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.

We buried our mother's ashes beneath the rosemary. Lambchop, Argus, Griffin, Molly, and Lupine are near her side.

We planted my mother with the dogs in the pet cemetery. It’s true. She would have wanted it that way, right next to her best friend, little Lambchop.

It’s not as bad as it sounds. The cemetery, which we affectionately call “Boot Hill,” sits on a little knoll with a view of the Olympic Mountains, overlooking a small creek and the neighbor’s barn and farmland. The sunsets there can be quite spectacular.

My mother was a retired nurse. Intelligent. Caring. Even in the midst of a disease that steals your memories and leaves you without a sense of who you are, she never stopped giving and reaching out to others. Our family pets had a special place in her heart, as did the wild birds, which she helped through many cold winters. She loved the outdoors, the ocean, going fishing, and gardening – things she taught me to appreciate at a very young age.

And so, when she passed from this earthly existence, rather than toss her ashes to the wind, to an outgoing tide, or down a river in time, we thought she might like best to be in our backyard, close to family and pets. It was a stormy day in early December when my brother and I and other family members returned her ashes to the good earth and planted a rosemary shrub on top. At that precise moment, the clouds parted and beams of sunlight streamed through to that little spot below where we all huddled together in a circle, marveling at how such a strong personality could be physically reduced to such a small quantity of dust. We shared a few loving thoughts and memories and were thankful that she was finally freed. I played “Amazing Grace” and “Over the Rainbow” on my harmonicas, the clouds moved back in, and we left.

Barkley on the knoll, getting in touch with his inner dog, contemplating the world and all its wonders, or quite possibly, just enjoying a ray of sunshine.

I often return. Sometimes I talk to our mother, ask her advice, talk about the goings on of this world; plus, it’s a nice place to play my harmonicas. Other times I just sit quietly and look out at the fields and mountains. Our dog, Barkley, frequently joins me. He is a rather tormented, somewhat neurotic soul, who has come a long way since his troubled days in the dog pound – hence the name Barkley, which is the kind of name you get when you spend time in the joint making a racket. I like to think that he sits there in a ray of sunshine in peaceful meditation, getting in touch with his inner dog, thinking about how he can be the best that he can be. He is a very intelligent, thoughtful creature.

The rosemary shrub did not make it through the heavy rains and snow of this last winter, so early this spring, in memory of our mother, I decided to transform the area into a kind of mini-wildlife reserve – and also a kind of secret garden – a place to escape the craziness of this world.  I started thinking of my garden in an entirely different light – not only a place to grow food to nourish our bodies, but also a place to nourish our souls.

Plus, we needed a good windbreak to absorb the frequent storms we get off the coast, also something to help stabilize a steep slope, the aforementioned wildlife food and habitat, and last but not least, we needed to ensure that whatever we planted wouldn’t eventually block our mountain view. It was a bit of a challenge.

First, we took advantage of a Conservation District native plant sale and planted about 20 firs and cedars and a dozen or so huckleberry plants. Not all of them made it, but enough will eventually grow to make a forest grove on the northern edge of the property. We will fill in the spaces with rhododendrons and native plants as time allows.

To the west, we planted a new vine maple (Acer circinatum), a familiar Northwest wind-tolerant species that can grow tall in the sun or almost vine-like in the shade. It grows well with conifers, Doug Fir, hemlock, and dogwood. We planted it near the base of a gigantic maple whose limbs are starting to dry and break during winter storms. I love this old tree, and I am not sure why it is dying. Our house is over 100 years old, so the tree could very well be much beyond that. When my son was young, we built a tree fort in it and used to have picnics up there and read the original version of “Treasure Island.” You could hear us calling loudly from the branches, “Shiver me timbers!” The birds also love this tree, and we have often found cherry pits in our hideaway left by marauding raccoons.

Between the vine maple and the cemetery, we planted a Black Hawthorn tree (Crataegus douglasii - Lindl.), which will branch out and provide food and cover for birds and small mammals of all kinds. The hawthorn is a good fit for this spot because it will have room to grow; can be pruned to a hedge or thicket and makes a good windbreak; will stabilize slopes; can be coppiced; its branches can be made into tool handles; and all in all, it makes a good understory plant. Plus, they attract hummingbirds, which were my mother’s favorites.

Around the gravesite, I planted Sunchokes – sometimes called Jerusalem Artichokes – a perennial sunflower that will multiply year after year, creating yet another windbreak. The starchy tubers are low on the glycemic index and provide a good substitute for potatoes, or so they say. Planting a variety of sunflowers here is kind of an inside joke between my mother and me because they unexpectedly showed up in her garden one year, and she was certain that I planted them there, which I swear to God, I did not. I explained a little bird must have put them there, but she gave me the stare that only mothers can give and said she could read “L-I-E” across my eyes, which in earlier years would have made me tremble with guilt. I have planted sunflowers in my garden every year since, and yes, Mom, I planted these out there for you and your little bird friends.

Homemade chair from apple tree prunings.

The crowning achievement in this little retreat, however, is the living chair. Barkley helped me pick the spot for this chair on one of his meditative days when I saw him out on the edge of the bank, his nose turned to the wind, his eyes closed with his face toward the sun, savoring the warmth of an early spring day. I had earlier saved the largest prunings from our old gnarly apple trees. I sawed them into pieces that would make two short legs in front, two tall ones in the back, braces to connect them together, and the straightest pieces for the seat. It is rather rustic looking, to say the least, but in it’s own way, perfect. I set it out in Barkley’s spot, on the south side of the little cemetery, beneath what I think is some kind of delicate birch, planted long ago (possibly by a bird). At the foot of each leg, I planted a willow cutting, a combination of Harrisons, Golden, and Noire de Villaine. They will one day grow tall and willowy (of course), and I will bend them into shapes, fitting for a throne.

I shared a picture of the chair with a friend, who commented that he envisioned a woman sitting on it with a figure behind, arm extended, one hand on the shoulder of the seated figure. It seemed to represent departure, “but certainly not a sad one,” he noted.

This vision is exactly what I feel there. The figure is my mother with her hand on my shoulder. No departure. She is always with me out there. I confessed to my friend that I have been going through some troubling times, which my mother understands – and in that is where the sorrow lies – but, like most earthly things, is transitory. We watch the sun go down together, along with our cadre of wild birds and pets.

What I did not tell him, though, was that I was expecting a visit soon from my brother, who would be flying an airplane from New York, across the U.S., and eventually to Alaska, where his home is. My mother and I have always worried about him; he had had a difficult life in general, but had been going through some particularly hard times of late.

Then one sunny afternoon, in what now seems an eternity ago, my brother buzzed our back acre with his plane. It was a vintage Cessna 195 aircraft, and he was like an ecstatic kid with the ultimate new toy. We later walked out to Boot Hill and I showed him how I was transforming our mother’s gravesite into a sanctuary of sorts for people, dogs, and birds. He liked it. We took turns trying out the chair. We talked about replacing the rusty looking dried rosemary.

A few days later, he left on the final leg back to Anchorage. His last words as he hugged us goodbye, “Take care of each other.”

I was out weeding my garlic that afternoon when a weather system blew in, as they often do, quickly drenching me in rain. I kept thinking of my brother, but was determined to finish this “one last row” before giving him a call on the cell. “Hey – it’s pouring down rain here. Hope you’re doing alright! Love you!”

What I didn’t know at the time was that his plane had fallen off the radar. Before long, a search and rescue effort was launched, but the information had to travel to Anchorage and back before I heard the news.

The rain ceased, nearly as quickly as it had begun, and the sun broke through the clouds. It was a surreal light – a kind of glow-in-the-semi-dark kind of light when you most expect to find a rainbow. An odd feeling overcame me. I could hear him saying to me, “I am worried about the kids. Please help them.” And I replied, “I am always here for you. Always have been. You know that.”

It was then I got the phone call no one wants to receive. I walked out to our little makeshift chair, looked out over the fields, and called him again on the cell. “Don’t worry,” I said. “We have people trying to find you. Try to stay warm. Hang in there. Help is on the way. We love you. We WILL find you!”

But in my heart, I already knew.

Later that afternoon, I walked out to the chair again and sat down. The sky was such a mixture of dark and luminous clouds. I called him again on the phone, knowing he wouldn’t answer. “Do you hear me?” I almost yelled into the phone. “Because I think you do. And I just want you to know I love you. Don’t you worry. We will be ok.”

I have just returned from Anchorage to bury my brother. Odd how you find things out about those you love after they die that you really always knew. He was more like our mother than I ever gave him credit for. His wife and young children have a long, difficult road ahead. I am sorry to report, there is no happy ending to this at this time.

The garden has exploded in my absence. I walked out to our chair yesterday and cut away the wild parsley and other weeds. It felt good to chop and drop, slash, clean, mulch – do something strenuous. The sun came out in the afternoon, and I sat down to rest, feeling the warmth on my face. It occurs to me that in the blink of an eye, our lives are changed, yet all around me, life keeps on growing as if nothing happened. The days are long; spring rains are plentiful; the weeds compete for their share of the sun, just as they always have. I selectively choose those I allow to grow and bloom – such as the sunflowers – and cut back those that will turn back into soil and nourish their roots. It is something I can do in the midst of things I can do nothing about.

I look down to see the willows sprouting at the legs of my chair. They will grow tall and bend, yet remain strong. With care, the chair will live on, long after I do not.

“Do you hear me little brother?” I call out, “Because I think you do.”

I like this spot – this place where I can escape all the world’s craziness. Our most devoted of friends sit at my feet, and standing beside and slightly behind me, I can feel my brother, reunited with our mother. Their hands rest gently on my shoulders.

I stumbled across this video on YouTube, and thus began a quest on how to build my own “food forest.” I had a lot of questions, not the least of which was where am I going with Barbolian Fields? I admit to being partial to my backyard garlic patch, but I recognize I could be doing so much more. The Vietnamese family is such an inspiration in how to make the most of your space. Expand that thought to our entire planet. Such a unique and precious environment we are so privileged to inhabit! Are we each doing our part to take care of it so it can take care of us?

One link leads to another. I found some answers in this book: Gaia’s Garden, Second Edition by Toby Hemenway. It was an “Ah Ha!” moment for me. A complete garden-changer. Seriously.

First, let me say, permaculture is not a new concept. In the early 70s, Bill Mollison and David Holmgren popularized the idea with their observations of Tasmanian rain forests, but indigenous peoples around the world have practiced the basic principles for centuries. Today, permaculture can be found throughout Australia, the UK, in Croatia, across Cuba, in the jungles of Brazil, in the humid rainforests of Central America and Indonesia, across the plains of Africa – places where people, out of necessity and without the “luxury” of cheap oil to fuel big agribusiness enterprises, have learned how to survive – how to feed themselves, grow their own medicines, feed their animals, fuel their fires, grow the fibers for basketry, clothing, and structures – how to live with nature – through integrated systems gardening. A little research reveals that while the rest of the world has made great strides in permaculture practices as a means of enhancing food and plant-based product production, it is we – Americans of the United States – caught up in our business mindset – who have been blind to the possibilities of what this earth can provide without our intervention. Sadly, we are, for the most part, in the business of destroying the land that sustains us.

We have a lot to learn.

So what is permaculture? People disagree on a precise definition of something that combines the ideas of permanent, agriculture, and culture.

To me, permaculture is not one thing, method, or series of techniques. Permaculture is a mindset. It is a way of looking at the garden and surrounding landscape as an ecosystem, of which we are but a small part. It is using intelligent design to optimize that system.
It is learning to respect life – all the way down to the microorganism level – and especially at that level.
It’s about mimicking nature, because that is what works: a balance among species that coexist in layers: a canopy, understory, groundcovers, roots, and vines that tie the layers together. It is stacking the elements, life cycles, and functions in both space and time.

Permaculture is about working with your space rather than putting a lot of effort into something that works against it.
It is looking at different aspects of your property – your soil, hills, slopes, depressions, existing vegetation, water sources, light and shadow, how the sun moves across the sky in different seasons, which way the winds blow – and figuring out how all of it can be used to best advantage.
It’s about building fertility of the soil and the strength of the plants – and learning how certain plants have the ability to help one another.
It is growing native plants adapted to your climate, region, and soil, rather than forcing exotics.
It means including animals into the scheme of things – whether wild or domestic – because they are an essential part of life.

Permaculture is about efficiency – getting the most out of your space – growing plants and integrating systems that serve multiple functions.
It is maximizing productivity through the use of edges, microclimates, and symbiotic relationships.
It is recognizing that practices such as monoculture have been created for our convenience, but have little practicality in real-world ecosystems.
It is incorporating energy and water-saving concepts in your home, property, and lifestyle – because it makes sense.
It’s about not wasting “waste.”

Strategies and techniques help us achieve results – but they are just tools.

We learn that when we imitate nature, our gardens take on a life of their own. They become self-maintaining with little interference from us.

Why Gaia? Gaia is equilibrium. Perfect balance of both animate and inanimate forms and all the key elements of temperature, atmosphere, water, and mass that make our planet habitable. It is continually evolving. Does it include mankind? Maybe – maybe not. But for now, in the little universe that we call our backyards, we have an opportunity to transform a nutrient-consuming wasteland into a self-supporting Garden of Eden.

The result? A lush garden so complex, we cannot really fathom all the interactions that are happening around us, above, and under foot. Sustainable gardening at its finest.

So how do you do permaculture? I cannot recommend this book enough.

Everything is described in detail in Hemenway’s book.
(Click on this link if you want to read a fairly detailed excerpt on how to build a “guild” with an apple tree as its center focus.)

Gaia’s Garden tells you how to think of your space as an ecosystem. How to look at the ecology of that system and the role of each component. How to create synergistic communities where each part amplifies the whole. How to increase the fertility of your soil, capture and conserve water, mimic nature, garden in 3-dimensions, encourage beneficial insects and other animals to take up residence. Hemenway addresses different regions: temperate, dryland, and tropical. He gives specifics on design ideas, zones, functions, and guild combinations. He lists plants that are nitrogen fixers, nutrient accumulators, and hosts for insects. He tabulates those that provide mulch material, feed for animals, or habitat for wildlife. No matter where you are – in the city – in the country – at any latitude – whether you have acreage or a simple back porch – this book describes how to be more self-reliant. He makes a complex subject very easy to grasp. It is a process. We are working with systems that are constantly changing. Our knowledge, with our gardens, is continually growing.

My own garden suddenly appears so fragmented. It is a bold realization.

I return to thinking about the 300-year-old Vietnamese family garden. It has evolved to be a place where man is but one of the many organisms in the whole. In looking to the past, we can see a vision for the future.

I ask, instead of obliterating our planet with wasteful practices that erode the soils that feed us, pollute our waters, and crumble our economic base – for that matter, instead of employing warfare that threatens to obliterate the human race – what if we were to turn our planet into a big Gaia garden where humans, instead of being focused on greed, power, and exploitation, were a vital, nurturing part of the ecosystem, a place where the harmony of mutual existence allows all to thrive? Technology is not in conflict with this ideal – rather, it is a tool. Our spirituality is a means to connect. Each functioning component – animate or not – is mutually inclusive. As humans, however, we have a unique capability: we can share what we learn and grow with our fellow man. We can make the world a better place. We can reinvest in our planet, and in the process, humanity.

Like “Lasagna Gardening,” this is another book that I never got around to reading, because again, I thought I pretty much had the fundamentals down. Well, now we have the “All NEW” version, full of good advice and ideas – and I’m here to tell you it’s worth a look.

The basic idea is to build beds, mark out your space in square feet (or it’s not “square foot” gardening), and thickly fill in the space with plants.

The idea is not new, and over the years, it has taken on different forms – biodynamic, biointensive, calorie farming, French Intensive, etc.

As an aside, back in the 70s, “French Intensive” gardening was my mantra. As you might guess, this method is very intense, just like the French, just like their coffee. Intense planting, intense building of the soil, intense results – and a very intense workout getting there. Just drink a quadruple shot of ultra-dark-roasted mud and you are good to go. I was much younger then and in great shape – so the double-digging required to loosen the soil down 2 feet was “pas de probleme.” I dug little pathways between the beds and tossed the dirt into the growing area with great flair. I made neat rectangular mounds that would make any French person sincerely exclaim “Oooh la la!.” Plus, I had recently returned from a year in France on a student exchange program, so I thought I knew what I was doing.

My neighbor, an elderly farmer who had always grown things in long, single rows but mostly herded cattle, had never seen garden “beds,” much less heard of “companion planting.” When he came across my series of mounds, crowded with vegetation, he scratched his chin and tactfully expressed sympathy in that he thought maybe I had buried my dogs out back. Although now I better appreciate his country sense of humor, I also admit there is always something new you can learn – and that something over the years is that there’s gotta be an easier way.

Bartholomew’s “Square Foot Gardening” is that way.

For one, he doesn’t mess with digging up sod, double digging, moving soil from one end of the bed to the other to make room for tossing over the new stuff – none of that. He just lays down a ground barrier, builds a frame for the bed, mixes up a growing medium, and piles it inside. Map out your grid, plant as thickly as the plants will allow, watch them grow like crazy.

It doesn’t get much easier, and throughout the book, you gotta appreciate Mr. Bartholomew’s never-ending cheerfulness and enthusiasm that exudes in every chapter – along with his sense of irony, which makes the book very fun reading.

There are several other things in the Square Foot Gardening book I can appreciate: for one, Mr. Bartholomew is both a civil engineer and an efficiency expert. This explains so much. You have to admit that it doesn’t make sense to scatter a bunch of seed only to thin it out later – and who doesn’t waste lettuce and carrot seeds? Or how about the space you waste if you follow the directions on spacing between rows? In Bartholomew’s beds, there are no rows. You build a bed frame and you tend the garden from the sidelines. And you have to appreciate how he advocates growing enough for your own needs (and perhaps a little to share), but does not advocate methods created for the convenience of commercial farming, which could possibly feed all of humanity if large businesses felt so inclined, which, of course, they are not, and we won’t go there because that’s for a different rant.

But think about it. Our whole mentality of planting in long rows caters to the convenience of large farming practices, an industry that has literally grown up on large tracts of land, abundantly available in the U.S., and also on the abundant availability of cheap oil, which is already history. Gas at $4.00/gallon is making us all reconsider the wisdom of those practices that are just another example of America’s culture of waste.

In the words of Masanobu Fukuoka, the Japanese scientist and author of The One-Straw Revolution: An Introduction to Natural Farming, who demonstrated on his own family farm that he could get comparable results as commercial enterprises simply by working “with” nature rather than against it:

“The food-growing situation may seem to be in good shape today, but that’s just an illusion based on the current availability of petroleum fuels. All the wheat, corn, and other crops that are produced on big American farms may be alive and growing, but they’re not products of real nature or real agriculture.
They’re manufactured rather than grown. The earth isn’t producing those things… petroleum is!”

Time to downsize, folks. Time to take lessons from around the world and efficiency experts such as Mel Bartholomew on how to make the most of our space, water, and other resources, and how to maximize our yields in the process.

So – it begs the question: If you aren’t rolling a combine across the back 40 or even a small tiller in your own little postage stamp on the planet, then how much space do you really need? How do you come to terms with that?

I confess, this is a real problem for me. I have my garden scattered across 15 different growing areas, depending on how you count them, and that doesn’t even include the orchard. Even though I am selling some of my crops, I definitely have room for efficiency. I am caught between being too small to be a big farmer; too large to be a small gardener.

Part of the answer, according to Mel, might be in looking at your garden in terms of individual square feet. How much, exactly, can you fit in a square foot? Turns out, a lot. And just how much space is required to grow all the veggies for a family of four if you stagger your plantings and grow things in 3-dimensional space where you can and throughout all the seasons…well, that depends, of course, but the final answer – not much!

The other big advantage to the Square Foot method is the reduction in labor. If all the space is filled up with plants you actually want, then there is no room for weeds, right? And if you start with a weed-free soil mix, you are 99% ahead of their game. I am currently on a warpath against weed domination and it is very apparent that to win, or at least to hold your ground, you just have to never give them a chance. Easier said than done.

I admit, when I first read this book, I thought, “That’s cool for someone with a small backyard or someone who just wants a little garden, but not very practical for me.” I am, after all, borderline-tenacious about my garden plots in which I have labored intensively (there’s that intense word again), and I’m not ready to give them up. My kids have often suggested that I should reduce my garden to a few raised beds, which they would happily build for me (trying to tactfully say that I have more than I can handle) – as if I’m some little old lady who just wants to putter in her petunias. (It’s just so interesting when your own kids start treating you like one of the elderly. Good grief.)

I mean, I’ve got over an acre of garden and I’m not about to go build a bunch of boxes and line them out in square-foot measurements (I mean, I understand the mentality, but is this not a bit anal?) and fill them with 1/3 peat (agh! there’s that recommendation for a nonrenewable resource again – and I don’t care how much you try to rationalize or justify it!), 1/3 vermiculite, and 1/3 purchased compost, (because c’mon, we all know the compost stuff I make is full of seeds and weeds because it just never gets quite hot enough to destroy them) – not to mention all the 2 x 6” boards & extra riff-raff required to tend to the plants’ individual needs, protect them against the elements, and provide whatever else they demand (now that they’ve become next of kin) – and even though some folks might be able to scrounge up this stuff for free, wishful thinking – reality is, many of us can’t.

Ok – so now we’re into some bucks for something clean and neat and orderly, which SO appeals to my husband, also of an engineering mindset. Me, of course, I’m more of a freestyle gardener.

Did you follow all that?

The question, again, is: does this make sense to me?

Um, well, as it turns out – yes.

Well, maybe not for my entire garden. But I have a little strawberry patch out back – it’s maybe 12’ x 24’ – and it’s always a pain in the you-know-what to weed, because it is full of quack grass and the god-forsaken-should-be-condemned-from-the-universe morning glory and wild blackberries. I am at the point where, you know, I hate to say this, but strawberry plants are relatively cheap. Maybe I should start over. Maybe I should just smother everything – it’s rather cruel, yes – but in looking at the bigger picture – just cover the entire area with several layers of cardboard, maybe some bark, and then maybe top it off with some fancy beds laid out in measured squares – orderly – in control – plant some new & improved strawberries and maybe a few salad greens and maybe some flowers to attract some bees – and, yes, maybe a few kitchen herbs – the kinds of things you want by your front door – perfect.

It’s a start.

100% of the harvest at 50% of the costs, 20% of the space, 10% of the water, 5% of the seeds, 2% of the work. Hard to argue with that. Mel is taking it on a mission to combat hunger all over the world.

Good idea, Mel. Thank you.

Jeesh – yes, I have really lost it.

I can handle darkness to a point, but right now, I am craving sunlight and warmth (and if you really loved me, you’d send me a ticket to a sandy beach where people drink fruity drinks with colored umbrellas in them…).

Let’s start over – the nice thing about winter is that you have an excuse to sit indoors where it is warm (instead of being outside freezing your living *** off!) and browse seed catalogs, read books, and plan for when things finally thaw. We all know spring officially starts the first of March, even though the weather might argue otherwise. We have to be ready for it. (Oops. March is already here. No time to lose!)

But the coming Ides of March is no reason to panic. Gardening, done right, or so they tell me, takes a lot of planning, and planning takes thinking time. Also a lot of math. I do a lot of planning and math when I figure out my garlic plots, and I almost always get it wrong (Would you believe I thought about being a math major once? Ha! Avoided a career disaster on that one!).

Actually, those who know me know I’m much too impulsive to believe that “fail-to-plan, plan-to-fail” malarkey.

Even so, all the experts tell us planning is key to a successful garden.

The point is, this is the time of year when many of us otherwise-very-reasonable people succumb to buying seeds for things we know we don’t have room for or can’t possibly grow in our zones. Things that are not in our Master Plan, whether it’s enumerated in a table, sketched out, or just a mental vision.

Seed companies have spent millions studying the psychology of all this and effectively strategize to capitalize on our weakest moments. Catalogs ideally start arriving sometime before the days start getting noticeably longer and at least a month before the spring equinox. Their arrival coincides precisely at the time when we, suffering in agony with viral cases of cabin fever, are in our jammies until noon, gorging on Snickers, and doing just about anything to kick the SAD blues (seasonal affective disorder – the name they’ve given for unbalanced people in the Northwest who are living under a dripping rock, growing moss between their toes, and threatening to turn their children into toads if they don’t croak first), and that “anything” includes impulsively buying Bodacious Corn and Beefsteak Tomato seeds.

Oh yes. It’s a real disease. It has its very own acronym. And those seed catalogs make the implausible seem so possible. I believe that I will swoon with the dense fragrance of jasmine, which will soothe my cares away on a soft summer night. And I confess that, yes, once again, I am counting on climate change to help me ripen those melons.

Those who live here know full well what I’m talkin’ about. What to do?

Simple. Resolve. This year, resolve to resist that compulsion to buy plants and seeds to create a fantasy world that can’t possibly exist. I mean, Get Real.

And Get Proactive:

• Read good books to help you plan efficiently and make thoughtful decisions.
• Take an inventory of what you have.
• Conduct seed sprouting tests to make sure the seeds you have will still germinate.
• Make a list of those things you actually need and have room for.
• And THEN – and only then – browse catalogs or shop your local stores - and last but most important -
• Stick to your lists. That’s key.

Who does this? Raise your hands.

I thought so.

I did take the first step, though.

(“Hi, Blythe. Welcome.”)

No, seriously. I’ve been doing a lot of reading. Getting ideas. Thinking about what worked and what didn’t in my garden and in my life – because who can separate the two? Thinking about what I might be able to create.  Thinking about my potential – I mean, my garden’s. Essentially, doing something contrary to my free-spirit nature: planning. Scheming, actually, but I’ll save that thought. In the process, I have completely transformed my thinking on how I want to garden and who I want to be – and believe me, this is major, because I’ve been gardening more or less all my life, and trying to be me all my life, and I’m approaching another decade anniversary, which should gain me some respect, but let’s not go there.

So – this is the introduction to a series of posts on book reviews. Some books I purchased; some I borrowed from the library or friends. All had something good to offer. New perspectives. Tips and pointers.

And my conclusion? Planning is good. (See? I told you this was transforming!) And this year is going to be the beginning of the best, most interesting, funnest garden ever. (Funnest?) Absolutely. Out of this world.

Oops. There we go again.

Keep it down to Earth. We ARE talking about earth, after all.

This is part-blog, part support group. Thank you for your emails and comments – keep them coming.

And as always, thanks for stopping in, and keep your antennas tuned.

Blythe

One day, we go from this...

…and this...

…to this (yikes!)

("Garlic? Are you still there?" "Yes!" come the muffled replies)

…and even to this! No, there is nothing wrong with your monitor. This is an official picture of a garlic bed in a snowstorm.

HA HA HA! Says Mother Nature!
(Just proving that the moment we anticipate spring, we are bluntly told it is still winter!)

Mother knows best, I say.

The temperatures are predicted to drop into the teens tomorrow and Saturday. If so, this blanket of snow will be just the thing the garlic and other plants need for survival.

So many little birds! I couldn't capture them all! (picture taken through a window)

The little backyard birds have flocked in great numbers to the bird feeder. We created little makeshift shelters to keep the ground seed from getting completely buried and, based on a simple recipe suggested by a birdwatching friend, filled up the log feeders with a lard-oatmeal mix (recipe below). Much easier than the ideas I posted in my previous post, New Year’s for the Birds – and easier to smear into the feeder. Definitely a big hit with the feathered friends.

Also – don’t forget to fill up a water bowl – they SO appreciate a little thawed-out water!

High-Energy Mix for Birds:
1/2 part lard (not suet), melted
1/2 part quick oats
Mix together.
How simple does it get? I added a little peanut butter for good measure.

Brrrr! Pruning apple trees can wait!

And the good thing is, I can take a break from pruning the apple trees!

Dare I say? Tropical days ahead!

“The more one gardens, the more one learns; and the more one learns, the more one realizes how little one knows.”  ~Vita Sackville-West

Status report: Mid-February and the garlic is up and growing strong!

I am doing a few things differently this year than last. Most notably: NO mulch. No mulch whatsoever.

The Great Mulch Debate

Don’t get me wrong. Mulch can be a good thing. But it has its time and place. Around the garlic, as we witnessed in last year’s disaster, is NOT always good.

It might be ok for where you are. If you get Siberian-like winters that have been hammering the Great Lakes states and the Northeast, I would think mulch would be very protective, if not essential. Here in the Pacific Northwest, though, we have a different challenge: down-pouring rains, alternating freezes, and temperatures that get low, but not low enough to kill insects or hardy weeds. In fact, the insects just hunker down; the weeds never sleep.

Ok, so hay might not have been the best choice for mulch last year – sometimes availability influences that decision – but any mulch around here is going to hold in the cold and damp, and any garlic bulb beneath the mulch is going to have a losing battle with molds and fungi. That is a lesson I have learned the hard way (unfortunately) more than once!

I keep debating this whole mulch thing because I really like the concept of no-till gardening methods. I have been a fan of Ruth Stout since the early 70s (The Ruth Stout No-Work Garden Book: Secrets of the Famous Year-Round Mulch Method). My recent go-to advisor, Steve Solomon (Growing Vegetables West of the Cascades: The Complete Guide to Organic Gardening – my copy is tattered with use), however, strongly warns against such practices that worked well for Ruth in Connecticut, but spell catastrophe in our climate. The mulch provides a cozy haven for pill bugs, earwigs, and slugs – all of which are quite prolific in my garden, but don’t bother the garlic much. (Note to self: plant garlic next to things that ARE attacked by those pests!)

My friends may wonder why, then, against all logic, am I converting our backyard into a recycling center for cardboard, newspaper, and bark. You can’t believe how much I hate grass, but I’ll save that for another post.

The truth is, after all these years, I am changing my approach to gardening. Gardening is, after all, a learn-as-you-grow game, and hopefully you get to keep growing a very long time!

Still, failure hurts. I am still reeling from last year. Course, it was a rough year. We got hit with nearly 17 inches of rain in October and November alone, which was nearly 70% of the rainfall for the entire year. Many areas reported their second wettest November on record. Wind gusts frequently topped 40 mph. Temperatures hit record lows in early December, with no snowfall for protection. They finally climbed up to 60 in April, but never hit 70 until June. We had a hot dry spell in July and August when temperatures topped 85, but even so, the average maximum temperature never even hit 70 all year long.

2011, however, is a new year, a new story. We’ve only had about half as much rain (8.5″) since October. We haven’t had near the flooding. Yes, we got hit with some heavy wet snow that paralyzed Seattle and knocked the power out of a lot of communities, but overall, it’s been tropical compared to what the Midwest and Northeast have been dealing with.

The garlic bulbs have endured steady fluctuations in freezing and thawing but have persevered. I have resisted the mother-hen impulse to cover them up, reminding myself that these are plants that grow in Siberia. Surface weeds have taken advantage of bare ground, but they easily pull up when it thaws in the afternoons, and have not been life-threatening.

When it comes down to it, every year is a horticultural experiment. We will always have wet winters with occasional deep freezes. Heavy wet snow is the only kind we ever get. We start taking our clothes off if the temps top 70; our summers may be drought-like, but they generally remain cool. The wind is always gonna blow, making keeping on top of the watering and evaporation rates a bit of a challenge. You can do your best to build the soil and keep up with the weeds, you can record the weather stats and track the storm systems coming in off the coast, you can apply mulch to get through the dry times and most definitely take it off during the wet, but still, all such experiments entail a certain amount of risk, as well as a learning opportunity, whether through success or failure, that can’t be achieved any other way. Books won’t do it. They can give you guidelines, but when it comes to garlic, or gardening, for that matter, “gardeners must dance with feedback, play with results, turn as they learn.” (Michael P. Garofalo, “Pulling Onions.”)

Siberian Garlic Looking Good!

So – seeing these new garlic sprouts gives me a sense of pride and joy. I have been growing garlic for – jeesh – almost 35 years, but every year, I look at my little sprouts coming up in mid-winter with utter amazement. The Siberian Purple Stripes pictured here have always been an outstanding performer for me. They look so determined. So orderly in their rows. United in their desire to thrive. And as we all bask together in this afternoon sunshine (see how the dark soil holds the heat! no mulch to keep in the cold!), I can’t help but think that they are that much more resilient for the hardships. I marvel at how completely one with nature they are, understanding with their entire being the subtle changes in light and shadow as the sun moves across the sky; and my, how they almost glow with the inner sense of a coming spring!

Sitting in my garlic patch, I can feel it. It’s going to be a good year.

But we have a forecast for snow and temps in the 20s.

Cover them up? Nope.

Resist the need to control. Give them credit for the strong plants they are. Pay attention. Learn. Don’t mess with nature.