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?

Citrus Beet & Greens Salad - good!!

The experiment worked! Our good friends and their daughters were our test pilots (thank you guys for that) and got to share in another garden meal!

I started with the beets I pulled up today. After chopping off (and saving) the greens, this was my collection, seen in the above photo in a dutch oven.

Then I coated them in a little canola oil and stuck them to roast, covered, in the oven at 410 degrees for about an hour (?) until they were done.

I trimmed and washed the beet greens, and blanched them in boiling water for about a minute and a half.

After the beets were done roasting and had cooled a bit, I peeled off the tougher parts of the skin by hand and cut them up into pieces. In this picture, you can see the cool banding in some of the beets. They're heirloom strains, courtesy of my mother. And as we found out, they're incredibly sweet and flavorful (especially if you roast them).

As for the dressing, I winged it and based it very loosely on an epicurious.com recipe. I took a bunch of fresh garlic and wanted to take the edge off (knowing young children would eat this meal), but I didn't have the time/patience to roast it. So I tried something random and stuck it in the microwave for 1 minute. Worked like a charm.

Then I blended that up in a mini food processor with inexact amounts of:

garden herbs (basil, cilantro, chives)

basalmic vinegar (maybe 1/4 cup)

olive oil (maybe 1/4 cup)

1/2 of orange juice (maybe more)

zest and juice of 1 lemon

generous tablespoon honey

salt to taste

I added that to a bowl of thinly sliced onions and let that sit for a while to mellow. When the greens were blanched and drained, I added them to the onions and dressing as well. Then I cut the peels off 3 oranges and sliced them across into pieces - threw them in as well. I didn't add the beets, though, because I wanted to sprinkle them on top of the salad, but I don't think that's important.

To serve, dish the greens onto a plate, top with the beets and serve with a chunk of nice, room temperature goat cheese. Serve with crusty bread and lots of wine!

Nothing gets you over a psychopathic-murder-suspect-kidnapper-fugitive like drying chives and pulling beets.

Ya, well, chasing those types all over the place (like, to say, Baltimore for the past 4 days) is all in a days work as a bonafide member of the Media Circus. I can't officially connect my life here (that is, my personal live off the clock) with my professional life, but suffice it to say I just returned from an inglorious parade of non-stop concrete jungle stomping in pursuit of a curious lowlife.

I'm home now, thank goodness, to my husband, kitty and garden, which went through puberty and applied to college in my absence.

The tomatoes look like spent muppets whose strings have gone slack, and it's long past time, lordy lord, to harvest the chives. Other fabulous developents are the first ripe orange tomato (eaten and gone now), and the continued story of triumph and survival as the dear squash battle powdery mildew (with a little help from our "beautiful soup" spray).

Chives, chives, chives.

You don't need them until you need them, and then you have to spend 5 freakin' dollars on

a bunch of grass you could have grown yourself. So I harvested a bunch, and now what?

This post on iVillage Garden Web looked good:

• Posted by granite z6 NC (My Page) on Sat, Feb 25, 06 at 16:05

Next time instead of drying your chives and basil, wash them thoroughly and then spin dry in a salad spinner. Pack tightly into a freezer zip lock bag, squish the air out and freeze. Tastes close to fresh and its a lot less work than drying. Having said that, I like a few bundles of dried herbs hanging in my kitchen for decoration. I just don't consider them as cooking value due to dust, etc.

So, that's the plan right now. Will report back how well this works. If I forget, please remind me. (All you 12 readers out there. Hi, Grandma!)

And now, for the beets!

Dinner tonight will be wilted beet greens with a roasted beet and goat cheese salad with walnuts and a citrus vinaigrette! Don't ask me how to make it 'cause I'm going to make it up as I go. Will report, though.

And soon, dear solitary, imaginary reader, I will share with you the holy grail of bread recipes...

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.

First post!

Ok, so I'm nervous. I've never had a blog before, much less ever regularly read one, and now here I am, in HTML land, like an ant in an auto shop. This all started because I've exhausted my friends with endless stories about 9 pm slug attacks and my cunning beer traps, about our resident skunk and the songs I swear keep him at bay, the daily updates of how *huge* the green tomatoes have become, etc. So I turn to cyberspace, which is quite possibly as vacuous as the real thing, but somehow...well, it's like praying but with a computer. You just hope and trust that someone out there is listening and that they give a damn. 

My name is Dina. I'm a photojournalist by trade, but I'm oh, so distractible. Every month I have a new plan for what I want to be when I grow up (I'm 28), but then get so flustered that the future is now and the clock is ticking and why wait, so I just give into the obsession for a stretch. Through all these vacillations, there is a clear theme: back to the land or into the lab. 

Now and again, I am seized by this old flame of mine and drawn close:  Do I want to be a doctor? Do I want to work inside all the time? To hold hands again with science and those questions? Do I want to sacrifice all my other loves for that One Great Thing?

Nope, I've decided time and again.

My other siren is the farm. To learn deeply about the land, promote fruits and defend it from its enemies. But do I want to get a Ph.D. and go into policy?

Nah. Too much inside-ness.

I decided that I just want to garden. 

And how. Since I've started my first garden (early spring, 2008), I've ripped my life apart at the seams to find ever-more spare time to spend out there. Six am can't come early enough and as soon as the coffee hits my cup, I'm outside to investigate what happened during the intervening hours of sleep. I feel like I've slipped into a missing skin and am suddenly, profoundly, at home. And that by tending the earth, I'm setting in order so many other things. Coaxing order out of chaos, life out of dirt, making small and visible what has happened to bring me here. 

So I really want to talk about it. I want to learn more about how to grow the food my husband and I (and someday, our children) eat. I want chickens (and look out, City of Medford - I shall!). I want to figure out just how many things I can turn into jam (rose hips and green tomatoes -- two yummy checks). And I want to show, and tell, and listen. Thus, this blog. Thank you for being here with me.