our hats and scarves. Two of Mark’s ancient wool hats were munched. I dug through the yarn stash (probably the source of the moth problem) and cleared out a ball and a half of yarn. Then I checked the bedroom—there was sweater dust, but the sweaters were fine. I washed down the closet and the chest, then carried the remaining sweaters out to the greenhouse, where they are airing in the sun.

                This morning, Mark was in charge of disposal. My plan was to lay them in the bottom of the compost, but he was worried that they would not break down quickly enough. They are both all wool and rather sheepy, but thick. One was natural, untreated wool, still a little oily after twenty five years. Because he was reluctant to compost them in the hoops, he dug down into one of the garden beds until he hit the base layer of clay. As he dug, he considered the power of double dug bio-char to deepen the soil, but was just a theoretical consideration. When he was down to clay, we spread the sweaters out and buried them. They were good sweaters—the black one I knit my last winter in New England, while in graduate school. The brown one was my first Portland sweater, a lovely rug on a damp and rainy day, which I wore canvassing for OSPIRG in the early spring. They had served me well—and now, they will take care of us one more time, as compost.

Strong Towns

            Mark and I have been reading Strong Towns by Charles L Marohn, a chapter at a time. It becomes the focus of our walking conversations—a vast improvement over the latest corona virus details or fuss over local politics. Right now, Mark is ahead, so he keeps dropping tantalizing hints as to what is to come. Last Sunday, we walked out to the edge of the city to deliver some quick breads. On the way back, right at the edge of town, we passed a patch of untrimmed blackberries about to take over the sidewalk. “That’s exactly what he’s talking about!” I realized. Here, in Corvallis, we have infrastructure that we cannot maintain over the long haul. 

            The basic premise of Strong Towns is that we have broken our old development patterns of incremental growth and slow upgrading of “infill” in favor of building out entire neighborhoods far from the economic centers of towns and cities. Even if developers pay for the original infrastructure (roads, pipes, storm water run-off, parks), the city will be paying for the upkeep and maintenance for hundreds of years. And, because we have sprawled over the landscape, we do not have the money to do so. He is also worried that these neighborhoods will all “fail” at the same time; every house on the block will need major repairs within five years of the first house.  Just think of 25 year roofs; even if a few last longer, they will all need to be replaced at about the same time. If the repairs are not done, the housing stock will degrade very quickly, as will the tax base. It’s a grim future he sees for many cities and suburbs in the United States. I am a little over half way through, so I am hoping that he has a glimmer of hope for us all.

            The blackberry vine taking over the sidewalk encapsulates the problem. First, it is on the public side of a backyard fence of a house that was built on a cul-de-sac, a recent development pattern.  Cul de sacs are “good” for families because they provide a “safe” place for kids to play, but they are bad urban design because they reduce connectivity, which supports walking and biking, thus discouraging community interaction. They also create some nasty sidewalks, because people want privacy, so they build fences along the back yard, which is often along the sidewalk of the larger collector street. It is not comfortable to walk long blocks of fences in various states of repair, dodging overgrown shrubbery that belongs to everyone, thus no one maintains it.  That aggressive, thorny Himalayan Blackberry, grown from a casual seed dropped by a bird, becomes a menace.  And, because we have so many collector streets in the newer parts of town, it is impossible for the city to trim them all back in a timely fashion.

            The blackberry is only one example of this problem. Keeping all of our streets maintained to a decent level to reduce even more costly repaving projects, fixing leaky pipes so that we waste less water and the energy needed to clean it at both ends, planting and pruning street trees, keeping the park bathrooms open….the further from the town centers we go, the more expensive it becomes to do all of this. Marohn argues that we have to acknowledge this problem and make some hard decisions. What areas of our cities do we need to hold onto? What areas will be let go? His primary audience, I believe, is me, as a city councilor wrestling with budgets and policy decisions, but it’s a clearly written, if not frisky, piece of work. And it will change the way you view that blackberry that just snagged your sweater as you walk by.