Carol Goodman Kaufman

a.k.a. Carolinda Goodman

Gardening

An New Old Chestnut

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In yet another tree experiment from this persistent, if not always successful gardener:

About fifteen years, one of our dinner guests brought us chestnuts he had harvested from his own trees. I roasted them the next day. They were absolute delicious. It turns out that they were Chinese chestnuts, immune to the blight that had killed off their American cousins over 100 years ago.

I immediately ordered a tree. It came, I planted it. Then I learned that it takes two to tango, so I ordered a second one. I measured out the forty feet between the two, as instructed.

The instructions also said that it could take three to four years to see results, but although the two trees grew, they did not produce a single chestnut. Year after year, I checked the branches but found nothing.

Until this year. One tree has a bunch of those spiky pods that signal a chestnut crop is on the way.

The second tree, however, had odd looking things growing on its branches. They were much smaller and not at all spiky. What was going on? I opened up my Picture This app and got a very big surprise.

The tree with the odd things wasn’t a chestnut at all. It was a saw tooth oak!

Huh? All these years later, I’m just now finding out that the nursery sent me the wrong tree?

So, my question: Without a second tree to pollinate the first, how did the chestnuts begin to grow? A couple of friends have suggested that there must be a chestnut tree somewhere close by. But there are none. We live far from our closest neighbors.

Will those spiky pods actually have nuts in them? We should know in about a month.

Stay tuned!

One Potato, Two Potato, Three Potato, More!

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I find nothing quite as satisfying as preparing — and eating — a meal with vegetables from my own garden. An eggplant caponata, zucchini latkes, even just a simple sun-warmed tomato with a sprinkle of salt – all scrumptious.

But, as wonderful as all these things are, I like to add something new and different every year. After all, I have enough jalapeno and banana peppers in my freezer to last for the next decade, so there is available space in the garden.

So this year I planted potatoes. Fingerlings, to be precise, the small, stubby, finger-shaped type, because I adore those tiny potatoes oven-roasted with a bit of olive oil, garlic, salt, and pepper. (I’m salivating already, and it’s only 8:30 in the morning as I write this.)

Having no idea how to grow the tubers, I went online and found several different methods. Given the annual invasion by little critters that invade the backyard, taking one bite of everything on the vine (couldn’t they just finish one thing?), I chose to plant them in a tub. And by “tub,” I mean a pot that was big enough to bathe a baby.

As instructed, I dutifully added soil to the pot to build up the plants, and I watered “evenly” (or as evenly possible given the torrential downpours we’ve been seeing in New England this summer).

I even moved the pot around to follow the sun. In one tactical error, I didn’t take into account the weight involved in this project. Although the “Spud Tub” is made of plastic, adding the entire contents of a 25 pound bag of soil made it quite heavy. Luckily, I happen to have a wheeled plant stand from a previous attempt at growing citron trees from seed. (Note the word “previous.” After ten years, all I got was blossoms but no fruit.) So all I had to do (once loading the tub onto it. was to push it with my foot.

The plants grew tall and lanky, seemingly by the minute. And now the foliage is beginning to turn yellow, which means that it is time to dig them up. Hubby J did the honors this week, surprising me with a single, perfectly formed fingerling.

Should I save it for the rest of the harvest, or eat this one tiny spud?

Remembrance of Things Spice

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IMG_3961Proust had his madeleines. For me, opening a container of za’atar releases an aroma that sparks memories of strolling through the shuk, the golden light caresssing ancient stone walls. The scent also stimulates my appetite for fresh-from-the-oven pita, warm, soft and chewy, with a salty and piquant tang.

The za’atar that we know from its association with labneh and hummus on mezze plates is a condiment made from a mix of spices, herbs, and seeds, and the recipe varies from place to place.

But in fact, the name za’atar also applies to a family of related herbs that grow in the Middle East: oregano, savory, marjoram, thyme. I think it most closely resembles oregano, at least the bush that grows in my garden.

It’s really easy to mix your own za’atar if you can’t get it locally, or if you simply love the idea of making something from scratch. Just mix the following ingredients together:

  • 1/4 cup sumac
  • 2 tablespoons thyme
  • 1 tablespoon roasted sesame seeds
  • 2 tablespoons marjoram
  • 2 tablespoons oregano
  • 1 teaspoon coarse salt

A Sun-Drenched Memory

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Son-in-law Adam recently completed his annual olive-brining ritual. He buys the raw fruits from an online source, and then in his kitchen prepares them in a variety of ways, from traditional to spicy-hot.

A few weeks ago he presented me with a jar containing his latest production. These olives were unlike any I had ever before eaten. While the flavor was somewhat similar to the store-bought greens, the texture was al dente, almost crispy. And, they were bigger than the largest olives I have seen.

Olive branch

As I tasted one, then two, memories surfaced of the sun-drenched Tuscan countryside, where groves of olive trees in straight rows gambol up and down the hills, their gray-green leaves shimmering in the light. And then more memories bubbled up from even further back, to my time living in Israel, where olive trees grow even on the main streets of the cities.

While living in Jerusalem, I came into possession of the novel The Last Temptation of Christ, by Nikos Kazantzakis. It was a great book altogether, but one scene in the story stands out in my mind for its vivid description. Jesus stops during his travels to rest under a tree. He extends his hand and plucks an olive the size of an apple from its branches – enough to serve as lunch.

What an image! Upon reading it, I made my way directly to King George Street and picked a couple of tiny green olives. I then made a big mistake: I bit into one. Bit, as in bitter. Yuck. Olives need to be treated, either through brining or curing. Lesson learned.

And then more recently, while on a saunter through Jerusalem, we came upon two women picking olives in the Mishkenot Sha’ananim neighborhood. They had come from outside the city specifically for this purpose, but had forgotten to bring a ladder, or even a tarp to collect the harvest, so 6’4″ hubby offered to pick from the higher branches. I helped work the lower ones.

If only there were a better way, I thought. And, then just last week I saw a video on the Internet with the most amazing invention for harvesting olives. See for yourself if this isn’t just the dandiest garden implement to have. Of course, it’s probably not a practical purchase for the casual olive briner, but hey, it’s so neat I just had to share it.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GKF_axA9zog

Until Adam made olives, I had never considered doing it at home. Now I think I may try next year. With every bite, I can be transported from the winter gloom to a warm and beautiful place.

In the meantime, since we live in New England, buying online is probably the best strategy for me.

A Tough Nut to Crack

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My obsession with stalking the wild asparagus continues. Dressed like Miss Marple with my hat and Wellies, I love to gather apples, pears, chicory and, of course, my beloved grape leaves. Last week, while searching (alas, failing) to find a new source of grape leaves in a nearby park, I did discover dozens and dozens of pale green orbs hanging from trees like so many Christmas ornaments. I plucked one low-hanging one as well as a small branch of leaves, and posted photos on Facebook, hoping that at least one friend could help me with identification. Within minutes I had my answer: Black walnut. Unfortunately, I had no idea that cutting into the hull of that nut to make the photos would render my fingernails dark brown for two long weeks. Note to self: wear gloves.

Despite the risk of permanent dye, I was on a mission. I just had to gather what so many people claim is a sublimely flavored nut. So, on a sunny and warm Columbus Day, four-year old Max and I headed out to harvest. It turns out that finding the trees was the easiest part of the exercise, and retrieving the ripe globes that had fallen to the ground required little effort on our part. (Having a little kid close to the ground was a big help in the search.)

Finding nuts not infested with slimy little worms was another matter. The longer they remain on the ground, the more likely it is that they will attract the critters. Yuck. So, why not just pick them straight from the tree? Well, if you happen to be 20 feet tall or own a cherry picker, that would be a fine solution. I happen to be 5’7″, and can barely reach the lowest branches.

After one tree’s worth of nuts, we headed home to begin the next phase our project. That turned out to be the hard part, involving water, an exacto knife, and a drying tray, none of which steps yielded anything we could actually eat.

The phrase “tough nut to crack” must have been invented for the black walnut. No simple nutcracker is sufficient here. To get at the meat inside a black walnut, a sledgehammer is the only way to go. Another note to self: Sledgehammers can pulverize the nutmeats.

So much work for so little result. As the woman in the youtube video said, “That’s why they’re so stinkin’ expensive.” (Yes, twice that of standard “English” walnuts.)

Oh, but what a splash they’ll make as a Thanksgiving dessert.

Food Fight!

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imagesThe annual bonanza/surfeit/ridiculous overproduction (your choice) of the typical home gardener’s zucchini patch has begun. Zucchini bread, zucchini pudding, zucchini fritters: green squash is coming out of our ears.

I have laughed at the many silly ways proposed for getting rid of the cylindrical veggie, such as the one in which a gardener leaves a basket of zukes on a neighbor’s porch, rings the doorbell, and runs like hell.

On the other hand, I always got a sick feeling at the former local Zucchini Festival where, at one booth, fair-goers catapulted hundreds of the green squashes at a target — for fun.

Now, in a few weeks, thousands of people will make their way from the four corners of the globe to Spain to fight in this year’s “World’s Biggest Food Fight.” At the annual Tomatina tomato festival held in Bunel, participants hurl one hundred metric tons of tomatoes at one another. For fun.

And, modeled after La Tomatina — in seven cities in our own country, from Boston to Seattle, Dallas to Miami — is the Tomato Battle. At this also-annual event, “soldiers” don bathing suits, safety goggles, and shoes to immerse themselves in piles of overripe tomatoes and “set about pelting people with fruits like sentient apple trees avenging the initial-carving of amorous teenagers.”

According to Feeding America’s most recently published report, over 49 million Americans live in food insecure households, almost 16 million children. The organization’s network of 58,000 — 58,000! — food banks, parties, and meal service programs provides service to 46.5 million people in every community across the U.S.

Yet, people throw food at each other for fun.

Many of the people served by Feeding America live in what are known as “food deserts,” defined as a part of the country lacking access to “fresh fruit, vegetables, and other healthful whole foods.” In other words, no grocery stores, farmers’ markets, or other healthy food providers. 

And — surprise, surprise — food deserts are usually found in impoverished areas.

Battle organizers claim that the Tomato Battle is “an efficient and entertaining use of non-edible waste.”

Efficient? Non-edible? Has nobody figured out a way to process these fruits into soup, juice, or sauce to feed the hungry?