Garden – Page 6 – The Greener Biener

Little House in the ‘burbs

daphne on September 26, 2008

With half-pint and quarter-pint off to school it was time Ole Ma got that kettle on the fire. That food’s not going to put itself up, you know. How this family expects to make it through an unforgiving winter without a hefty supply of tomatoes in the freezer is beyond me. You know that Slow Joe can’t make it over a snowy pass and Nellie won’t give much milk with the ground covered in snow…

Can’t have the family facing starvation, but wait, wasn’t Ole Ma supposed to work on her novel this morning? And what about those updates to the blog, and never mind a certain five year old who’s expecting a birthday party to be planned. Oh well, there’s always tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ve got 40 pounds of mean tomatoes roaring my name.

Last Sunday was the harvest festival at Monroe farm (yeah, I know that was a week ago, but you see, I’ve been dealing with these tomatoes…) This is the place that supplies our luscious veggies every week, and where we went to pick strawberries earlier in the summer. Something happens when you’re in a field with a green light to pick until your heart grows content (or until your back gives out.) What happens? I’ll tell you, this–

You go a little nuts. Picking with thoughts of packing pickled peppers, even if you have little idea what that means and even less of a clue of how to accomplish such a feat. Needless to say, we went a tad overboard.

Particularly in respect to the peppers.

Now, I’m not sure how many jalepenos and poblanos your family plows through in a year, but a rational estimate for our foursome is somewhere between none and one. Not that we let a silly thing like that stand in our way.

So, we had a ton of peppers to deal with, and by ‘we’ I mean, Pa, who was happy to settle down in front of the Giants game with a peck of said peppers. His plan? To slice and dice in preparation for making some of the killer salsa (recipe coming as soon as I get it out of Dave) we’ve been downing lately. All was well and good, what with the Giants winning and all….

Until, WHAM, the peppers went wild, attacking Dave’s sensibilities and filling the living room air with a pungent, powerful spice. It took two days for his eyes to stop tearing, at which point he loaded said poblanos in the car and hauled them down to the office.

Which is all well and good, except for the couple of distractions that remain to keep me from completing (ok, beginning) my great American novel. First, there’s the little matter of pinata-prep for Acadia’s party tomorrow–

And second, this overflowing box of jalepenos. Not as potent as the poblanos, but still, I’d be pretty unpopular around here if I slid a couple of these bad boys into a grilled cheese or two.

Ah-hah! I’ve got it. It’s perfect, don’t you see? I can avoid stuffing the butterfly with plastic bobbles and high fructose corn syrup AND be rid of these pesky peppers once and for all. Imagine the smiling faces of the children as they are rained down upon by these multi-colored treats. Fiesta Time!

Super-Squirrel

daphne on September 20, 2008

You remember Squiggy? Our poor, tuckered out squirrel? He featured prominently a few posts ago, back when I was all ga-ga with love for the creepy critters that share our outdoor space.

I assumed then that this lazy backyard beast just needed to take a load off. You know how it is what with birds to chase and nuts to gather and gardens to plunder. A squirrel gets tired.

But no, apparently lazy Squiggy was just resting up for the big fall event… Sunflower Tipping.

Oh yeah, it’s all the rage in suburbia.

The super-squirrels lay in wait, nibbling nuts or stealing apples while us hair-brain humans dig, and plant, and water, and weed.

Ever the enthusiast to play the stupid human, we did just that. We planted, we watered, we weeded and we waited. Despite the hours we put in, I was still surprised (shocked, really, though that sounds a little strong) when these beautiful, enormous, strong flowers poked their sunny heads out alongside our driveway.

The kids used them as measuring sticks. We lined up in front of them each day to marvel over their growth (the flowers, not the children.) See how they stand, strong and stately?

Or should I say, stood, formerly strong and no longer stately.

What we didn’t account for was Super Squirrel, able to leap tall stems in a single bound. I came outside to meet the school bus yesterday, just in time for the big event. Here’s how it unfolded:

Super Squirrel darted out from the shade of the crab apple tree, correcting for wind on the run. In one giant pounce, he sprang up from the grass and landed 3/4 of the way up the sunflower stalk. From this position he slowly ooched his way up towards the head, rocking the stem until it tipped towards the ground. At this point he grabbed the flower, stuck his pointy nose inside, and started to feed on our hard won sunflower seeds.

We screamed, waved our arms, and shooed the Olympian back from whence he came. But as he slunk off he cast a backward glance. And I saw it. That smug smirk on his pompous little rodenty face.

Oh no you didn’t. Bring it Squiggy. It is so on.

Hello Happy Autumn

daphne on September 4, 2008

Yesterday morning’s air had a chill that stuck around through most of the day. It was delicious. I pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and hugged myself a mug of steaming coffee. I was giddy with the thought of packing away the miserable swelter of summer’s heat in exchange for the crisp bite of autumn days. I know some of you adore summer, the tight squeeze of heat against a sweaty skull, the ripe smell of children left outside a little too long, but it’s just not for me.

With school beginning mid-August I had to wait for other signs to tell me it’s time to pull out the thick socks. Signs like this:

That’s Dave on the roof of the shed, harvesting our apple tree. Apple trees produce in full every few years, and this is going to be one of those years! The first batch was impressive, the apples are tart and tasty and have already been boiled down into scrumptious apple sauce. And the tree is still heavy with more. Added bonus? With a pot of simmering apples on the stove the house smells so good that I can barely hear the dust bunnies scuttling around. Besides, they’re almost cute when coated in the intoxicating scent of warm apples and cinnamon.

Another sign of fall? These gigantic sunflowers that are just now coming into their own.

The girls begged for the packet of seeds a million years ago (well, back in the spring) and you know how it is when the kids grab stuff as you’re leaving the store. I broke down, and they planted them all along the side of the driveway. They are amazing. Taller than me, some plants host four or five of the brilliantly bright yellow faces. One plant is inexplicably covered in these cool red striped flowers.

Ah yes, the signs of autumn. I had all but pulled on a hat and written off summer when the girls plucked these from the garden. Raspberries? In September? Drat. Foiled again. Looks like summer is not ready to go quietly into the night just yet.

Someday my prince will hop away

daphne on August 25, 2008

There I was, casually pulling weeds from the cucumbers the other day when I happened to glance over at the strawberry patch. What I saw there terrified me. It ripped a scream from my throat. I started to run and actually made it half way across the yard yelling and flailing my arms before I grabbed myself by the shoulders and got myself a grip. I mean, really, what kind of message would this send to the kids? This was no way to behave if I expect them to learn to live in peace and harmony and with respect for all critters great and small and slippery and warty.

Still, I freaked out. Just look at this monster:

Yeah, yeah, it’s just a frog. Or a toad. Whatever. What this picture does not show is the enormity of this creature. He was huge. Like a dingy-green bug-eyed Prius. And he just sat there like he owned the place. Clearly, a prince. Once my heart stopped racing and I felt appropriately embarrassed for screeching like a banshee all by myself in the yard, I returned to the garden to have a chat with my nemesis, who despite the ear piercing activities around him had not moved an amphibian muscle. There he sat.

Sir Hops for Naught and I discussed his squatting without permission. I suggested he move along, that this garden was taken, that this princess was done kissing frogs, that I certainly could not promise him peace and tranquility given my squeamish response to his species. Why did I run, Sir Hops needed to know. He asked nothing of me (yeah right, nothing but a puck-a-roo to transform him back to royal glamor. I wasn’t born yesterday Froggie.) I need not be concerned he’d bite, he assured me, and clearly he wasn’t the type to give chase. So what was my problem?

My problem was this: A very real fear of the noise that would be made when I accidentally stepped on him with my flip flops. The squirmy squishy awful sound of Sir Hops under my exposed foot. To say nothing of the danger to me if I slipped on the slimy guy and landed face down in puddle of mashed frog.

Maybe I’m being rash. Maybe he comes in peace. Maybe he’s just looking for a place to rest his weary self. Many of our backyard buddies seem overly tired this year. Like Squiggy, our normally frenetic friend, who just need some chillin’ time, you know, squirrel-style.

Or maybe Sir Hops For Naught is here in response to Evil Bunny, Muncher of Garden Greens that Do Not Belong to Him.

He may look like a cute bunny but DO NOT BE FOOLED. That’s no ordinary rabbit. This ballsy bunny fears nothing. He marches right down to the garden like he owns the place and happily munches away. Screaming children with flailing arms and a garden hose spritzer set to high are futile against his power. He is a bad bad bunny and I hope he steps on a squishy frog and flounders in the slime. Just don’t tell my children that I said so.

Let’s talk about sex, baby

daphne on August 20, 2008

Sure, springtime’s got young lovers and the birds and the bees and I’m on board with all of that. Who doesn’t like love in their air? But honestly, it’s autumn that has my thoughts turning to sex. Pumpkin sex that is, and squash booty and hot cucumber action and well, you get the picture. Visions of procreating gourds are dancing in my head.

Speaking of sex, it’s not too much to say that Dave and I have got the girl-making game down pat. Indoors, at least. Somehow we take that step from boudoir to backyard and suddenly all we’ve got to show for our efforts are boys, boys, boys. When it comes to flowering vines, our garden is a no-girls-allowed frat party of testosterone. Across the board our sporty gourds are nothing but snips and snails and puppy dog tails.

Hang on a minute. Male flowers? Pumpkin sex? What? Your fifth-grade teacher skipped the part about girl and boy squash blossoms? Do not fear, I am here, and I never tire of talking sex, gourd or otherwise. Here’s what you need to know: To tell the difference between boys and girls, flip over your flowers. If your flower looks like this…

…congratulations, it’s a girl. See how she wears her womb on her sleeve? That little nub beneath the flower (which she has yet to open) is her fruit-to-be. Come on girlfriend, waving your reproduction flag is no way to lure a man. But lo, the Romeos for whom she waits are right next door:

The males stand strong. The stems run straight up into the flowers. (Of course they stand straight, they’re not the ones lugging around all that pre-squash weight. Hey, does this baby squash make my blossom look fat?)

Our vines last summer tended towards boys-only too, forcing me to take matters into my own hands. When at last a lady pumpkin flower showed up, I got down and dirty, inseminating, pumpkin style. (Note: I’ve been informed that one cannot actually inseminate anything without, well, you know.) Still, I plucked a lusty male blossom, rubbed him good on our single brave female, and wham bam thank you me, I made a baby pumpkin.

At least last year’s bachelor party was limited to the pumpkins. Our butternut squash needed no help in the lovin’ department. It took both kids just to heft the gorgeous gourds of ’07.

They were big, and they were bountiful. Only two vines, but they produced upwards of 10 hefty squash. We were so impressed with their ability to reproduce on their own that we skipped the fertility-challenged pumpkins altogether this year and went crazy with the squash seeds. After all, brown-sugar-bronzed butternut squash is the star of my favorite pasta recipe.

I have been looking forward to that pasta all summer, so I’m getting a little desperate about the dearth of ladies on my vines. What is one to do about the preponderance of males in the garden? I don’t know, and I haven’t yet found anyone out there who does. In the meantime, I’m adding a healthy dash of sugar and spice and everything nice to the compost pile. I’ll let you know how that goes.

Update from the garden: It’s ladies night! As I write this, four potential squashettes sit on the vine advertising their wares to the plethora of suitors. I think the numbers are in their favor.

Know what you can do with those growth charts?

daphne on July 15, 2008

They grow so fast. Sure, that’s what they all say but then when I shlep my kids in to the pediatrician she breaks out those charts and explains to me exactly how my little spouts are not measuring up. I feed them, I nap them, I do everything short of putting them on medieval stretcher and pulling but still my kids refuse to register on the charts. Ingrates. Not that I care. I’m over it. (Did that sound convincing? If not I could tell you what I really think of the epidemic of big-mac munching toddlers that are ruining the growth curve for everybody else.)

But again, I digress. My kids are small, be that as it may. For now let’s talk about how much my actual sprouts have grown. The green ones, that is. Here, live from the garden, are results from the 3-month check-up:

The raspberries are a’ripening. So what that my octogenarian neighbor has been harvesting buckets of his dark berries for three weeks now. He’s got all that southern exposure. Besides, my berries are coming, see that one there? It’s too early to worry that there won’t be enough for berry parfaits in January. So nope, I’m not worried.

Besides, check out our baby Georgia peach tree. Yes, that’s right, those tiny nubbers are Georgia peaches. Rock hard, yes, smaller than my fist, sure, but they’re trying, and I’m supporting their valiant, trans-continental effort.

And hey, ten points for our apples. These guys are hanging heavy from every branch. Three years ago we had enough to fill every container we owned with applesauce and keep the family in pies through Thanksgiving. I heard it through the grapevine that apples fruit in spades every three years. And frankly, when it comes to growing apples, who better to trust than a grapevine?

Meanwhile, back in the garden plot, the cucumbers show signs of doing something other than playing dead, and the good-for-nothing lazy squash finally got off its duff and set out some nice dark leaves. Things are going so well that I practically ran out and bought the next size up for my impressive bloomers; that is, until I saw my friend Emily’s veggies. Sigh. I know a mother shouldn’t compare. But seeing her leggy-green bad boys reaching for the stars made my little sprouts seem positively infantile. What? My peas should be fruiting and my squash blossoms full? But it’s only July, and they’re such sweet little leafy things, and they are well adjusted and look she can write her own name and sing the ABCs, and oops, slipped off track again. Sorry.

Squishy squash and belated berries aside, you’ve got to see the tomatoes. Here’s Acadia measuring up (well, not measuring up) against the big bad tomato plants. Yes, those are their leafy limbs crawling sky-ward above her head. And no, I’m not worried that her green cousin towers above her diminutive frame. Why not? I’ll tell you a secret: I filled her bed with compost; so you see, pretty soon she’ll be jetting back up towards that 5th percentile. Besides, I’ve got two months before her five year check-up. And with her toes wiggling in richly composted soil, and all those garden-bound cousins of hers she’ll be consuming, I just know this will be the year she’ll blow those dang charts away.

Rhubarb, one tough old gal

daphne on June 7, 2008

Ahhh, reproduction. Who could forget fifth grade with its squirm-worthy talk of budding and asexual reproduction and new boobs and busy bees? Back then, nary a day passed without the girls getting herded off to the gym and the boys skulking down to the art room to hear promises of puberty, and treats and terrors to come.

But those seasons, they go round and round and now here we stand firmly on the other side. We’ve seen for ourselves from whence babies come, and those babies have themselves come home from school bearing their own dixie cups of sprouted peapods in hand.

It seems that although puberty is (thankfully) a thing of my past, I still don’t know all there is to know about baby-making. Just this spring I happened upon a new term of reproduction: propagate. As in, come on Billy-Bob, let’s get down and dirty and start propagatin’. Which brings me to rhubarb. We inherited one old plant.

Tough gal. Despite considerable overcrowding and our laissez-faire gardening approach, she bore us plenty that first year. We were cruel, ignoring her unless a hankering for rhubarb crumble reared up and demanded we pluck her plentiful stalks. However, when our neighbor poured concrete to reset his fence posts smack dab on top of her, my mothering instincts kicked in. It was time to save Rhubarb.

Mama Rhubarb and her little Rhubarbarinos

I searched online, followed some directions, and wham! bam! I made me some baby rhubarbarinos. You heard it here first–propagating is the wave of the future. And rhubarb? Oh, I have plenty to say about rhubarb. I’m just getting started. You’ll hear more about our old gal for sure.

Grab a cigar by the way, congratulations are due: Look what our tough mama created: Seven little rhubarb-arinos. Come on, aren’t they cute?

(Cute, yes, and mighty tasty too. Here’s a tasty recipe that has my kids chanting for more rhubarb!)