Changes are Coming

Give a husband and wife five days off in a row, and there’s no telling what might happen.

They might, for instance, serve Thanksgiving dinner to eleven, and in the process decide they’ve had enough of making do in their hodgepodge kitchen, and two days later order brand new cabinets and appliances and start gathering volunteers to tear the place up.

Or they might hear a sob story about a friend of a friend of a friend who found a sweet shepherd-mix puppy in the city and is looking to give her away.  They might visit, swoon and make plans to bring her home, right about the same time they’re planning to lose their kitchen and most of their dining room.

And it’s always possible that the English teacher who hasn’t had time to read anything but papers like this will pick up a book that will change her life.  And if that were true (hypothetically) it wouldn’t matter a bit that the book was a gift from the author, her cousin — if anything, it would make the experience that more meaningful, a little like a letter from an older and more experienced friend who knows the way.

The Urban Farm Handbook is a witty, practical guide to your personal paradigm shift from big-box grocery to local living.  Organized into seasons (beginning with winter — how timely and / or perfect for Christmas!) that are further subdivided into subject chapters, it gives just enough detail to instruct but not overwhelm.

I’ve read a lot about the locavore movement.  The vast majority has been in the form of personal narratives, moving and off-putting by turns.  The author (and, usually, spouse) is drawn to traditional methods of farming, producing, cooking and living; s/he spends a set length of time, almost always a year, practicing these methods, and in doing so reaches some degree of enlightenment.  Even when they’re beautifully written, as most are, these books don’t do more than vaguely inspire you in some ways and nauseate you in others. Titles in this category include:

• Animal, Vegetable, Miracle 
• Farm City
• Plenty
• See You in a Hundred Years
• The Omnivore’s Dilemma

On the other side of the spectrum are books that are so professional, they’re largely over your head.  They’re also fun to read; they’re great daydream material and would be perfect resources if you decided to move out to the country, but you can’t find much use for their advice where you live.  Examples:

• ABC of Poultry Raising
• Country Wisdom & Know-How
• Gaia’s Garden
• Nourishing Traditions
• The Four-Season Harvest

The Urban Farm Handbook has found the Goldilocks sweet spot: just right for people like me, who are frustrated when their increased knowledge doesn’t lead to life changes.  It’s for environmentalists who want to produce less waste, parents who want their children to grow up in a real community, and cooks who are obsessed with freshness.  It gives loads of advice to all kinds of readers.

I’m scheming to make this a monthly feature in my Patch column next year, supplementing the authors’ advice with my own research about the Mid-Atlantic region (they live in the Pacific Northwest.)  But I’ll write here about the behind-the-scenes activity, which you might find just as interesting.  In fact, I’m already hard at work on the first chapter.  Stay tuned!

Speaking of Centerpieces . . .

. . . wouldn't it be cool if they just grew on trees?



Or maybe on vines?  Huge, volunteer vines that were the result of last year's carelessness?



I'm not sure the several months of an unkempt front yard was worth the $3 worth of gourds it yielded, but it is pretty cool that we grew them ourselves.  Even if it was an accident.

Weed Me, Seymour

Two years ago I had an epiphany about the joys of weeding: few domestic tasks are so rewarding as the feel of a long, recalcitrant root slipping from the soil.  This growing season has been the most disappointing on record, as our frequent absence and an increased workload have kept us otherwise occupied most of the time.  I've watched the weeds take over with a growing feeling of panic, as our garden begins to resemble the opening chapter of Rebecca:

The drive was a ribbon now, a thread of its former self, with gravel surface gone, and choked with grass and moss. The trees had thrown out low branches, making an impediment to progress; the gnarled roots looked like skeleton claws. Scattered here and again amongst this jungle growth I would recognise shrubs that had been landmarks in our time, things of culture and grace, hydrangeas whose blue heads had been famous. No hand had checked their progress, and they had gone native now, rearing to monster height without a bloom, black and ugly as the nameless parasites that grew beside them.

Okay, that might be a bit melodramatic.  But seriously, it is bad.

We've had enough rain in the last week to make up for our parched summer; most of it is tropical-storm residue, the long, soaking sort of rain that makes weeds shrug their tendrils in despair and apathetically submit to execution.  All through the day, as I taught classes and tutored students and planned dinner, I felt the slow approach to Weed Equilibrium: that magical moment when the ground is puddle-free but pleasingly pliant.  It rained so much that we actually got let out of school early one day; I'm sure my students will be eagerly checking for delays on rainy mornings for years to come.  (I know I will!)

Saturday morning I ventured out to tackle the project that had bothered me all summer: the foot or so of soil between our beautifully landscaped beds and the asphalt of the street.  It's that sandy, gravelly mess that weeds love, and they'd found all sorts of cracks and crevices in which to take root.  Most offensive to me was the fact that the Belgian block marking the edges of the beds was completely obscured by wayward tufts of green.

It took four separate sessions, separated by more rain in between, but it's cleared now, save one patch of stubborn crab grass (that stuff is of the devil!)  And I can't overstate my elation every time I approach the house and see those rows of marbled granite, clean white teeth peeking out from behind the elegant mustaches of juniper and Russian sage.  Rob has jumped on board, spraying with weed barrier and ordering gravel to discourage future residents from setting up shop.  Suddenly, it doesn't matter as much that the house needs painting, the silver maple is out of control and those evil morning-glory vines (also of the devil) have once again eluded my early efforts and commandeered the fence.  I took care of one eyesore, and I'm proud of myself.

Just wanted to share.

Missing the Boat

The problem with being a teacher and a gardener is that summer is your only opportunity to take vacations.  Thus, Rob and I tend to have summers where we're away more than home; we cram in the fun stuff for three frantic months.  Long weekends at his parents' beach house, trips to see family and friends, and of course travel study programs, a.k.a. A Sneaky Way to Get Paid for Traveling.

One of the tenants at my friend Julie's community garden recently poked fun at people like me:

They come out here in April, and they work so hard getting everything in the ground, and then come July, they go to Cape May for a couple of weeks. They come back and are like, 'Oh NO, where did all these weeds come from?!'

As I was reading that, I was thinking, yep, that's me.  We missed the radishes because of final exams and graduations -- just forgot they were there, growing tougher and more fibrous with every day.  As we left for Florida I thought, "I wonder if I should pick the peas before we go?  Naaaah."  When we got back I discovered they were good for nothing but next year's seed.  And so on. This is to say nothing of the weeds that accumulate in our absence; I often resent our neighbors and housesitter because they get to enjoy the fruits of our labor, in the form of nice, neat beds.  By the time we get back, they're weedy and overgrown again.

Most heartbreaking to me, however, is our hydrangea bush.  We bought it four years ago, just after it had bloomed; I fell in love with the blue lacecap flowers and variegated leaves.    Every spring, we'd get excited as the buds swelled on the dead-looking branches, but then we'd get a late freeze and no blooms, though the bush continued to grow.

We were beginning to give up hope, but that huge snowstorm seems to have called everything into action.  This year, it's huge and laden with blooms.  They were just starting to bloom when we left:



Today, I'm willing to bet they're gorgeous.  I'm also willing to bet they'll be well past their peak by the time we return in a few days.  Sigh.  I hope the people walking their dogs by our driveway right now will stop to admire them.

The Will to Live

Garfield (the cartoon, not the president) once demonstrated the difference between weeds and flowers.  He stomped ferociously on both; unsurprisingly, the flower ended up broken and crumpled, but the weed, if possible, was even more tenacious for the abuse.  "Weeds," he concluded, "have a greater will to live."

Being a bit less cynical than he, I always seem to find that every living thing has an amazing and powerful will to live.  Here are a few recent examples from my humble patch of earth:



A head of lettuce growing from a plant I discarded last year after it bolted.  Growing through a 1/4" aeration hole in my compost ball.  Growing after having endured the worst winter in Maryland history.



The gooseberry and currant vines I planted last spring from sticks, ignored, thought had died, gave up on and even mowed over (it's true -- I'm horribly forgetful) are back with a vengeance, and even bearing fruit.  Now I just have to figure out which is which.



Bronze fennel (alas, it's only decorative, not edible; I discovered that after trying to harvest it last year!)  Probably a mistake to let it go to seed, but somehow I thought that SIX AND A HALF FEET OF SNOW might have dampened its enthusiasm.



In this photo, you may or may not be able to see the two trellis attempts that have been swallowed by the rosebush monster.  However, you can certainly see that the lamb's ears and sundrops are keeping their distance.



Assorted lettuces I planted from assorted seed that was between 2 and 6 years old.



Nasturtiums I didn't plant.  They must have re-seeded themselves.  Way to go, guys!



Ditto for these tomatoes; I yanked out half a dozen before I realized what they were.  I'm not sure whether I planted heirlooms or hybrids last year, so there's the possibility they won't fruit, but I figure they at least deserve a chance!



By contrast, these pale, wan things are the tomatoes I intentionally planted, watered and fretted over for several months.  We'll see which are more prolific, but I have my suspicions!

It's interesting, the way your best-laid plans may or may not pan out, but you can always count on pleasant surprises from the earth.



An overview of Phase I: before you express your admiration, know that the bottom half is entirely herbs, and herbs are most correctly defined as weeds for which someone has been able to find a use.  The lemon balm, in particular, is out of control, even after some ruthless pruning earlier in the spring -- it's surrounding the tarragon, which seems undaunted nonetheless.

Phase II, which I started today, involves summer vegetables -- peppers, tomatoes, beans and squash.  Stay tuned.

This post brought to you by Kirsten, whose profound and moving thoughts in her garden inspired my rather banal update.  Lylas!

Happiness is . . .

. . . getting all your seeds into the ground the day before a nice drenching rain.



Answers to Frequently Anticipated Questions:

1) Yes, I realize the rabbit was fake.  It was a "gift" from some dear friends when they moved (well, not exactly a gift; through some sort of a prank it ended up in my garden.)

2) No, the sorrel is not fake.  It's an "annual" that's survived for 4 years now and appears to have enjoyed the 6 1/2 feet of snow we got this winter!  Delicious, lemony leaves, best lightly steamed with butter.

3) What did I plant, you ask?  Well, the photo shows radishes, beets, carrots, peas and chard.  Below the photo's scope are cress, lettuce, spinach, onions and fennel.  Inside, still, are tomatoes, peppers, squash, beans and basil; the plan is to switch them out in May, once these crops have matured and the weather changes.  Sharon, it's on.

What's the Matter, Colonel Sanders?

They just loooove to rub it in.

In my county, it's illegal to keep poultry on less than an acre.  Loud, destructive, hostile dogs?  Sure!  Virtually-silent, naturally recycling, sedate chickens?  No way!  And we live on a corner, in a neighborhood where we've been cited three times after our lush, verdant landscaping overstepped the iron-fisted county code, so I don't think there's any way around it.  Truthfully, I'd rather have ducks (after reading this book) than chickens, but I'd rather avoid the fines than have ducks.

However, I am hopeful: at a local happy hour last week, I met one of the candidates who hopes to replace our troubled local representative for the county council.  He agrees that the ordinance is an affront to femivores everywhere, and he's promised to overturn the anti-compost law to boot.  Today I heard from a friend that one of the other candidates, a woman, actually keeps her own chickens (illegally, I guess?  Or maybe she has that coveted acre.)  Things are looking up for the pro-poultry caucus.

I'm thinking about gardening because the snow has finally, mercifully left us, leaving me itching to dig in the dirt.  I planted my first batch of seeds (tomatoes and peppers) several weeks ago, and after checking them obsessively for several days, I forgot about them for several more.  That unique combination did the trick, as when I happened to look this afternoon, I was shocked to see dozens of inch-long shoots craning their necks to reach a patch of sunlight.  Yesterday I braved the incessant rain to pick up a garbage bag full of trash that had accumulated over the long winter, thanks (again) to our corner lot.  Along the way I pulled some weeks, cleared out dead foliage and delighted in the tiny shoots of green at the bases of almost every one of my plants.  Even the arugula, buried for weeks under 4 feet of snow, is producing bright green leaves in defiance of all logic.

Sharon Astyk recently explained her Independence Days challenge, and though I've been too intimidated by her until now to do anything but read with awe, I'm considering taking it on.  I couldn't possibly do all the things she mentions each week, but maybe each month.  Maybe.  It's something I care about, and I'm much too prone to talking instead of doing.

Recycling, Elevated

I understand that recycling should be automatic and done out of the goodness (and / or self-preservation instinct) of one's own heart.

I understand that even if we all recycled, it still wouldn't be enough -- we need to drastically curb, if not stop, our consumption of one-time-use goods.

I understand that we should be moving toward beverages that come from rivers and fruit trees and herbs, not bottles and chemicals and processing plants.

But I can't see something like this and not be encouraged.  An Austin architectural firm has found a way to make recycling entertaining, and to help concertgoers work together to create a temporary thing of beauty, all while calling attention to a problem most people just don't want to think about -- the incredible amount of trash we generate and the lack of options about what to do with it.

Cup City, you just made my day.

It's Long. And Gross.

But you owe it to yourself to read this article about E. Coli food poisoning and its close relationship with mass-processed meat.  It says a lot of what Eric Schlosser said in Fast Food Nation.  Both are terrifying, horrendous and true.

Yes, it's more expensive to buy meat from people who care about things like natural and humane processes.  It's a lot more expensive.  Ground beef from our Amish farmer is $4.50 a pound, and chicken breasts are $8.50 a pound.  So we eat less of them.  We eat more eggs and more produce, much of it local.  Not such a bad deal.

Local Color

A few weeks ago, my mom and I went to pick raspberries at my new favorite farm, Butler's Orchard.  We'd gotten blueberries and blackberries earlier in the season; both were fantastic, and I'm sure I'll eat through my stock of frozen and canned fruit before next summer.  It was a fun afternoon.

On the way back, we saw a field of gorgeous flowers and stopped to pick there, too.  All you see here, plus a handful of Cosmos that didn't make it to the photograph: $6.  Except for said Cosmos, the flowers lasted over a week, perfuming and delighting the rooms of my house.



I love it when I can enjoy beauty without feeling guilty!