Project Homestead

And so it flows...

The snow is finally subsiding here, and I'm reappearing after a long respite. Such a busy and wonderful Winter has melted into a sweet Spring. Why? Well, because the balance of life seems to be finally tipping in the direction of ease. So much of the past couple of years has seemed, well, uphill. Between little ones, big projects and small budgets, it sometimes felt like I could never get ANYTHING done. I won't count my chickens yet (although we've ordered eight new chicks, due in early May). But I will count my blessings.

This, my friends, is one of them.
 

I have been dreaming of tapping our own maple trees to boil clear, drippy sap into golden, earthy maple syrup—for years. Visits to sugar houses, where hobbyists and seasoned families fire up their evaporators and serve sugar on snow, got me hooked. But the short sugaring season snuck up on me every March—until this year, when I finally got geared up in time. I felt giddy as we left Slattery's Maple Supply with a stack of used sap buckets and taps, and I listened to them rattle around in the way back on the bumpy backroads home.

The boys and I spent the next afternoon drilling and tapping 10 maples, to start. We soon figured out how to do it, drilling a slightly uphill hole into each with a 7/16 inch drill bit. And we picked trees that were close to the house and big enough to share some of their sap with us.

The boys hung the buckets and threaded the covers over the taps to keep out rain and debris. Fruit flies seem to find their way in, anyway, but we filtered them out later.

As soon as we hung the last bucket, we heard it: on cue, the bright "plink"..."plink" ... "plink" told us the sap was running. (The cold nights and warming days of late March get trees pumping.) I was so grateful. The fact is, so many  homesteading projects require well-planned effort and exacting efficiency. But everything about this was so uncomplicated that I could just concentrate on the fun.

A day or so later, we hauled a huge lobster pot out of the basement, built a fire in the belly of an old grill beneath it, and we started boiling. Between the spring sunshine warming our backs, a fire warming our hands, and the smell of woodsmoke mixed with moist, sweet maple in the air, Owen said what we were all thinking... "This is just plain pleasant, isn't it?"

We cleaned up gardens while it boiled. We fed the fire as it boiled. We ate supper outside as it boiled. We fetched more cool sap from waiting maples as it boiled. And, at the end of our first sugaring season, we'd made just about three quarts of gorgeous, golden, maple syrup to pour over everything. Without even tasting it, I feel all warm and happy inside. Spring is sweet. Muddy, but sweet.

Surrounded by blackberries.

For all of our growing pains this growing season—bigger gardens mean a lot less energy for tending the ones you already have—I'm always grateful for the blackberries. They were here when we came. We've lent a bit of care and weeding, a bit of seaweed and pruning here and there. But otherwise, even in hot, dry summers like this one (when they ripened a full two weeks earlier than in years' past), we handle them simply. We call it benign neglect.

The result: the richest, sweetest and plumpest berries we can remember eating from these rugged hills. And now that our little ones are getting bigger (and eating more berries), the harvesting goes faster than ever. Caleb is four, and eats at least as much as he picks. But he also picks. And every plump berry helps when you're collecting as much as you can for your family's supply of homemade jam, a crisp or two, and berries to grace your vanilla ice cream whenever you want them.

In past seasons, we'd pick berries whenever we could swing it. It's a big job, for which you have to cover yourself in long pants and heavy shirts to thwart thorns—in the heat of August. But I read recently that Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, my small-holding, sustainable food-rearing muse from River Cottage in Dorset, England, swears that the best flavor comes from picking at the end of a hot, dry day.  (He then puts up jam immediately thereafter.)

We've had plenty hot, dry days in these parts. This just meant feeding the troops early and heading out in the evening. We picked well into twilight. It was magic.

So were the berries—all 12 pounds of them (from this harvest). We always get two, or more. And you can see from these loaded canes that we have plenty coming on later.

After putting up our jam, following the beautifully simple recipe from the Smith & Hawken Gardener's Community Cookbook. It uses no pectin, as blackberries are especially high in natural pectin. Just a mix of ripe and slightly underripe berries. And plenty of sugar. Gentle, patient boiling. Then, suddenly, the next best thing since warm, home-baked bread.

The next flush of berries went into a quick crisp, which I adapted from our friend, Winnie's, otherworldly rhubarb crisp. (Recipe coming soon.) It's berries, sugar and a thick topping of oats, brown sugar, and a bit of flour. (The boys and I could, well, did, eat handfuls of the stuff.) Are you seeing a pattern here?

I love the spoils of summer. I hope you're enjoying them, too.

For the love of (edible) perennials

 

Let me start by saying, please forgive me for my incredibly long absence. I could rack up the reasons (new jobs—two of them; sickness—we're all fine now; a delightfully warm and sunny spring—we skied in shorts and t-shirts on Easter, for crying out loud!). But I won't. Suffice it to say, I've been busy. And yet I've missed sharing the ongoing adventure with you all. I am back.

As the snow melted early here and the earth began to green up, I couldn't help but notice something shocking in the garden. The established rows of arugula—I planted Fedco's Sylvetta for the first time last spring—were busy growing just where I'd left them late last fall. I figured they'd re-seed; I'd heard they did so freely. I let them flower, and I collected their seeds at the end of the season. I couldn't help myself. This was the most wonderful arugula I'd ever eaten. Nutty, almost creamy, and delectably pungent, it actually beckoned me to the garden.

I'd even heard it would last well into the winter—with protection. That's why I was so surprised to see this crop crop up all on its own. It was just where I'd planted it last spring, established plants and many little green seedlings (from the re-seeding, I suppose). Of course, I didn't "protect" these greens with row covers or low hoops. I didn't even mulch them. I let them be and waited to see what would happen. Turns out, my Zone 5 location was protected enough to overwinter them without any effort at all. What a pleasant surprise to awaken to a beloved vegetable, ready to grow and eat within a few weeks of the snow's melt.

I can relate: I've felt a bit buried this winter. But deep roots and well-tended soil—feeling grounded, I realize now—makes all the difference. I can emerge from a long, winter's nap, ready to stretch up to the warm spring sunshine.  

promise

My three-year-old early riser and I awoke early the other morning to an unfamiliar friend — the sun! As it peeked over the eastern edge of neighboring pines and ponds, these gorgeous, plump, popcorn-like blackberry blossoms nearly glowed. They hold such promise... for birds and bees, for lovely blooms, for berries green-then-red-then-purple-then-deepest black, by summer's end. In the past, I'd say "I can't wait." But this year feels different.

I've planted so much more, from strawberries, blueberries and raspberries (to harvest next year), to many veggies in an entirely new and experimental garden site, that I'm excited to watch what happens next to each of them, one by one. I feel like a proud new mama of a happy but scattered brood. (Not all of those babes are in the ground yet, either.)

It's the middle of June, but days of cool and rain make it feel like summer is still just around the corner here. The Summer Solstice arrives this Sunday, so I suppose it is. It's the day the sun reaches its farthest point north of the equator, lazing its way through the year's longest day; this year, it falls on Father's Day (lucky papa!). And, lucky for us and the blackberries that surround us, the sun will be warming us even more as the days march on.

As much as I'd like to take credit for their vitality, the truth is, nothing here grows more effortlessly, and with as little human intervention, as these generous canes. Coaxing bud into blossom and tart into sweet, I am sure, is some benevolent and powerful force; one the dew drops on spring leaves, my early riser and I have been waiting to greet.

Welcome, summer. Go ahead, stay awhile.

eelgrass + blackberries = one perfect day

Here's how it went:

1. Wake up. Make cappuccino. Eat yogurt and homemade granola. (Dream of sending boys out to fetch fresh berries.)
2. Dig errant roses and sumac suckers and rake dried flower stalks from beloved patch of wild blackberries. (I suppose all of this human tending might make them a little less "wild." On the other hand, they were here long before we were, so I'm sticking with it.)
3. Drive five minutes to our town's best tidal beach. Take black garbage bags and children to water's edge. Children frolic. Michael and I use our hands to loosen piles of well-weathered eelgrass from along the top edge of the beach, where soft sand and beach roses meet.
4. Stuff eelgrass into bags. (This is so easy.)
5. Strip children of freezing, wet clothes. Ask youngest to stop burying perfect stranger with sand. Wrap boys in blankets in the car.
6. Load sandy, grassy bags into the back of our friend's truck. (Thank you, Lex.)
7. With warm spring sunshine on our shoulders, spread fluffy eelgrass on thinned, pruned blackberry patch. Envision its minerals slowly strengthening the soil. Watch boys discover nodules, and smile as they tell me that sitting in the soft, dry mulch is like a trip to the beach—salty and fresh and deeply alive—all over again.

Here's what I learned:

Even though eelgrass grows in the sea, it's not seaweed at all. Instead, it's a flowering plant that forms meadows in the sands and muddy beds of shallow, sheltered waters. It grows in patches ever since the 1930s, when a wasting disease wiped out populations everywhere. Waves and weather help ours pile up on beaches to dry into papery ribbons. We and other coastal gardeners are lucky to have it.

A University of British Columbia's Botanical Garden forum reminded me: Live seaweed is critical to a host of marine life. (Ours marked the top end of a storm surge, when the water was higher than it will be for some time, so I sleep at night knowing it wasn't ocean-bound.) Even so, collecting grass from the length of the beach—while leaving some behind—will shelter and protect any animals left behind.

In my nascent study of permaculture, I also understand that using local materials to heal land (that can then grow food to feed healthy families and communities) is the definition of sustainable. Lex spreads his eelgrass thinly around his broccoli seedlings, which grow up into tender blooms his kids can't refuse. And just one fine day of foraging has enriched our best crop, already.

I can only imagine what it will do for our blackberries.

spring creeps in (under cover of snow)

Despite the snow that still surrounds us and looms large in sad plow piles in driveways everywhere, Spring is here. The sap is rising in the maples* (and the kiddos). The first red-winged black birds just broke into song. And everyone from happy hens to little boys can't wait to stretch out their toes and scratch a bit in the FINALLY thawing ground. 

While soaking up the balmy 40-degree sunshine, I spent a few minutes taking pictures of my various hillsides and sleepy garden plots to help me site future cold frames, bulb and fruit tree sites and micro-climates that might best nurture cold-hardy greens. It surprises me to no end how the complex patterns of sunshine, snowfall and tree cover can influence the ground below. Our land has several aspects, all of which are waking up at different rates.

I observed one clear constant: The chance to dig a bit, if only with chicken claws and Tonka trucks, is a fine, welcome start. There's life under there. And we've all got a primal urge to find it.

* Stay tuned for a first-hand report of the tastiest holiday in these parts: Maine Maple Sunday. Y-u-m.