I can’t say that I fall into this camp, although by default, I did manage to get a good start with those things that overwintered or that self-sowed on their own. We still have chard, kale, spinach, and onions going strong; a lot of things have bolted into flower and are so covered with bees, I haven’t had the heart to cut them down.

Overall, though, my garden will be radically different this year. I have decided to forego the usual spring frenzy and give more support to our local growers and less to staking up falling tomatoes.  I mean, so much of what I do is just so fruitless!

However, it is hard not to question that decision after our recent visit to Paul Gautschi’s farm, followed by a few days of good weather.

Ha! What an understatement THAT is! Seriously, we are still reeling from the heat wave that blasted through here last week, propelling us into thinking, OMG, if I don’t get those tomatoes, cukes, & squashes in the ground immediately, it’ll be too late!

Work in garden or go kayaking?

Personally, though, I did not think that. We paddled our kayaks across calm waters to the Dungeness Lighthouse and back. It felt like a late summer day with nary a cloud in the sky. Perfect.

This little guy followed us

But now I am having Slacker’s Remorse. I mean, how could I NOT grow our own food after all these years? It’s not a bad thing to re-think our decisions, after all. There is something indescribably special about picking and munching something on the spot…. Certainly, a compromise is certainly in order here.

But is it too late??? (Quick Answer: Heck No!)

Sure, it’s a trick question on when to plant and when to wait. One of my favorite seed companies, Renee’s Garden, from whom I purchased last year an assortment of salad greens, cukes, sweet peas, sunflowers, morning glories and other flowers, all of which did really well, advises waiting until nighttime temps are above 50 degrees to plant tender veggies.

Good luck with that, I say! If you wait that long here, there won’t be enough time to ripen before the degrees dip back down along with the daylight hours.

The spring window for planting is when we all get a little nervous. Get it wrong, you might not get a second chance. We get creative with cold frames, cloches, raised beds, and pre-starting things like corn crowded in pots on windowsills all over the house (what are windowsills for, anyway? Isn’t that why they call it the spring window?)

Besides, let me remind us that it’s only mid-May, and even though Seattle topped 80 this last weekend, we were thinking we were suffering at approaching 75. It’s all relative. Normally, we’d be dancing if we topped 60. The onshore flows will ensure we get back to normal in no time, which means the wind that topped 40 knots yesterday is just a breath of fresh air compared with what’s to come. And I don’t know about you, but I usually count our average last frost date at April 15 – which always seems so late to me – seems like we wait forever for that magic number. Well, those recent sunny days brought some very cool nights, and I couldn’t help but notice that some of my plants got nipped – get this – on MAY 11!!! So it can – and does – happen!

The Soil Temp Answer:

Cliff Mass, my favorite weather guy, recently wrote about measuring the temperature of the soil and using that info in gardening. This makes a lot of sense to me.  The air temp, after all, is quite different from that at the top of the soil, which is quite different from what you find a few inches down, which is why I think my peas rotted. Or maybe the birds got them. Either way, if you wonder why something isn’t germinating, the soil temp could give the answer. Cliff provides a link to the Washington State University AgWeatherNet, which gives a daily reading of the soil temperature taken 8” down at numerous stations across the state. At that depth, the temps are undoubtedly more stable, but my first reaction was, “How useful is that? We plant maybe an inch down, not 8!” Still, it is a value that reflects trends, and you can adjust to your upper-level circumstances, accordingly. Which may vary widely, I might add, through the aforementioned creative use of plastic, rocks and concrete, old tires, & lots of etc. that wouldn’t normally be in a garden other than to create individual microclimates to your advantage.

Here is a chart that shows the required soil temperature for germination of various vegetables, which, in full disclosure, I stole from Cliff Mass. Note how the “practical” differs from the “optimal” by sometimes 40 degrees! I would suspect these are temperatures of the soil where the seed is, not 8” down under.

So no – it’s not too late to plant things like peas and spinach (optimum at 70), and yes, I’ll have to try again with the pod peas (not listed on the chart, but place it in line with spinach and parsley), and I will pass on the okra, thank you very much. What – 95 for pumpkins? It’ll never happen – but we DID get pumpkins last year – so take this info however you want.

The point being, don’t let admonitions make you think you can’t. Throw caution to the wind! (I do it so much, I should install a wind tower!)

Whether to plant or not to plant: Maybe it’s also about weighing what is worth the effort for the return. Pod peas, for example, are just SO GOOD fresh and too expensive in the stores! Herbs? Who can’t have a little pot of thyme and oregano on their porch?  Basil takes a little more effort, but it’s a spendy gourmet item in the markets if you like fresh pesto, which I do, I do. If you get ripe tomatoes, you grow justified bragging rights, and more power to ya.

For those of us with time and room, we can continue planting stuff all the way up until fall – garlic being a prime example of something to stick in the ground in October. I usually wait until later this month or even early June for potatoes so they are ready just in time for a fall harvest and storage, but I see some volunteers are already up, which will give me an early crop (and yes, those were the ones that got hit hardest by the frost, but they are making a comeback). Potatoes might be cheap, but if you consider commercial growers kill the tops with weed killers to facilitate harvesting, I think they’re worth either buying organic or growing your own if you have space.

So do not be dismayed by the calendar and whatever you haven’t been able to accomplish! All it takes is a few days of sunshine and the soothsayers are out there predicting drought and pestilence. But hey, we only get an average of 17” of rain here anyway – and the pests, well, they, too, are part of the world we live in. Some are like weeds, underappreciated for the role they play.

I just remember how last year never seemed to warm up until mid-July – and yet, when I look back at the pictures from last year’s garden, I am blown away by the sheer amount of biomass! Despite day after day of cold temperatures, heavy rains, unrelenting wind, and outright neglect by yours truly when I disappeared for a full month about this time – my garden hung in there. I came back in late May to a garden full of weeds and started planting anyway – and all this stuff still managed to grow. Most striking, the pod peas, sweet peas, beans, squashes, and nasturtiums, which just seemed to clamber over everything, and the spectacular sunflowers towering overhead. Check out this photostream:

2011 – it was a hard year and also a good year. What’s in store for 2012? In the garden, it’s just beginning!

So Plant ON, Plant People!

Strong, expressive hands - huge spirit - Paul Gautschi shares his love for God and His creation.

Paul Gautschi is not a big man in stature, and one cannot help but notice that just walking is difficult for him, as his body is quite crippled from the ravages of Agent Orange. Spend just a few moments with him, however, and you do not see his physical challenges – you only see a strong human being with a profound relationship with the earth and its Creator, a man whose mind knows no limitations.

“I think about how hard I used to work to fail.” He chuckles at the thought and shakes his head at his own folly. Paul obviously takes no credit for what he has created, only giving credit to the true Creator.

Poor Beginnings

He and his wife, Carol (who, as an aside note, is a well-known midwife and delivered my latest granddaughter), bought some land years ago on the Olympic Peninsula, Washington State, in an area that was probably quite remote at the time. The problem was, though, that they dug a well over 200 feet and it only produced ½ gallon per minute – and the “soil” was a rocky thin layer over hardpan.

These, he claims, were blessings in disguise. Keep in mind, they raised seven children on this land! I can imagine him in those early days, at his wits end, wondering how he was going to make it all work. So he did what many of us would do: he took a walk in the woods, and he called out (probably with a certain amount of despair), “Lord – help me out here!” And the answer was, “Look around.”

Hmmm. He realized the trees were huge – with no help whatsoever from mankind. No irrigation. No plowing or tilling. No weeding. No applied fertilizers.

“I can do this,” he said – and from then on, his approach to gardening changed from slave labor to letting Nature do the work for him.

The Solution in Wood Chip Mulch

Back to the present: we are visiting his homestead on a field trip as part of a Conservation District Native Landscaping class. The first step, he noted, talking about those early days, was to layer things on top – and more specifically, wood chip mulch – not just bark or just inner chips of wood, but the whole tree, including green leaves and branches, similar to how Nature drops a combination of needles, leaves, branches, and trees over time. He was just speeding up the process. This combination of green and brown, he says, is essential to keeping things in balance. It also provides a nice texture, unlike hay or grass clippings, which tend to get slimy and compacted and may contain seeds.

Note how the gnarly branches reach downward on this tree (also pictured: one of the homestead expert vole catchers!)

“I haven’t watered this orchard in 33 years,” he says. He rakes across the top of the mulch to reveal black, mineral-rich soil.

Paul is a Certified Master Arborist, but does not own a chipper. “Just another machine requiring fuel,” he says. It makes much more sense to utilize what would otherwise be a waste product from road crews and other sources.

“Look at nature,” he explains. “Nature doesn’t like bare ground. If there is bare ground, something will move in and cover it. Soil is a living organism,” he emphasizes. “It should never be exposed. Whether by scales, fur, or skin – every living thing is covered.” All materials are placed on top.  In fact, in the fall, he just covers up his strawberries with more woodchip mulch. Healthy young plants come up every year.

One student makes the comment that she feels badly that we are all standing in his garden, a big no-no for most Pacific Northwest soils in wet, late April. “You can’t compact this stuff!” he exclaims. I look around and notice that most of us are lightly bouncing in place on what is like a giant cushion.

Water Solution

The soil becomes like a sponge, holding just the right amount of moisture. And every time it rains, it’s like giving the garden a dose of compost tea. It’s a constant mineral supplement – and those minerals are key to flavor, nutrition, and vitality. “What is snow?” he asks. “Snow is slow-release, drip irrigation, as well as insulation.”

He points to his orchard. The “dwarf” trees are really quite large (no one tells you how big they’ll get if grown in compost – they don’t know!). The roots spread out unencumbered. The branches, instead of growing upward, bend down toward the earth. The roots have an easier time reaching the water, which is then transported to the fruit. “The fruits are so full of juice and so heavy that they weigh the branches downward – where they are easier for me to pick,” he adds.

“Like nature intended,” we all say in our minds. We are catching on.

Mineral-Rich Soil Smells Rich!

The soil just beneath the top layer of chips is incredible – soft, moist, dark, and rich. He encourages us all to take a handful and smell it. “You can literally smell the minerals in this soil,” he exclaims. His enthusiasm and the wonder at the perfectness of nature are catching.

Sweet Russian Kale - SO good!

It is the end of April, and he guides us to a patch of Russian kale planted a year ago beneath a cherry tree. “The tree gives it protection over the winter,” he says. He clips us all a little sample. It is juicy and surprisingly sweet. “Come on over here to the asparagus…” We eagerly follow. This is the best tour ever. The asparagus is literally dripping juices. He comments about the wonders of nature and its perfect sense of timing: asparagus has roots that can mine minerals 15 feet down into the ground. It comes up in the spring when hardly anything else is growing, when we most need something fresh, green, and nourishing.

“When you cut the plant off from its life source, it immediately begins to die,” he explains. Within 10 minutes, it doesn’t have near the vitality it did before. By growing your own food, you can harvest and eat it right there for optimum nutrition. His explanation makes perfect sense to me.

We all can’t help but notice that he also has a lush patch of parsley and cilantro that have overwintered. I help myself to a nibble of the fragrant cilantro. I love this stuff – and when I plant it in spring, it usually bolts before I harvest much.

Paul Gautschi leans against a rake, taking questions from our tour group and sharing what he has observed and has worked for him.

Building the Soil Without Tilling

But of course, a vegetable can only be as nutritious as the soil in which it is grown. Many agricultural practices only deplete the soil further and further, unlike the mulch applications that continue to build the soil, year after year. Done right, you can use less and less and get more in return (“at about the time we are getting older and can’t do as much,” he notes as another example of perfect timing).

“You don’t have to mix it all up,” he says. “All that needless work, and so destructive! Tilling is like sending a hurricane through the environment! God doesn’t till. He just lays everything on top. When you mix it up, that’s when it ties up the nitrogen. It brings too much oxygen into the soil and the microbes burn up the nutrients too quickly, leaving nothing for the next season.” He points to the lush grass on the edges of the mulch. “Does that grass look like it doesn’t get nitrogen?” he asks.

He recalls how much work he used to do tilling, trying to break up the layer of hardpan beneath. The process only brought more weed seeds to the surface, which then required more tilling – a never-ending process. He shakes his head again, thinking how hard he worked against nature’s way. It was like God was saying, “I sent all those worms to break up your hardpan, and you kept killing them with your tiller.” The evidence is clear: cultivation is destroying our topsoil, and despite the obvious, people are still doing it, and on a very large scale.

No Thinning, Weeding, Hilling, Rotating….  (like, what does this guy do all day?)

Another Mouser - these daffodils just grow on their own - and look at that grass on the border! No lack of nitrogen there!

Paul doesn’t bother thinning his vegetables – too much work! And what a waste! The soil is so loose, they naturally just move each other out of the way. He doesn’t need to hill potatoes; they, too, just move to where they need to grow. He doesn’t rotate his garlic. “God doesn’t rotate crops,” he explains. “Why should I?” I notice no quackgrass, no bindweed, no real insect issues. I like this guy. And I love his methods. I am tempted to spend the afternoon in his parsley patch, but right now, we are headed to see the chickens, who are busy with their waste management duties.

“Everything in nature is in total harmony,” he explains as we walk. “We (meaning mankind) take out the best. Nature, though, takes out the weak.” So when he harvests potatoes, he puts the best ones back. His crop improves every year.

Throughout our tour, I am marveling at how this man with so many physical challenges, manages to achieve so much. “I let nature do the work for me,” he repeats. But even more extraordinary than what he has accomplished is his deep connection to the land, his reverence to God, and the continual sense of awe in His creation.  His source of inspiration truly emanates from his being.

The lessons seem so obvious to those of us who slave to force our gardens into submission, rapid growth, and our contrived sense of pedigreed perfection.

There is an easier way.

M-U-L-C-H.

Yes, it IS that simple. Just layer it on top. It builds the soil; it conserves water; it releases nutrients gradually. Plants grow together in harmony. And as Paul Gautschi illustrates, we can reap from this bounty, with enough left over to feed our neighbors and give back to the earth.

Permaculture is hardly an original idea. Nature has been doing it on her own since time began.

Paul quotes Einstein, “When the solution is simple, God is answering.”

Maybe it is time to take a walk in the woods. Take a little closer look around us. Witness. Communicate with the Powers that Be. Listen. Learn. Share. Stand back in wonder. Be humbled.

~ * ~

Additional Information:

Watch the Film:

Paul Gautschi’s approach and methods have recently been featured in a film, “Back to Eden,” which is currently being translated into several different languages – including Swahili!

Happy International Permaculture Day everyone!

Spring Equinox Sunrise on the Olympics - the view from our backyard

We have reached that turning point, all things being equal, which, of course, they are not – when day equals night and darkness turns to light.

When the sun hits the sky and the temps climb toward 55, we Vitamin D-starved souls in the Pacific Northwest throw off our clothes and dance in circles and raise our hands to the sun in praise.  “Let the wild rumpus start!”

Even though true outdoor heat is still just a warm dream for those of us who can’t escape to a tropical sandy beach somewhere, it is now officially Spring, folks, and that is definitely worth capitalizing and celebrating.

The Equinox Paradox

We all know it eventually happens every year, and yet how it comes about exactly is still a convoluted mystery to many of us. The Vernal Equinox marks that day when, as the world turns, we will see more and more daylight. Most of us mark the date as March 21. The truth is, however, we missed the real balancing point already. For those on the East Coast, it was yesterday. For us, it was even earlier, on the night of March 19. In fact, those who know these things say that spring technically arrived this year the earliest since 1896.

How can this be? How could this important event quietly happen when the great majority of us were sleeping? How can we all think the equinox is on March 21 when in reality, it only occurs on that date maybe 30% of the time?

The truth is, the equinox is simply a moment in time when the sun is neither more above, nor more below – but right at – the “celestial equator” – a term I find amusing because it sounds like there must be a middle of the universe out there, but is really just the idea of the Earth’s equator projected outward. We Earthlings traditionally like to think of ourselves as the center of the universe, after all.

You can blame the Gregorians for the differences about when this happens (actually, it was the Pope, but we’re not going to go there). As we were leaping over the last day of February, we were playing catch-up to an imperfect system that says it takes 365 days to dance around the sun, when it actually takes about 365.25, more or less.

Of course, you also have to factor in that the Earth is not a perfect sphere (like many of us, a little fatter around the middle) and it tilts (as many of us do after 5), so if you’re looking for that perfect 90-degree angle to the sun, you might have to wait.

If that’s not enough to make the Earth wobble on its axis, don’t forget the pull of the moon and other planets, also in perpetual motion. I think I feel them tugging at me right now, in fact.

Moreover, if you are looking for that moment when daylight and night are exactly the same, consider that sunrise is defined by when the first edge of the great yellow orb rises on the horizon (I’m assuming at sea level, which we don’t see here, because there are a few mountain ranges in the way), and it sets when the last bit of sun (not the center) sets in the west (coast is clear! we get fantastic sunsets here!).

But also remember that refraction throws everything off even more. Our atmosphere bends the light. Which means, when we think we are watching the sun rise or set, we are actually watching an illusion. Do not confuse this, however, with the Green Flash, which is a real phenomenon, not just something exalted by dancing substance-infused individuals, names of whom we won’t release here.

Throw in the kink with Daylight Savings Time, something I’ve never quite understood the logic in.

Obviously, the magnolia knows it's spring!

Ok. We get it. The Equinox came and went while we were sleeping. Most of us didn’t know and didn’t care what time it was. What matters is, it is officially Spring. People east of the Mississippi have been thinking this for months – and if it’s warm there now, you gotta wonder how they’re going to suffer through August. For us in the Northwest, though, we’re in another La Nina chokehold. According to Cliff Mass’ weather blog (one of my favorites, nerdy person that I am), in the last month, only 4 days have been at or above normal. Everything else is pulling down the bell curve. The mountains and every skier on them have been inundated with snow, and avalanches have been a serious risk that has cost lives.

For us in the lowlands, however, it’s just another dreary day until you get a glimpse of those first snowdrops of the flowering kind. Daffodil bulbs are bulging, also a good sign. Pussy willows – who does not adore them? It’s a feel-good time of year, despite the wind and rain.

On the practical side, the equinox is a great opportunity to take note of where the sun is in relationship to our gardens.

For example, in the middle of winter, it was interesting to look at the melting snow and see which areas melted first and which last. I would have thought the morning sun would have melted the eastern side by midday. The reality, however, was that the sun was so low in the sky, that it did not get above the row of tall firs bordering the neighbor’s property across the road to reach that side of our house. By afternoon, when it was higher in the sky, it was on the other side of the house, which then cast a shadow to the east. I might not have otherwise thought of this little microclimate staying so cold and wet. In the afternoon, despite all the tall trees on our northern side of our property, the snow melted quickly and everything dried out. Thump on head! It faces south! Whereas the southern side stayed cold and dark and was the last to thaw, because we built a fence alongside the edge of the road to block the traffic noise, so now the “south” side was actually on the north side of the fence, which kept everything in the shadows.

Everything changes a little later in the year. Now, as I write this at 9:30 a.m., which, technically speaking would be 8:30 a.m. if we could stay in one timeframe (we’re not “saving” anything with daylight time! What was Benjamin Franklin thinking? I believe it’s a conspiracy that coincides with the Ides of March!), the sun is already high above the neighbor’s row of trees and shining on a little clump of daffodils, which are just loving it.  Two hours from now, though, it will be directly behind a big fir tree, and the flowers will be in the shadows again, at least for a few hours.

The fact is, the light and its availability is always changing. Here at approximately 48-degrees latitude, the sun doesn’t really rise in the east and set in the west all year long. In the summer, it rises more in the northeast and arcs high across the sky to span nearly 270 degrees to set in the northwest. In the winter, that arc is lower and smaller.

So how do we apply this information?

We can become more aware of where the sun is at different times of day and year. The equinoxes and solstices are good points to mark those differences and maybe make a map of different garden areas, how the light changes, and how microclimates are created in the process. We can plot the arc of the sun at various times of the year – lower in winter and higher in summer and how it changes from one month to the next – along with other structures and plants that might alter the availability of that light – and then better determine the best place to plant something so it can reach for the light it needs.

For example, an overstory plant, such as a fruit tree, might need 6 to 8 hours of sunlight (and warmth!) for the blossoms to open and for the fruit to ripen. Where can we plant it where it can get this minimum daily requirement (MDR) when it needs it most? Or would we be better off with selecting something that has a higher tolerance for variation?

Or – if the site for a particular sun- and heat-loving plant isn’t ideal, is there something we can do to create a little microclimate, such as planting plants in a south-facing U-shape around it to trap the heat? Too much heat is rarely a problem here, but you might also need something quite the opposite to provide more shade or to protect from the drying effects of a late afternoon summer sun that is still relatively intense at 6 p.m. (wishful thinking, I know).

Cool Tools for Tracking the Sun

Sun path chart across Barbolian Fields from Dec to Jun, as plotted by the U of OR program

Our pinpoint on the Earth and how the sun hits it at this particular time of day and year (by Sun Earth Tools).

If you can’t wait a year to synchronize your back yard with your sundials, and if you really like precision, you might want to take advantage of several of the sun charts now available on the web. My favorite that I’ve found so far is the Sun Path Chart Program, produced by the University of Oregon. Just plug in your zip code and voila.

Another good one is at Sun Earth Tools, which overlays the movement of the sun on a particular day with your site, as plotted on Google Maps.

Oh, and in case you didn’t know, according to The Old Farmer’s Almanac, it’s the night of the new moon, but actually, the new moon isn’t until 7:39 tomorrow morning. Go figure (or not) – just in case you’re feeling the effects of a force that is strong enough to move large volumes of water.

Some of this is a little mind-boggling. All I know is that it’s sunny outside right now, so I’m going to go soak up a little of my MDR of Vitamin D before I experience any more cognitive impairment caused by a lack thereof. Or something like that. Whatever it was I was talking about.

List of links:

Cliff Mass’ Weather Blog : the very best site about Pacific Northwest weather

Space.com: More info on space and how the world turns

The Old Farmer’s Almanac

The Farmer’s Almanac

SunEarth Tools: great for solar designers & gardeners - Where is the sun and how do the rays fall on your favorite place on the planet?

Sun Path Chart Program through the University of Oregon

Being able to see the naked bones of the garden like that, though, can be quite an eye-opener – kind of like standing nude in front of the mirror and admitting you really should start working out (as in, something’s gotta change here). Course, we don’t notice it so much in the summer when everything is clothed in flowers. The worst part was, though, I realized it was not just boring; it was conservatively conventional, words that are almost blasphemy to my creative being.

Ah yes! Clean, neat rectangles. I DO love them! The garlic in this plot will be easy to take care of, if you like hard work. Back plots are planted with green manures. A very organized way of growing garlic on a small commercial scale. (And did I mention, very labor intensive).

Ok. I admit. My garden is very structured. Rows within rectangles within squares. Orderly. Clean. Neat. Ultimately linear. I stress over weeds. They disrupt the order.  A lot of people really like that sort of thing. It’s organized.

Other parts of my life? Not so much.

I was considered a bit radical back in the 70s when I experimented with the French Intensive methods promoted by early Organic Gardening magazines. I had recently returned from a stint as a foreign exchange student in Paris, so I thought I was pretty legit. My neighbors, though, wondered whether I had buried my dogs out there in the raised beds.

It might seem a bit odd, then, that someone who has long subscribed to the motto, “Question Authority,” never really questioned conventional wisdom when it came to gardening. Like canning peaches and making strawberry jam, certain things are passed down through generations, and they seem good just the way they are. Real good, in fact.

There is usually a good reason that things are done “the way they always have been.” Efficiency and convenience are two adjectives that come to mind: rows the width of a tiller, tractor, mower, or wheelbarrow. Ease of watering, weeding, and harvest. Knowing where things are might be important (ahm).

Don't worry. This is just me going crazy. Thinking in circles and squares. And maybe a few triangles.

On this particular windy day that was shaking my belief foundations, however, I came to the “ah-ha!” moment when I realized that nothing in nature grows in rows. Like, duh. It’s more of an organized chaos. Now ThatI can relate to!

Looking at the weathered skeletons of the previous year’s vegetables interspersed with clumps of grass, it struck me that the difference between nature, a farm, and a garden is not just one of order and scale.

I also realized that my little backyard universe fell into the “none-of-the-above” category. Too small for a real farm; too structured to really be called a garden, which I think of as an artistic retreat expressed in a riot of colorful flowers (Tell me, why are a lot of colors always in a riot?).

Sure, we could call it a “hobby farm,” a term that I dislike because it sounds like a person doesn’t take it very seriously – and I am very serious about growing 24 varieties of garlic! But it’s basically too small for a tractor and it’s a lot of work with just a shovel. I have a lot of mixed feelings about a tiller, because it violently massacres worms, which are my friends, so I rarely use one.

Ok – so maybe the more appropriate term would be a “veggie garden,” which, in my experience, is traditionally a place of toil and trouble. These are tightly controlled spaces where people focus on succession planning and efficiency evaluations. It’s all about timing. Conditioning. Nurturing. Weeding weeding weeding. Harvesting. Processing. These words all sound like work to me, but at least you are (sometimes) rewarded for the effort.

And on the other extreme is nature — grand scale, everything grows, no work involved. The plants grow every which-way – up, down, around, and through. They support one another in their diversity. Rarely do you see a lot of insect damage. Slugs on the trail, sure, but not under every leaf. No one is out there with a rake, a hose, and a bag of bone meal, and everything is prolific without them.

Hmm. What is wrong with this picture? Or should I say, “right?”

I might grow a lot of different things, and I’ve always been a big believer in companion planting, but I realized with a certain amount of consternation that my garden was really just a series of little monocultures.

Some of this is necessitated by the garlic operation, a crop of around 1000 bulbs, more or less, depending on the year, that is rotated around six 25-square-foot plots. The rotation is important to prevent disease. In the off-years, I alternate between building the soil with green manures and growing an assortment of veggie crops for friends, family, and strangers, depending on who is willing to take the zucchini. Yes, it’s bigger than the average garden, but not quite up there with the farming league. A lot of work with a hoe and a shovel; not enough to warrant firing up a tractor.

I was contemplating this lifestyle when I came across Gaia’s Garden, Second Edition by Toby Hemenway. It was an “Ah Ha!” moment for me. A complete garden-changer. Seriously. This book completely altered my way of thinking about the way I grow things and my relationship to plants (this link provides a long review). I still refer to it again and again.

The short synopsis is that it is about looking at your garden as an ecosystem, not a series of compartments; it’s about working with nature to optimize that system.

I have previously written about the folly of my attempt to patrol and control the borders of my garden, a militaristic viewpoint at best, where I was constantly at war with the weeds around me – and believe me, I was surrounded.

Through this book, I realized that weeds are not the enemy. They are, in fact, a resource. Allow some to thrive, and they will provide innumerable benefits. Cut some back, and they will still provide innumerable benefits. It’s all good.

Garden path to?

It was in this Kumbaya moment that I decided to try a little horticultural experiment to transform our back acre into something much more than a garlic merry-go-round. Life – including plant life – travels through this timezone in circles, after all, not rectangles. Paths may appear straight-forward, but that doesn’t mean that they are.

Maybe it’s an age thing. It is hard to write about gardening without also writing about life; there are so many correlations. Gardens are always changing – through the seasons, over the years, according to vision, design, or whatever you are willing (or not willing) to let go of. There are infinite possibilities, certainly too many to contemplate in one lifetime. (As in, “Yes, Mother, I know, ‘It’s all about choices’.”)

In case you doubted that I really have a pink flamingo in my back yard, this one wishes she were in Florida.

Perhaps it was time to get smarter about the gardening. I have a tendency to make things overly complicated (or so I’ve been told), and according to Nature, I have been working waaay too hard at this. After all, I am officially a grandmother now, 5 times over. I never thought I would ever write those words, much less contemplate traveling across the country in a travel trailer and staking up a pink flamingo in a park in Florida. Ha! Actually, I’m joking. I have a pink flamingo right here at home – why would I need another in FL?

But as the grains slip more quickly through the hourglass, we think about what else we might want to do, aside from watching them form those cool little pyramids in the bottom. I mean, there might come a time when I might need to phase out the garlic if there is no one else to carry on the legacy (I know, I know – those are strong words!). And maybe there is something else I might like to leave behind – like, for instance – a jungle.

This temperate jungle (aka Olympic Rainforest) is just down the road

It’s not that far-fetched. We have a jungle, also known as the Olympic Rainforest, just a couple hour drive from here. Course, we don’t get the rain here in the Olympic rainshadow of Sequim (classified as semi-desert) that they get in the Twilight zone of Forks – but with a little planning and a lot of mulch, a food forest, as opposed to a rainforest, is very much a possibility. I like the idea of sitting in the middle of my very own patch of blueberries and eating them until I am blue in the face. Now That is my idea of a retreat!

And with that idea, thus began my journey into the food forest, one that I am creating as I go. I am a year into it and adding on with every season.  The sharp borders between garden, farm, and sanctuary are becoming blurred every step of the way.

Garlic Maze - not really so crazy as it seems. Probably just as much work, to tell you the truth. That's what growing over 1000 bulbs of garlic is. It can still be fun, though.

Did you wonder what wild hair motivated me to plant my garlic in such crazy circles? Rest assured, there is a method to my madness. And it just keeps getting crazier – and at the same time, so much saner. I might have to start wearing purple. I kind of like getting old and crazy. Maybe I need a dozen cats. And a hot-air balloon. At the very least, a pair of red dancing shoes with sparkles on them.

And a jungle to dance in. Yes.

Stay tuned.

Bare-root mock orange (Philadelphus lewisii) is a native plant that will fill the air with the heavy scent of oranges with a hint of pineapple, a magnet for birds, bees, and butterflies. Not only that, but the bark and leaves contain saponins, which, mixed with water, make a gentle natural soap! All that from these little twigs??? Amazing plants! Ten is clearly not too many!

We leaped (leapt?) over the last of February and are now smack in the middle of the madness of March. We go from howling winds and swirling snowflakes on one day to almost balmy (loosely defined) the next. Despite our weather ups and downs, though, it’s far worse in many other parts of the country – and even the world. So no complaining. (When it hangs on like this through July – ok, then we have a right to complain.) Those days when the temps vary a mere 5 degrees or so night and day for days on end can really get to a person, though. That’s when the doldrums set in. And as someone who likes to play the blues, I know all about doldrums and stormy Mondays.

I have a solution for the doldrums, however. You buy plants, of course.

Oh, I know – all the garden blogs at this time of year are proselytizing on the virtues of taking inventory of your seeds and testing viability. You make a list of exactly what you need, and then, like anyone who has tried various diets and won the weight battle, you simply stick to the list.

Like, who does that? It’s like having a luscious piece of chocolate cake on the counter and watching it day after day until it goes moldy. Why waste a perfectly good piece of chocolate cake?

No, taking inventory just doesn’t satisfy that deep need all of us true gardeners have right now.

We need to grow things.

We need to see things turn to green and flower profusely.

We * need * Spring.

It’s not about restriction – it’s about cutting loose! It’s about having a vision and believing you can make it happen. Gardeners are, after all, some of the world’s greatest visionaries. But the key is to not let the vision control the reality, for even visions can be restrictive. It’s about allowing serendipity to be part of the equation. It’s about embracing change and the ability to shape, not control. But lest I digress….

After all, there is no time to lose. Nature doesn’t pay attention to calendar numbers, and despite the stormy Mondays (and Tuesdays can be just as bad), March, as we all know in the Pacific Northwest, is the unofficial beginning of spring. Things are already budding out.

And so, in that spirit of bringing my vision to fruition, and in my heroic effort to combat a serious case of doldrums, and in my Zen state of being open to allowing things to happen … I did what any self-respecting gardener would do: I went shopping for plants.

You can spend a lot of time online, that place “out there” where botanical wonders are in full color and detailed descriptions are at your fingertips, but still slightly out of reach. Cyberspace is nothing compared with wandering between rows of real live plants, which, admittedly, at the tail end of winter might look like mere twigs full of promise. Promises, like last year’s leftover plants, are cheap. That spells Bargain in my book, and on this particular day, that meant 75% OFF.

Whoaa. “Let me save you,” my heart trembled with joy.

These poor plants looked quite forlorn; they had been frozen and were most likely root-bound. Standing bravely together on the Sale table, they were the survivors of the survivors. Already, the flashy primroses and sweet violets were stealing the show as this year’s pretty new arrivals. This was their one last chance before they hit the big black “C”-pile (whisper it, please: “compost”). They were the big-eyed sad shelter puppies of the plant world, and I wanted them all. There is something uncanny about plants, though, because even though they can’t wiggle, wag, and look cute, certain ones just seem to speak. If you feel that connection, you need to act on it. I do believe this.

So – connect, I did. I came home with a crabapple tree, nearly two dozen assorted groundcovers, 3 periwinkles that would cascade over a large planter, an azalea, 2 rhododendrons (mmmm – in tangelo orange!), a giant Solomon’s seal, a scrubby, but beautifully shaped cotoneaster, and a few other plants for birds, butterflies, and bees, among them a Clethra alnifolia, aka Summersweet, a Rock Daphne that I can almost smell already, a St. John’s Wort (Ignite Red!), 2 gorgeous clematis vines (for only $6 each! I went back for a 3^rd!), and a Leycestria formosa, aka Himalayan honeysuckle, which just sounds divine.

One would think that would do it for the year, but then I was at a real weak point the other day and, indeed, it is hard to resist new arrivals. I do believe in supporting our local nurseries, after all. So I vowed to keep it practical while still maintaining my Zen attitude toward staying open to possibilities (just not infinite possibilities – this is also about balance, right?).

For starters, I figured we could really use a good 10 asparagus crowns (very high on the practical scale). Then, since I have been planting a lot of edible fruits over the past year, I figured a gooseberry bush, a Goji berry (Lycium barbarum) to replace one that didn’t make it, and a Korean cherry bush all fit that category and are good permaculture plants in that they serve multiple purposes in the garden ecosystem.  I allowed myself one pièce de resistance: a Japanese Yam (Dr. Yao), aka “Cinnamon Vine” (kind of like that piece of chocolate cake). I congratulated myself for holding back on the two varieties of Akebia that would make an incredible garden statement (read that, potentially take over) and also provide delectable, if a bit unusual, fruits. Maybe next year. Or later. But not now.

Ok, maybe that was a little over the top, but still within reason. But true confession, here. Ahm. I “forgot” to mention that a few weeks earlier (long enough ago to almost forget), I had taken advantage of the County Extension Service native plant sale (there’s that key word again – it starts with an “S,” in case you missed it) and purchased Oregon grapes, red flowering currants, serviceberries, and mock orange plants, all in bundles of 10 (yes, TEN of each – that is 40 [forty!] plants!) I just picked them up this last Saturday, and what can I say – bareroot plants don’t look like much – mere twigs, in fact – but they hold the power to transform the back part of our property into a wildlife corridor.  Now THAT I can envision. The birds and the bees are going to love me.

Um…and as long as I’m confessing…speaking of bees… I was inspired by a friend who raises these complex, interesting creatures – and I’ve wanted to raise bees for a very long time, am sympathetic to their plight with colony collapse disorder and the very real threat that means to agriculture, and consequently, to the economy, to our ability to feed ourselves, and even to survive, when it comes down to it – and besides, I have so very many plants that they would love – it seems like the logical next step in my quest to save (or take over) the world. So I attended a meeting of bee enthusiasts, who were full of information and inspiration. Amidst all the buzz, I signed up. I ordered a “package” of bees, which amounts to somewhere around 15,000 bees – and by some counts, 30,000 (how many bees in a pound – and how can one possibly count them? Good questions to know – and answer – before you buy 4 pounds!).  They arrive in about a month. I am trying to wrap my mind around this. Let’s just split the difference and say a conservative (?) twenty THOUSAND BEES.

A small caveat here – I am very much afraid of bees. My mother was severely allergic to them, and I swell up a lot, too, when I get bit, as does my daughter. But I believe in meeting my fears head-on. To be on the safe side, though, I purchased a protective hat and veil (I like the idea of us all living together in harmony; I don’t like the idea of my eyes swollen shut), and a good book to give me guidance.

I think I really * need * guidance at this point. And maybe even a little therapy (not of the retail kind).

As in – OMG – What have I done?

So – for those of you out there with a little buyer’s remorse after a serious case of spring fever and suffering through a cold, not-close-enough-to-the-end-of-winter day when you are FORCED to stay inside in an easy chair and read colorful garden catalogues … take heart. Purchasing a few packets of seeds you don’t really need is nothing to worry about. In fact, it is a *good* thing. Trust me.

Course, come the end of this summer, things around here could be quite spectacular if all goes according to my vision. I am fond of quoting Mark Twain, “You can’t see clearly if your imagination is out of focus.”

Or something like that.

Imagination, indeed.

What was I thinking?

Maybe “thinking” wasn’t part of the equation?

I think I’ve been a victim of March Madness.

Get ready, get set, go C*R*A*Z*Y!!!

Not a reflection - it's the corkscrew willow tree, reaching for the blue sky in winter

Helllooo February! What a stretch of great weather we’ve had! If the groundhog saw his shadow, it was only because he wasn’t facing the sun! You’d think he’d learn by now.

I admit, I am not sorry to kiss 2011 goodbye and begin anew, and I’m also not sorry to say goodbye to January. Granted, the winter garden is a beautiful place – but sunny days that are too cold to be outside for any length of time are pure torture. The winter can get long and dreary when we sit inside and know that beneath that snow, the weeds still grow. (We know this is true, because when that snow melts, there they are, bigger than ever.)

In February, though, we start to notice the daylight lasting just a wee bit longer….hope is on the horizon with the rising sun.

But February is a weird month – it’s that ‘tween month – not really winter, not really spring. Kind of the prelude season. We don’t dare do much in the garden for fear of smashing delicate soil structure and destroying zillions of microbes in a single step. Some, not mentioning names, of course, might use that as an excuse to sit back in their easy chairs by the fire, maybe with something fermented, and delve into catalogs that promise color, warmth, and bounty at their fingertips. (Ya gotta love that woman sporting her fancy melons.) And we can talk about climate change and global warming and extremes in weather, but seriously, do I believe I’ll be able to grow luffas and bananas?

Umm – well yes, I DO believe – as much as I believe in the Good Garden Fairy – and the ability of science to come up with marvelous things we would never have believed possible. (You have to understand, I’m married to a scientist, and in my past life, I worked in a laboratory, so I have come to understand that it’s all a matter of levels of uncertainty – or conversely, certainty – and obviously, there is nothing certain in this world except death and taxes – but lest I digress….)

Oh sure, we can take the opportunity to reflect on what worked, what didn’t, and what we’d do differently if we could take back all those stupid things we said in our ‘tween years – but learning from our mistakes is for progressives and grown ups.

No, during garden-planning season, we all quite willingly skip into our very own fantasy world, and it’s not a bad thing. Great things come from great visions, after all, and even if they don’t end up being true to the dream, they can still, in their own way, be quite extraordinary. It has to start with a seed of an idea, though, and the desire to make it grow, right? So – feel no guilt – sit where you are, fantasize away, and do your part to save the microbes!

Fish emerging through the ice on the little pond - Is it spring out here yet?

In February, though, anything and everything can and will happen, so you have to be prepared. Mentally, if nothing else. I mean, we have days when we think it must be April. We watch the birds pairing up and the buds start to swell on the trees, and we know that spring is maybe tomorrow, if not already. Other days, we feel we’ve regressed to November. Is there any question why we are dazed and confused?

When the days are nice, we get out and finish pruning (ahm! Isn’t that what we were supposed to be doing?) and maybe we can even take advantage of a sale at our local nurseries and plant a tree or two while they are still sleeping. (Wake up in a warm place … now There’s a fantasy!)

The problem with February is that on nice days (it’s all relative, sure, but we’ve been hitting 50 here, and it feels pretty darn good!), we feel we should be getting the garden ready, even though the soil is obviously too wet – and on lousy days (when the wind is blowing 50), we are thinking surely winter should be over by now and we really should be out there getting the garden ready, even though the soil is obviously too wet. Did I say that already? But that’s how February is. Repetitive. And we are tired of this stuff and need out. Cabin fever closes in big time. People in Cordova, Alaska, know what I’m talking about. And yes, I confess, I am spending way too much time on TravelZoo.

For those of us in Washington, though, the land where the weeds never sleep, February is the month of error. We are tempted to start our annual plants, but know we shouldn’t dare, but do anyway. We can’t help it. Primroses arrive in the grocery stores – and they are blooming profusely in sunny yellows and oranges. So we go home, full of hope and promise, and try planting a little something in makeshift milk-jug greenhouses; in the open garden, we try planting another little something – we plant deeply and mulch thickly, figuring they’ll eventually make it to the sunlight; we plant, watch our seedlings rot in the wet months that are sure to come, and replant and maybe even replant again; we plant, cover with mini hoop-houses of plastic, which get ripped in the wind, and which we strap down with Duct Tape, and then later try to crawl into and water even though it’s pouring down rain outside; and in a tender Valentine’s Day moment, we cut out pictures of hearts and flowers and paste them on cards and give them to our grandmothers. Ok, maybe I can’t do that anymore, but if I could, I would.

Lacinato kale in winter - it survives everything (and so will you!)

Well, folks, when all else fails, I say Eat More Kale. I know, I know, it might sound counterintuitive to some, and it hardly seems a solution for those winter-time blues or anything else I’ve been talking about, but believe me, it will do you wonders – as will (it goes without saying) my all-time remedy for just about everything: garlic.

I am happy to present to you here today a recipe from one of my readers, and of whom I have become a real fan. Walt has not only passed on this incredibly good (and simple!) recipe that combines these two miracle cures, but also sent me plans on how to build a beehive – which I will share with you in blog posts to come. For now:

Death by Garlic (Revived by Kale)

By: Walt Wielbicki (Garlic Breath)

Prep Time: 5 Minutes
Cook Time: 15 Minutes
Ready In: 20 Minutes
Servings: 4

“10 minced cloves of garlic lightly browned in olive oil and tossed with parsley, kale, red pepper flakes, hot penne pasta, and freshly grated Romano cheese makes a heady and flavorful dish.”

Death by Garlic (Revived by Kale) Casserole

INGREDIENTS:

1/2 cup olive oil
10 cloves Polish hard neck garlic, minced
1 bunch Nash’s Kale torn from the thick stems in bite size pieces
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
3 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
1 pound dry penne pasta
1/3 cup grated Romano cheese

DIRECTIONS:

1. Cook pasta according to directions on package
2. In a pan, brown the Polish garlic in oil for 2 Minuets then add the Nash kale and stir for 5 more minuets until the kale is wilted. Add salt, pepper and parsley and remove from heat.
3. Toss penne pasta with garlic mixture and add Romano cheese and serve!

Note: Add sliced Polish kielbasa at the same time you brown garlic for a special treat.

My variations: We used gluten-free penne pasta made with rice flour. I’ve been really missing pasta lately, and these were great. We had plenty of kale, and yes, even parsley from our garden.  As for garlic, we used German Extra Hardy (a porcelain type with a long shelf life) instead of Polish hardneck garlic. The Polish I have is a softneck artichoke type, which is not quite as flavorful as the German. I also threw in a can of tuna (along with the water it comes in). Polish kielbasa would, indeed, be good. Meatless is also very good.

! ~ * ~ !

One Final Word (or two): Don’t despair.

After February, comes March – and in March, things start to get a little crazy – so if there is something you can do now (sharpen your tools, get your trellises ready, yes, finish pruning, design your water systems and future garden beds, and yes, order seeds!) – do it!

And yes, I might try starting a little spinach. And maybe a few onions. Maybe even more kale….

Links to some cool gardening ideas for February:

A seed-starter plant stand

A chart on how long seeds last (viability)

Some of my favorite seed companies

Organic Seed Alliance list of companies that sell organic seeds

Tips on starting seeds indoors (from Renee’s Garden)

To fill people in who don’t live in the Pacific Northwest: we’ve had three days of some of the heaviest snow we’ve seen in decades, followed by rain and freezing temps that left everything encased in ice.  Yesterday, the wind hurled the rain against the windows. Branches of our old fir in the front yard flailed wildly about and I thought sure our old cherry tree was going to topple over. Little birds hunkered down beneath the feeder, while the eagles and gulls raced each other across the sky.

So – you can imagine my surprise when I found my kale plants standing defiantly strong against the onslaught of weather. “Mother Nature – bring it ON!”

My favorite amongst the kales is the Italian Lacinato. Seriously, this plant can grow to tree-like status in the veggie world. It’s amazingly beautiful, with dark green, deeply crinkled leaves, statuesque, even prehistoric – and it is, in fact, a very ancient plant. Nearby, also poking up from the melting snow, a young rosemary.  It seemed like a natural fit. I picked some of both.

I love eating with the seasons and harvesting what I can from the garden, but I have to admit, I could be more efficient in the winter-gardening department. I’m not sure any plastic tunnel would have held up under the weather we’ve had, though, so I’m grateful for something that can hold its own under harsh weather.

Still, in the dead of winter (which, looking at my garden, is an appropriate expression), some might be heard to say, “Oh no. Chard and kale. Again.”

That person, however, would not be me. I love kale. My favorite way of cooking it is in a Polish soup with a rich broth, assorted root vegetables, beans, and sausage. It’s also really good simply steamed with a little garlic & fried bacon thrown in and a splash of vinegar. Or you could sauté it with a lot of garlic and then toss it with a little olive oil, parsley, and red pepper flakes into penne pasta, topped with Romano cheese, like my friend, Walt, the beekeeper, does (I’ll share his recipe soon).

But I didn’t have these things tonight, and what I ended up with was a sloshy stir-fry that was actually quite good. I was inspired by a recipe I found at the Unrefined Kitchen. I was intrigued by the idea of “cauliflower rice” – especially since we are trying to limit grains and gluten in our diet – so here is my variation:

Recipe: Kale-Cauliflower-Chicken Casserole

Ingredients:

Chicken breasts, onions, kale, cauliflower, garlic, rosemary, bone broth or other stock, arrowroot or cornstarch, cheese (optional).

Method:

Basically, just sauté a little onion with cut-up pieces of a couple of chicken breasts. After the mixture is browned and cooked through, add a little bone broth thickened with arrowroot to make a thin gravy. In another pan, lightly steam cut-up chunks of cauliflower in bone broth or stock. Blast a couple of times with an immersion (or other) blender to make it “rice-like.” While this is going on, chop your garlic and set aside. Cut 6-8 leaves of kale in thin strips and toss it in with the chicken. Right at the end, add the chopped garlic, a little minced rosemary, and the cauliflower “rice.” Give it a stir or two. Top the servings with a little cheese (we used Asiago).

I could live on this. Quite well, in fact.

Some pointers:

Kale: If you layer the leaves of the kale and roll them up like a cigar, it is easy to slice into narrow strips and then cross slice. Kale doesn’t have the water content of spinach, so it doesn’t reduce quite as much – and that’s why it’s helpful to add a little extra broth to the mix – how much depends on how gravy-like you like it.

Cauliflower: I admit, ours did not turn out as “rice”-like as that described in Unrefined Kitchen. Perhaps I oversteamed it a bit. The blender quickly turned it to thick mush. No matter. Still good. But it made the whole casserole more stew-like. In fact, this would be a good way to add a flavorful “sauce” to other dishes.

Arrowroot: If you haven’t used arrowroot, give it a try. Cornstarch also works, but it might be difficult to find some that is GMO-free. Arrowroot thickens at a lower temp and you can use a little less. Plus, it’s gluten-free (as opposed to thickening with flour). Like cornstarch, it needs to be mixed with a little cold liquid first.

Garlic: I used 2 small bulbs (about 1.75” diameter) (9 cloves) of German Extra Hardy. This Porcelain variety can easily get nearly twice that size. It is known for having just a few large, plump cloves per bulb, a strong garlic flavor, and a high allicin content. At this time of year, the hardneck bulbs are reaching the end of their shelf life, so they need to be eaten. The smaller bulbs seem to keep longer, so I save them for last. I don’t “mince” the garlic too small – I like to bite into a piece of it now and then. I just smash the cloves with the flat side of a meat tenderizer and then chop it coarsely (yes, you can lay the flat side of a knife on a clove and hit it with your hand – but I prefer to minimize the beatings to my hands). Letting it sit a bit (all it takes is a minute or less) before adding it to the rest of the food gives time for the allicin in the garlic to form and other chemical reactions to take place that develop flavor and increase health benefits. Allicin is destroyed by heat, so to preserve flavor, add chopped garlic to the food at the very last minute, giving it just enough time to heat up and for the flavors to distribute.

Rosemary: Strip the narrow leaves from the rosemary, chop fine, and add it at the last minute with the garlic. Again, you don’t want those volatile oils to just evaporate. I love the woodsy smell of rosemary, but it’s easy to do too much – so go lightly.

Cheese: not a necessity, but it sure adds another dimension of flavor to the overall dish. We used what we happened to have.

About Growing Kale & Dealing with Aphids:

If I were to pick a power food for Northwest gardens, I think it would have to be kale. The Lacinato does so well for me, I don’t think I’ll even bother with the other varieties next year, which were more prone to aphid infestations and tend to turn tough and bitter with age. Some people plant kale in spring and then again in fall. Me, I just keep with the spring plant. I’m too busy with the garlic in late summer, and it is hard to get new plants going during our hot, dry time when we have little rainfall, lots of wind, and when the bugs are in full force.

Like other brassicas, the kales are nutrient hogs – and they are prone to aphids – so you have to decide whether the effort and resources are worth it. To me, they are. You don’t need many plants to give you plenty of food. A larger plant (i.e., one started in spring) seems to have a little more resilience against the aphid onslaught. Ants will farm them – so if you have aphids, you probably have double trouble. Ladybugs feast on aphids, but never enough to get rid of them. My solution has been to spray the little bast**ds with a strong force water – but then, you have to wonder, where do they go and where do they attack next? I’ve also tried soap, nicotine, garlic, and oil sprays – but then, you don’t want to harm the good bugs that are trying to help in the war effort. I’ve also tried planting wormwood in the vicinity, which also seems to help. I even smash them into glue between my fingers. No one method, though, completely solves the problem. A combination of counterattacks is usually the best strategy. Plus, it’s usually not the whole crop that gets infested – only plants here and there. By growing a little extra, you can afford to sacrifice a few if you need to. If you can get the plants through the summer to after frost, Mother Nature will solve your insect problem for you. Plus, after frost is when kale comes into its prime.

~ * ~

More Info:

If you’re looking for a good source for seeds, I can very highly recommend Renee’s Garden, a company that specializes in heirloom varieties of veggies, herbs, and flowers. Renee Shepherd is always on the lookout for unique and quality seeds; they are strong supporters of sustainable farming practices; and they donate seeds all over the world in a variety of outreach programs. It truly is a small company making a huge difference, and I can’t say enough good things about them! (And no – I’m not an affiliate – I’ve just had some outstanding results with their seeds. Good seed definitely matters!) Non-GMO – of course.

Are you a fan of Dr. Weil? He, too, loves kale. Kale is a nutritional powerhouse of vitamins A, C, and K, the organosulphur compounds that have been linked to cancer prevention, calcium, and folic acid. You can read more about kale in Dr. Weil’s garden here.

Need garlic? I still have some German Extra Hardy and Polish White left. Shoot me an email, head over to the garlic page, and/or stop by the house if you’re in the neighborhood.

Ok. I admit to having a certain level of pruning phobia. Cutting is just so drastic. So life-changing. So controlling. There is so much potential to do wrong.

But I have come to realize that pruning is one of the most gratifying parts of gardening. It is something you do for the love of your tree, encouraging it to be all that it can be — a simple thing to give it strength and vitality — an opportunity to shape it into a living, breathing thing of beauty. Ah yes.

It’s simple, really. Trees are generally grown by 4 philosophical mindsets, in order of our desire to control:

1. espalier or cordon (meaning, rope) and other means of creating walls of picturesque shapes
2. open center (vase-shaped), where the tree is topped and scaffolding branches are trained to reach out from the center
3. central leader (pyramid shape), where the tree is allowed to keep it’s natural shape and branches are selectively thinned, and
4. do-nothing, let it grow as Nature intended.

I like the latter (#4) idea. It sounds like a lot less work. Maybe you don’t get the biggest fruit in the world and maybe you can’t reach all of it. And hey, maybe those aren’t the objectives.

But here’s our situation: we have 5 very old apple trees – 4 of which are a wonderful tart-sweet heirloom Gravenstein. I think the original intention was the “open center” method, but they have at times been sorely neglected and at other times just pruned willy-nilly by people who didn’t know what they were doing. (Ahm.) They keep producing, despite their twisted deformed shapes. There is no amount of pruning that will totally correct the past at this point, but I cannot in good conscience abandon them.

We have two philosophies of pruning in our family:

1. cut off everything below 4 ½ feet from the ground so it doesn’t whack the person in the head who is doing the lawn mowing, and
2. prune so future sprouts grow downward so the short person picking the apples can reach the low-hanging fruit.

Obviously, these two mindsets are in direct conflict with one another, resulting in a tree that is even more contorted and confused and probably in need of psychological counseling.

Ah, but enough about me…. And Yes, we have contributed to the problem. So now what?

Time to Take Action! (But what action to take is the question!)

Obviously, suckers will take energy from the tree, so it is good to remove them when you see them – and you can do this at any time of year with great benefit to the tree. I actually did this to one of our trees. The early pruning opened it up to more sunshine and let the air flow through. The tree loved it. It gave me much joy. And my workload now is less. It always feels good when you do something right for a change.

However, for the great majority of pruning, the proper time is right about now, while the tree sleeps. You just sneak up on it in broad daylight when it’s still cold and before the tree starts budding out.

Tools. There is a product out there called “Sucker Stopper,” and I’m not saying I advocate it, because I can’t pronounce napthaleneacetate, and anything that claims to be a plant-growth regulator is highly suspicious in my book, as is anything that requires its own Material Safety Data Sheet. However, a “Sucker Stopper” is kind of an interesting concept on a lot of different levels, and might have been quite useful in my previous life. In my opinion, though, spend your money instead on a good pair of pruning shears and maybe a small saw (I love my Felco F-6 Classic Pruner For Smaller Hands and my Felco F-600 Classic Folding Saw with Pull-Stroke Action, which, in my opinion are the best and have really saved some wear and tear on my hands!).

Philosophically speaking, the whole pruning concept is not difficult to understand: help the tree to more easily bear fruit, which is what it is designed to do anyway by forces far greater than we. All you have to do is take out diseased and broken limbs, let in the light, and allow the tree to breathe.

Humans, however, have an uncanny ability to make things overly complicated and otherwise screw things up. And, Um…that would be me. So to further explain…

There are only 2 basic kinds of cuts. (How hard can it be?)

A “thinning cut” takes out an entire branch. They are good for opening things up, i.e., letting in air and light and encouraging outward growth. Make these flat across the main limb, or if it’s a large branch, just outside the collar.

A “head cut” cuts off the end of the branch, which stimulates branching of the buds behind the cut (so pay attention to the direction of the bud left at the tip after you cut! You want it to point outward). If a head cut is made back to a branch, it will stimulate growth in that branch’s direction. A head cut will also help stiffen the limb. Make these cuts at an angle to shed water.

Where does the fruit grow? Keep in mind that fruit will form for many years on the spurs on older wood – so don’t break off all those little nubbins. By making head cuts, the energy is directed more towards that older growth. That said, also keep in mind that after awhile, those old spurs tend to get old and wear out – as do we all – and so you need to encourage the tree to produce new spurs as well. New growth will carry future year’s apples (apples, cherries, pears, and plums fruit on 2- to 3-year old wood; peaches, nectarines, and figs, though, fruit on 1-year old wood) – so even though it’s tempting to whack everything back to a manageable size and width, don’t cut off all the new growth.

Also think horizontal. Horizontal branches produce more fruit than vertical ones.

So – without further ado – the 5-stroke approach to tree pruning:

1. Take out diseased and broken branches
2. Cut out suckers (growing up from the trunk of the tree) and water sprouts (growing in clusters from last year’s cuts). I have a theory that if you cut out all the suckers & water sprouts, twice as many grow back – but do it anyway. They suck the life out of the tree, cause excessive shading, and take your tree in wrong directions.
3. Cut out “problem” branches. These are ones that grow
   • straight up (if they aren’t a major trunk)
   • straight down
   • backwards
   • at narrow angles
   • straight out at 90-degree angles
   • toward the center of the tree
   • across one another.
4. KEEP branches that reach out and gently upward.
5. Shorten up leggy branches.

Perspective: When in doubt, step back and look. Problem branches don’t support your vision of the shape of the tree. They don’t do anything besides hog light and nutrients. Take out anything that crowds, overly competes, or limits air flow. Open up the center to let the sunshine in – thin to let the tree breathe – take more out of the top to let light in to the bottom (and control height).

Look at it this way. Vertical branches are often suckers that were allowed to get oversized. They don’t produce fruit. They tend to be excessively vigorous, meaning they have the longest shoots out where you will never reach. Branches that come out at narrow angles develop weak crotches.  We don’t like weak crotches. By the same token, when it comes to fruit trees, branches rubbing against each other will not create more fruit. Take out the cross-overs. “Problem” branches are more susceptible to wind damage and can splinter, break, and bleed under the weight of the fruit, and then the insects and borers move in, and then you have real problems. Don’t put your tree (and yourself) through that agony. Remember, too, your human friends. Long thin branches can break from heavy fruit, true, but they also tend to whack people in the head who forget to duck (dang those young whipper snappers!). General rule of thumb is to cut back no more than one third of the overall tree and no more than 20% of the new growth, a rule that is, I am sure, frequently broken.

Is there anything left? If, like me, you pruned the living dweedle out of your tree last year in an attempt to impose some form of structure and reform, you were rewarded with an over-stimulated response which in other life forms might be considered exciting, but in the case of a tree meant a superfluity of water sprouts, jumping out of last year’s cuts like a fountain of willow whips.

“Gramma! Get down from there before you fall!” This role reversal would have been more amusing had I not realized I had climbed our old tree only to find myself in a rat’s nest of overgrowth and that it was not only the tree that was a bit out of balance. But I also realized up there that if you think like a powerful old godfather of a tree with an extensive root system, and someone comes along and takes away your food-making supply (i.e., the leaves), that your underground support is going to send a lot of energy up above to fight back. Yo. It’s survival mode.

I sat back for a moment and looked around me. I could almost feel the trees tremble and hear them whisper to each other, “Here she comes with the saw.” The setting sun was turning the sky into pastels. Maybe it was time to call it a day. There is always next year, and if we’re lucky, a year after that.

Trees – ya gotta love em. They teach us so much. They quietly put up with our abuse and, regardless of whatever hardships come their way, keep on reaching for the sun.

~ * ~

Some Extra Help:

“Training and Pruning Your Home Orchard,” a Pacific Northwest Extension Publication (OSU, WSU, UI)

“Pruning to Restore an Old, Neglected Apple Tree,” published by Oregon State University

I’ll have to think about that one. Seriously, though, what do you do with the Great Pumpkin after Halloween has come and gone?

I purchased this as a little sprout at our local feed store. It kind of called out to me from the rows of greenery begging for a place to sink their roots. Plus I liked the name. Phat Jack. I probably should have done some research, or at least read the label a little more closely, but that’s not the way impulse purchasing works.

We watched it grow over the summer with great anticipation. It was the only one of its kind. It loomed larger and larger in the corner of the field like a rising sun. The vines and leaves twisted and turned and spread out from its center in a kind of plantary invasion (yes, I just made up that word). A lot of resources went into growing this pumpkin. By the size of it, it must have sucked the soil dry of anything resembling water and nutrients. I didn’t pamper it or coddle it or feed it milk or do anything special to get it to this size – except feed it a little worm tea. Basically, though, it did this all on its own.

It’s a rather unusual specimen. Just look how it grew over itself and formed creases around its vine – as heavy as this thing was, it did not crush its lifeline. On the contrary. It protected it.

Plants. Are. Amazing.

What to do now, though. That was the question.

We didn’t get around to carving it for Halloween – or maybe we just couldn’t bear to stab a knife into it.

Small rodents (also taking over the garden) had set up some kind of commune beneath its jungle canopy – reason enough right there for eviction.

As much as I sing about the cycle of life and compost, I couldn’t just let it sit there and rot.

Sure, it’s almost Thanksgiving, and we all know what to do with pumpkins. Those sweet little baby pie pumpkins make the very best custards and pies – and breads, soups, stews, and goulashes.

But this is a different animal. It might not reach County Fair blue-ribbon status, but it’s still pretty freakin’ huge!

So what did we do?

We rolled it around.

We jumped on it.

We drummed on it.

We danced in circles around it.

We stood back and marveled at it.

We took pictures of ourselves beside it, like fans beside a garden star.

And then, after all that fun, quite methodically, I took a pruning saw to it and cut it in half. Simple as that.

And with a great display of strength, I lugged each half across the field and to the house. (A smarter monkey would have used a tool, like a wheelbarrow. Make a note of that for the next time.)

It was a déjà vu pregnant moment when I stood on the scale, holding each half in turn, trying to see beyond the roundness that stood out from my belly. Pumpkin weight: 65 lbs. That’s pretty healthy, alright. But would it be good eating?

It took me 3 sessions in the oven to get it all baked at about 350 degrees (my oven runs hot – probably more like 375).

The first batch, I cooked bowl-side up, covered lightly with foil. Talk about a lot of water! I scooped out a full 2 ½ quarts of sweet liquid, which I later put in a carrot-squash soup with a little celery, onion, sausage, and leftover rice. Mmmmm. I didn’t cover the next 2 batches. The result was drier and more of that oven-roasted flavor from the caramelized sugars. A little stringy? Sure. But nothing a blender couldn’t fix. Admittedly, the taste is not as “pumpkinny” (I think it might be a real word – I am sure I am not the first to use it) as the little pie varieties, but still excellent eating.

All total, about 15 quarts of pureed pumpkin went into the freezer, plus some left over for throwing in the soup, spaghetti sauces, and – my crowning achievement – dog biscuits. What a simple way to add nutrition to homemade dog food! And SO very economical!

Unfortunately, the biscuits were woofed down before I thought to take a picture. So I will make another batch, tweak the recipe, and share it with you in my next installment. Stay tuned, friends.

And yes, this post is just an excuse to share pictures of our cute grandkids. Silly ol’ gramma.