Gardening

Around the Garden in 60 Days: A Jules Verne Vegetable

July 9, 2015 by Carol 1 Comment

Growing up in a small New England town, I never saw kohlrabi, but while volunteering on a kibbutz one year (breakfast and supper both featuring a cornucopia of super-fresh produce), I fell in love with the bulb. The flavor is mild with just a tiny bit of a kick. Not as spicy as a radish, but with the same wonderful crunch.

A member of the cabbage family and also known by the names turnip cabbage and German turnip, kohlrabi comes in both red and pale green color and, once the stems and leaves are removed, looks somewhat like an underwater vessel you might see in a Jules Verne novel.

I just knew it was a sign when I saw sets at the garden shop this spring. I had to try my hand at planting them. The challenge would be that my luck at growing vegetables is variable. Some plants produce bountifully – in my freezer I still have jalapeno and banana peppers from four years ago. Bell peppers, on the other hand, are stingy and kind of bitter. In fact, the grocery store varieties are better. Far better. When it comes to eggplant, the Ichiban variety is prolific for months, while the big fat Black Beauties grant me only two or three fruits at most.

So, hopeful but not delusional, I prepared the garden with the whole nine yards of stuff: organic fertilizer, compost, water, mulch. Just two months and a few prayers later, I returned from a week away from home to find that the kohlrabi was ready to harvest. Pretty fast by New England standards. Even better, the animals seem to be staying away, perhaps stymied by the obstacle course provided by so many stems and leaves surrounding the hard bulbs. (My tomatoes are being devoured by rabbits and chipmunks, necessitating better fencing.)

It was a good experiment but, in retrospect, since only one bulb comes from each plant, there may be better uses of the space in the garden. The farmer’s market is sure to have some, right?

Wistful for Wisteria

June 12, 2015 by Carol 1 Comment

PICT2386 Many years ago I bought a wisteria plant at a local garden center. When I got home and took it out of the package, a stick fell out. Just a stick. No root ball hidden by the cardboard label. No indication that it would survive, much less become a magnificent vine heavy with pale purple blossoms.

But, since I had bought it, I planted it out by the stucco wall in the backyard. And just to be safe, I placed a tomato cage around the stick so that nobody, thinking it was a weed, would mistakenly pull it up.

The stick grew inch by inch over the next several years, but not one flower appeared. Then one day, the plant grew large enough that it no longer needed its protective cage. It was also big enough that we needed wire cutters to set it free.

But still no flowers.

Just as I was giving up hope of ever seeing the pendulous flowering vine that I was sure would transport me to the lawn at Mansfield Park or Northanger Abbey, the Sunday New York Times featured an article about wisteria. In it, the writer detailed her own travails with the plant, and she noted that it could take ten years before the first blossom appeared.

We were on year nine when the Times published that article and, wouldn’t you know it, the following summer we awoke one morning to find three small blossoms. Pale lilac in color and emitting a heady perfume, they were beautiful.

But, there was no foliage!

Now, all these years later, we have three distinct seasons of wisteria. The first consists of blossoms on bare, gray branches. The second gives us foliage with no blossoms. The third features both. The vine has grown so hearty that it has spread along and over the wall, and into our neighbor’s garden.

You’d never know that it all begin with a scrawny stick.

They say that patience is a virtue. If you are longing for wisteria, I’d advise you to develop a healthy dose of it.

Mint Condition

April 12, 2015 by Carol 2 Comments

Unknown Last summer, as the mint was taking over my garden, I contacted my friend Barb the Gourmet to ask her for recipes using the herb. There was just so much taboule I could prepare with the mounds of mint I was getting, and she was bound to have ideas.

Barb did give me a couple recipes, neither of which used more than a couple tablespoons of the green stuff. So, in desperation, I began to tear the plant from the soil, knowing full well that it would be back the following summer, if not sooner.

Of course, during the winter when I needed fresh mint, I had to buy a peppermint plant at the grocery store – it was much fresher and would last longer than the limp bundle in the herb section of the produce aisle. Loathe to waste anything, I watered it and kept it in the sunroom, where it thrived so well that I had to repot it.

When a couple weeks went by with no further need for the herb, I had to pinch it back so it wouldn’t get leggy. I took the snipped-off pieces and put them in a glass of water – where they began to root. And grow. Again! The mint began to take over!

Anyway, as this winter from hell seemed never to end, I developed the habit of comforting myself every afternoon with a big mug of hot herbal tea. I find that it goes really well with writing (I try to channel my favorite authors while sipping).

One day, inspiration struck. No, not for a plot twist, but for tea. Why not harvest and dry the mint to make my own perfectly organic mint tea?

Scavenging through my kitchen cabinets and drawers, I realized that I must have given my old tea infusers to one of the kids, so that is at the top of my shopping list this week.

Maybe I’ll find a few other varieties of the herb to round out the collection: orange or lemon bergamot, pineapple, banana.

Or how about chocolate mint? That should be good for inspiring something. A Proustian contemplation of Girl Scout cookies perhaps?

Snow Job

February 9, 2015 by Carol 1 Comment

growing_orange_on_tree_187928 It’s snowing again. Rather, still. Here in Central Mass we will be at, or pretty close to, the seven-foot mark by the time this latest in a series of winter storms ends. And, while trees and shrubs dripping with glistening white frosting are pretty enough to illustrate a book of fairy tales, the glossy, gleaming ice dams building up on my roof are big enough to sink an ocean liner.

Thank goodness for my little sunroom, where I keep houseplants and fruit trees, along with a tray of herbs and vegetables I am attempting to grow from seed. If only the sun would shine.

Today is watering day. Normally, I might just look at that chore as another in a long list of tedious items on my to-do list, but today it is a pleasure. Why? Because within seconds of the water hitting the soil, the aroma of the rain forest begins to waft up and cause body and soul to rejoice.

This hint of Mother Nature’s perfume lasts only a moment, but for as long as it does, I can forget the swirling snow, the howling wind, and the sub-zero wind-chill factor. I can enter my little fantasy world in which I pick my breakfast orange from my own tree,
and enjoy it with a cup of coffee and the morning paper in the open-to-the-sky courtyard of my hacienda.

At least until the phone rings.

The Wish Book

January 20, 2015 by Carol 2 Comments

My kitchen table sits next to a big bay window that looks out onto my backyard. I love to sip my morning coffee gazing out at the expanse of green surrounded by all manner of trees and shrubs. Crab apple, wisteria, potentilla, hydrangea, spirea, climbing roses. Their vivid colors against the lush greens fill my mornings with cheer. Isn’t it great to be alive? And, isn’t it amazing how many shades of green there are?

As the frigid cold descends upon Central Massachusetts, thank goodness for the evergreens. Rhododendrum, azalea, spruce, and arbor vitae provide a warming counterpoint to the bare gray branches that make shiver. Even when it snows, the branches of these backyard stalwarts provide a sculptural framework for sparkling white frosting.

Round about January I start to fantasize about palm trees. Tall and gangly, with a Dr. Seuss-like mop of foliage on their heads, they sway in balmy tropical breezes in time to the rhythm of steel drums while I lounge in a hot sun drinking fruity drinks with little umbrellas in them.

But I am not in the tropics. I am in New England. So, I sit with baited breath awaiting the arrival of the postman. In his bag should be the annual onslaught of seed catalogues. These books filled with fruits, berries, vegetables, and flowers entice me and, even though I know that my plans are bigger than my acreage, I devour their pages with hungry eyes. Vibrant reds, sunny yellows, rich purples – they compete for my attention. And I want them all.

Astronomical spring will be here in about 59 days, and perhaps the path to the backyard will be clear enough to be able to plant some peas, even if I have to start them in the cold frame. In the meantime, I am poised like a Pavlovian dog waiting for the postman to ring twice and set me to salivating.

Finally, Spring!

May 13, 2013 by Carol 4 Comments

The first few years after we moved into our house, I would develop a strange craving every spring for cottage cheese that coincided with the first mowing of the lawn. It took a while for me to realize that it was the chives growing outside that I was smelling.

Somebody living in our home decades ago must have had the great idea that a pot of chives would be a fine addition to the garden. Unfortunately, the darn things propagate like rabbits, so every spring I spend an inordinate amount of time removing them.

Which brings me to why I was out in the backyard last Sunday. Preparing the vegetable garden bed for planting requires pulling not just weeds, but the thousands of chives.

While engaged in the solitary task, a beautiful birdcall caught my attention. “Chhirr, chiirrr, ba da, ba da, ba da” (at least that’s as close as I can come to translating bird). I looked around, trying to find the source of the song. And there it was. Perched on a branch of the tree on the other side of the garden wall was a magnificent crimson cardinal. What made it so special is that the Bradford Pear was in full spring bloom, its snowy white blossoms standing in stark contrast to the bird’s vibrant coloring.

Most photographs of cardinals that I see feature snow covered pine boughs, and are usually associated with Christmas cards. It was refreshing to see this bright representative of spring, especially after the long and arduous winter we had just endured. (Worcester earned the dubious distinction of being the snowiest city in the U.S. this winter.) Blue skies, green foliage, and flowers and birds of every hue are most welcome.

This year’s resolution: Must get outside more to enjoy both the warming weather and the therapeutic benefits of gardening.