Jonah and the worm

The last post was a bit of a downer; sorry about that. This one should be better.

I'll start out with a happy picture.


They look like good friends, don't they?

About the whole dying of squash and feelings of failure and frustration thing - I've come to some thoughts about it.

(these are the dying cucumbers:)
It's out of my control, and I shouldn't get angry about it.

In fact, I didn't even plant those squash. They literally kept popping out of the ground (from the compost, I think) and I pulled all except for two in the name of science. Until they declared themselves as butternut squash, I called them "mystery plants." That's what they were - a mysterious gift that came out of the dirt.

And then they died, but they weren't mine to begin with, so I should get over myself. That sums up a lesson that pops up in many religious traditions (for instance, the Hindu god Shiva both destroys and creates), but I came across an old testament story that deals with an actual squash.

(Spoiler alert: I'm an agnostic and not pushing any particular religion or religion in general here)

At the end of the story of Jonah, he's sitting on a blazing hot hill waiting to see if God will smite a sinful city that Jonah had warned to repent. While he's waiting, God causes a squash plant to grow over him to provide shade and comfort. Then the next day, a worm kills the squash. Jonahs' pissed and yells at God, who basically replies, 'Hey, it wasn't yours anyway, so chill.'

My takeaway is that it's just not about me. I can appreciate the heck out of gardening and helping things grow, but I'm a part of the process just like the rain or the plants. My ego has gotten in my way, and it's blocking the view.

And look: the squash is sending up flowers even as it goes down in flames. Now that's life force!
End sermon.

Back to garden.

Another happy picture:Marigolds are just about the coolest plants ever. You can't kill them, they bloom all summer and they repel all sorts of bugs.

The brussel sprouts are looking like the nipples of a very pregnant dog:
The bell peppers (the ones that did not fall victim to the recent snail onslaught) are starting to blush. It's adorable:
Here's the snail that killed my other beautiful pepper. But I'm not mad (see above).

The cilantro has gone to seed, but I'm letting it go because it is so darn pretty:
We have 20,000 green tomatoes just waiting for me to go out of town to turn red.
And the behemoth Brandywine is just about to become lunch.

I've given up on the onions I had planted several months back. The tops had fallen over long ago, but I just packed them with compost and figured I'd give it time. Well, today, the tops were officially dead and gone, so I dug up what there was and plan to use them in a bean salad soon. They appear to have multiplied underground, but I must have planted them too close together and they just stopped growing.

Lesson learned: plant onions farther apart.
And on the jam front: last night I made 35 (that's thirty five) jars of peach jam. They were selling lavender flowers at the farmers market, so I got frisky and made a small batch with those, and a small batch with both candied and fresh ginger. I also swapped out the cane sugar, to a large extent, with clover honey. Tastes good; bad idea.

The stuff will not gel. Arg!! I have 35 jars of yummy slop. Gr! But at least it looks pretty.So lesson learned: don't use honey in jam. Or at least, don't expect it to gel if you do.

That's all for now, friends.

The In Betweensies

It's an interesting time in the garden right now. Mid-August, that is, and I should qualify this by saying that I'm only speaking for my garden. Perhaps it's because I'm new at this, and that I didn't read the directions, so to speak, or consult the experts, but it's a sort of tired time, a struggling time out there, in the plants.

Members of the cucurbit family are really unhappy about the non-stop rain we New Englanders have endured since mid-July. I am not a squash, however, and am thrilled at the rain. For me, water falling freely from the sky is a wonder of nature I just can't get over. Then again, I don't have powdery mildew eating away at my limbs.

Last I wrote on the subject, I painted a triumphant picture of sturdy, organically managed plants overcoming a fungal invasion. That was true -- two weeks ago. However, since then, the picture has turned grim. I go out each morning and cull the worst affected leaves and vines. I try to keep the leprous foliage from the yet-undiseased parts.  But I know that my hands and scissors could very well be doing more harm than good by spreading mildew spores. I've even stopped spraying for the past few days. I just can't stand the idea of contributing still more moisture to the already burdened plants.

Lessons learned:

1. Seek out powdery mildew resistant strains of plants next season.

2. Only plant vining plants on trellises, raised far enough above the ground to allow for good ventilation.

The awkward in-betweensies I mentioned earlier has to do with the "now what?" stage.

I've harvested all of the early and most of the mid-season crops. And now my square-foot garden looks more like a jack-o-lantern than a lush grid of greenery. It's only now mid-August, so I figure there's at least 50-60 days before any serious risk of frost (thank you, global warming), and since I refuse to read the directions, I just don't know what to do with all that dirt real estate. 

I do know that beets are yummy, so this evening, I planted another 3 squares of Chioggia beets (4x4x3=48). And when my seeds arrive from Seed Savers Exchange, I'l plant Purple Top white globe turnips, Five Color Silverbeet Swiss chard,  Bull's Blood beets, St. Valery's carrots, and Plum Purple radishes. And in late-October, I'm giving it a go with 2 seed bulbs of German extra-hardy garlic.

The best laid plans, right?

I think I'm writing this because I feel a little like a failure right now - a little fraudulent. This is ridiculous, I know rationally, but I feel like I've let my plants down, in a way. Disease and bad weather shouldn't have happened to my first, perfect garden, and if it did, I should have protected it.

In June, we experienced an awe-inspiring thunderstorm late one evening -- the kind only summertime can produce, that are more than a little scary, and manage to remind you who's boss. I returned home from a day at the office, and was about to run inside to get out of the downpour when the wind started to whip around crazily. Immediately, my mind went to the spindly adolescent plants making their way in the garden. They lacked the girth of mature plants, and were still very vulnerable. So I ran to them and watched as the winds battered them about, and was impressed at their flexibility and strength.

But then it started to hail, and I began to panic. I stretched out my arms and fingers over the pepper plant's leaves to try to deflect the ice pellets, but they tore dozens of holes in the broad leaves. Still, I ran in circles making sounds of alarm, like a Killdeer diverting a predator from her nest. Eventually, though, I had to laugh. The temperature had dropped a good 20 degrees, and I was soaked through, my blouse plastered to my sides, and my hair tangled up in my eyelashes.

There's only so much I can do, I concluded, and went inside to dry off.

This time, though, it's different. Instead of a sudden storm, the threat is an ugly disease that is at once bigger and smaller than my weapons. Maybe all the knowledge in the world couldn't save my squashes, but the fact that I am so ignorant, such a newbie, makes me feel plain foolish right now. 

Is this how parenting will be?

The Jam Sessions

I'm going to start backwards.

Just now, I've ruined my dinner by standing for five minutes at the kitchen counter, spoon in hand, in front of open jars of creamy peanut butter and the universe's best peach jam.

You see, I made that jam this weekend, and I've come down from yon mountain to preach the gospel according to Pectin and Mason.

It's not that I have the great jamming secret to share - just the opposite. I'm a complete newbie and the gooey stuff I created is good and it was pretty straightforward. It did, however, make a fantabulous mess. For that, I recommend a husband.

The other week, I tested the waters starting with a handful of green tomatoes from our garden, and the result was pretty yummy. Also, I'm staring down an imminent disaster when work takes me away to photograph the political conventions in late August: I have a feeling that our bumper crop of tomatoes will all simultaneously turn bright red and demand attention, like 400 angry babies. To head this off, I decided to ramp up the production of green tomato jam, pronto.

When I tackle a project, I don't usually start small. Nor do I read directions or gather advice. For me, the fun is in the doing, and often the redoing, patching, fixing, and rescuing. But inspiration has the half-life of a mayfly, so on Saturday, it was off to the Union Square Farmers Market in Somerville to score whatever "seconds," or damaged produce, I could with as little money as possible.

This was my haul:
Not counting the beans and cherry tomatoes, that set me back $5.

I barreled into the kitchen with full arms and way too much energy, flipped on NPR and got to work. Unfortunately, Ira Glass was inside my radio and proceeded to completely bum me out with this radio show. There I was, turning gorgeous fruit into sticky sweetness on sparkling Saturday afternoon, and some lady is going on and on about how her fear of death keeps her up at night.

That was a serious buzz kill and caused me to view the process I had just started a little differently.

She said, "We're all going to die...I just want to stand in this river and keep from moving..."

I hear this while standing in a shaft of afternoon sunlight, holding a juicy peach, the very embodiment of ephemeral beauty, fertility and life, and my mission was to "preserve" it.

'Ha,' I thought. 'Shut up, Ira and Lady.' Off went the radio and in went the tunes: Elliot Smith's incredible album, XO. You can listen to it here.

And then, I remembered with a bitter laugh: he killed himself.

Holy cheese wiz, this is getting depressing. Back to the peaches.
Forty six of them, some a bit sqiushed, some hard as apples, and some so perfect, they never made it to the pot. About five minutes searching online gave me a rough outline for the steps that lay ahead:
1. score, blanch, immerse in ice water and peel the peaches
2. cut them up in itty bitty pieces
3. add sugar and lemon juice
4. let sit for a long time so the juices are drawn out. (I didn't like this part, so I skipped it.)
5. boil mixture a lot, and then boil it more until it's "jam-like." (thanks; that's helpful)
-5.5- add pectin if you want (I did)
6. sterilize jars in boiling water for 15 minutes
7. pour hot goo into jars, wipe rims, screw on lids
8. "process" the filled jars in boiling water for a while
9. take out of water and admire at room temperature until cool.
10. give some away and write a blog post (optional)

Step 1: Scoring, Blanching, Icing, Peeling and Chopping into Itty Bitty Pieces --
That was my workstation above. You can't see the the pot of boiling water at left, and the water in the sink is the ice bath. In the left sink is the compost container for the skins.

I first cut X's into the peach skin before I boiled them for about 2 minutes. After they had cooled a bit in the water bath (and it is a lot easier when they've cooled for about 5 minutes) I attempted to peel off just the skin. This proved to be more difficult than most of the recipes I found online suggested it would be. In the end, I relied heavily on a vegetable peeler.

Lesson learned: the more ripe peaches are easy to peel; the hard-as-apples peaches require help.

Then I did the chopping up part and added a heap of cane sugar. I used a less processed kind I buy in bulk at Whole Foods, but I think any sort would do. As for the measurement, I have no idea. This much:
...but then I added more later. So perhaps 2-3 or maybe 4 cups in all? Nah, probably not 4. To taste...

This mixture, though yummy, tasted sort of one dimensional, and I like a tarter jam anyway. This is where I added lots of lemon juice and lemon zest. Perhaps the juice and zest of 4? large lemons? You can always add more later, too.
(thank you, Erik, for taking these pictures!)

Then I mixed it all up, poured it in a pot, and stuck it on the stove on medium heat for a super long time.
I kept the pot covered for much of the time, because I wanted it to really cook together and break down. Plenty of the liquid boiled off anyway.

Eventually (after an hour or two), it was time to add the pectin. I used "Pomona's Universal Pectin," which is $3.69 at Whole Foods. I bought this one for a couple reasons, neither of which were based on real knowledge. First, it was cheap. Second, it works with any amount of sweetener, which means you don't have to make a true syrup for the gelling agent to activate. The box contains two packets (not labeled, which is not helpful) -

The pectin...

...and a packet of monocalcium phosphate.

(The internet is a great thing.)

The monocalcium phosphate, which you dissolve in water, activates the pectin. The thing with pectin powder, though, is that it globs onto itself and to everything else (the spoon, the pot) and definitely doesn't disperse on its own. So you have to help it out.

I spooned a cup or so of the jam goo into a blender, added the correct amount of pectin powder and calcium water (the box has really bad directions you can try to follow) and blended it up for a minute or two. The I poured it back into the pot and stirred.
While the peach goo was cooking, I had sterilized jars in boiling water for a while, and later found out I screwed something up:Ya, don't boil the lids. Just wash them in hot, soapy water. I guess it can interfere with the seal. Oops. When they were done sterilizing, I stuck them in the oven at 210 degrees to keep the germies away.
Next was the fun part: pouring the hot glop into squeaky clean jars.
This was ultra gratifying. This part of any task, the tangible completion part, turns me into an 8-year old. I was dancing around my kitchen at the sight of all those honey-colored jars testifying to a job well done.
Here's to you Elliot Smith. I'll enjoy the peaches on your behalf.

So Laurie (my fearless test pilot), is it any good?

Sex or Death...veggie style

First off, for anyone who thinks the title is too dramatic, you're better off doing something else with the next three minutes of your life than reading this post. There is a real, actual crisis of pumpkin proportions going on right now outside my door. Also, I have a confession to make, of an actual sin (a murder), and if you can take that lightly, well, you have to live with yourself.

I'll get to that in a moment, but first let's talk about the sex part.

It's all over the television. "No more bees!" cry newscasters. "It must be bird flu! Or video games! Or salmonella!" postulate the theorists.

(My opinion? Pesticides and climate change. But that's too depressing to be taken seriously.)

But whatever it is, it appears to be a major downer to all the expectant flowers in my garden. They arch to the sky, all sunny and tender, for a week before deciding to blow the retirement on a yacht. I was so excited when my plants came into flower. The vines were loaded, which sent me immediately search for recipes calling for 632 cucumbers.

Not necessary. I got one or two a day for a while, but nowhere near what I was expecting. Same story throughout the rest of the garden. Beautiful blooms, many for naught. Something had to be done to help these plants exchange their pollen. You know, to get laid, veggie style.

Never fear, I said to the frustrated vines. I have Q-tips!

I was very proud of myself, by the way, at this point for thinking up a solution to the dearth of bees. Not that swabbing the stamens with a Q-tip is new, but I felt empowered and helpful, and a little bit naughty. Probably like a sperm donor, but with fewer porn mags.

Two things confronted me and my pile of cotton inseminators. The first thing was bees. Lots of them. Happily gettin' buzzy with it and rendering me useless.

Giving up on an afternoon of assisted plant sex is hard enough, but what came

next threw me into panic mode. While taking pictures of one of the many bees, I saw this:

...and began to quietly freak out. What is that on my butternut squash? And on the cucumbers! And dangerously close to the defenseless cantaloupe!

In case the picture isn't very clear, I'll describe what I saw: powdery white spots dusted all over the broad leaves, like if the sparrows in the overhanging mulberry tree were sloppily doing lines of coke. On some leaves, it was really bad and they were turning from dark green to a putrid yellow.

I swore to myself that this must have happened overnight. What had I done? I was a bad plant mommy. I was an unworthy earth-goddess-wannabe.

A quick search on the internet told me the real story: POWDERY MILDEW had seized the plants. Prognosis? Not so hot. Treatment? Should have prevented it in the first place.

But I didn't know! I yelled at bettergardenerthanyou.com. I'm a newbie with the best of intentions! I water! I compost! I trim the grass near the vines with scissors!

New England weather patterns foretold the story, though. Days so hot and humid you require goggles to dine alfresco followed by coolish nights is a portent of powdery mildew. And it's ruthless around here, I'm finding out from sympathetic friends. (Thank you, Laurie.)

More searching said to cut off the doomed parts and treat the rest of the plant aggressively with any number of things.

Diluted milk. Horticultural oil and soap. Baking soda solution.

I decided if one is good, three is great, and bounded to the kitchen to make something resembling the "beautiful soup" my dad used to cook for us in his single years.

25 ounces of water, 1tps baking soda, 1 Tbps canola oil, 6 oz milk, couple squirts of soap. Shake and spray. Like a freakin' machine gun, I mean spray.

I even made the noises. "Kachoo! Kachooo! Pkiewww!!" Panic turned to anger, which was a great thing until I got out the scissors to cut away the worst hit leaves. Snip, snip, uh, you gotto go friend, snip, bye bye, snip snip. . . . .

oh shit.

And now for the confession.

I killed her. The whole damn thing. Not a leaf, but something more like a torso or a neck. I cut the main vine of one of my beloved, beautiful butternut squashes. The same vine I have lovingly trained over a u-shaped bamboo support several weeks ago and delighted when she gave me a baby squash. And now, yes, I think she's dying.

I am a bad, bad person. This wasn't supposed to happen. I've harbored dreams of one day becoming a doctor, yet I failed at the singular, most basic precept of medicine.

To do no harm.

RIP little squashie. I'm sorry.