Project Homestead

Life lessons, taught by tomatoes.

The tomatoes have been generous this year. We harvested a slew of cherries, including sungolds, sweet millions, and a bounty from one sturdy volunteer in the compost pile. It reminded me that it was one of our favorites last year—a teeny, lemon-colored bunching yellow. We also got a basketful of bigger Brandywines and green zebras. (Apparently I was too busy eating them to take any pictures.)
 
We picked every tomato that showed any promise at all before hurricane Irene blew through. That was a good thing: Most gangly branches were stressed—and several snapped from the wind and falling pine boughs during the storm. Most of the bigger fruiting plants went south after that. There were a lot of them.

Still, I'd picked A LOT of tomatoes. The shallow bowls full of fruits in every stage of ripening stared at me. I felt guilt when I couldn’t (or wouldn’t) deal with them. So, my family held an intervention. This year’s garden was big, to be sure. It included the usual frustrations of woodchucks and bed construction and whole zones of heavy clay. But what I realized, through some prodding, is that manageable = enjoyable.
 
We decided to limit ourselves next year to only the things we know we grow well and are easy to gather—and process. I realize that too many tomatoes makes me feel bad; I can’t keep up with the pruning, the staking or the harvest. And the smell of rotting tomatoes makes my hair stand on end. So I plan to plant fewer of the winners. For us, that amounts to 10. (I totally neglected many of the 32 we grew this year, hanging out near the stakes, below.) I’ll be able to really prepare for and nurture them, and I know they’ll be healthier and more productive for it.

 
I even have a plan for next season that I can start right now. I read in Barbara Pleasant’s amazingly useful book, Easy Garden Projects to Make, Build, and Grow that one of the simplest, low-maintenance ways to fertilize and prepare your tomato bed is as easy as this:

• Remove the plants that were growing in the bed where your tomatoes will be next year. (By crop rotation mandate, they shouldn’t return to the same bed, if you can help it.) Turn the soil by hand and mix in an inch or two of compost, old leaves, grass clippings or other soil amendments.
• Find yourself some hairy vetch seeds, sprinkle some there as a cover crop, and walk away. This perennial legume will take hold, outpace annual weeds in the spring, and fix nitrogen in the bed that your plants can use later.
• A week or two before you plan to put out your tomatoes, cut down the vetch with a sickle or shears. Leave the tops of the plants lying right there to break down and slowly release nitrogen back into the soil.
• Cut 12-inch holes right into the vetch bed (leave the roots in place everywhere else), and plant your tomato transplants in the holes. Mulch right around the seedlings with old hay, straw or eelgrass (my aim for next year). That’s it.

 
My mind was pretty much made up. But I was utterly convinced after reading about this strategy's surprising benefits at the Rodale Institute, near Kutztown, Pennsylvania (home to the 30-year-old Farming Systems Trial). It's the longest-running U.S. study comparing organic versus conventional farming techniques, and researchers there have dabbled in several cover-crop combinations as alternatives to black-plastic mulch for growing food. They found that a fall-planted rye or rye-vetch mulch not only choked out weeds, it mulched the soil (no straw necessary), and it boosted yields.

Plants that sustain themselves? Um, that makes perfect sense to me. I’m off to rip out spent plants and turn over soggy soil. (It's been raining for days here.) While I'm at it, I'll try to remember what these fruits of my labor have taught me: Do less, better.

A wild and beautiful visitor

I was making pancakes, Michael was tidying up, and the boys were organizing toys, when Owen announced how sad it was that a bright red bird had flown into the window and fallen down into the garden. You could see his flaming red feathers as he laid there, looking all but dead.

Michael gently picked him up and brought him inside. We all stared in awe at this bold little songbird—a Scarlet Tanager. He'd flown here from South America, we learned. And his chip-churr song, which we also tracked down, is a lilting and a true sign of spring, Owen thought. We made him a little nest so he could rest. He closed his eyes often, a sign that he was tired, Caleb thought. We all thought he might have hurt a wing, or banged his head, before he fell.

But before long, he flapped out of his box and around the kitchen before perching himself on a stack of cereal bowls. He was restored. And we set him free.

How 'bout these melons?

Proud garden moment: Ambrosia melons. Two of them. It took months of care and tending to produce these beauties, in soil that had just become a garden this June. We planted them late. And we crossed our fingers.

They looked so beautiful that little hands couldn't help but feel them all day long (we were waiting for a quorum before slicing them open). I kept picturing them rolling off the counter and exploding their beautiful juiciness all over the kitchen floor. Then we'd have to lick the floor.

So we petted them, carefully.

When we finally sliced them, we gasped at their beauty.

And we ate them—sooo melony and floral, mildly sweet, and almost a bit savory. As it turned out, the juice dripped from our chins onto the table—and then onto the floor.

We licked the table.

A simple garden meal

We spent a long afternoon last week at our friend's farm, where we dug potatoes and left for home with a bagful of loot. I ogled over his tractor and acres of flat ground. The boys, meantime, ran through soft dirt in bare feet, feeling for tubers with their toes.

Among them were these Peruvian purple beauties. They are not only gorgeous outside (who knew, until we washed them?!), but luscious inside—perfect for a steaming in a seaside clambake. Perhaps it's because of my Irish roots, or maybe just because something so humble can be so nimble, but I love potatoes. The fact that these look like moody Easter eggs makes them all the more wondrous.

Onto the point: The meal we made from these simple ingredients is one of my favorites of all time. Truth be told, I'm a simple cook. But I love great food. So I'm at my happiest when we can stroll the the garden, pick (and nibble) beans and herbs, grab a plump head of our garlic, pile up day-old potatoes, and march inside. I know a great meal is coming, with little toil from me.

This recipe is one I call warm potato salad or Poor Girl's Nicoise, based loosely on one by my Australian muse, Donna Hay. It is wonderfully inexpensive, filling and soul-warming, all at once. It's on heavy rotation here because it's great when you've got the garden goods and when your pantry feels bare.

• Warm, cooked potatoes, sliced thickly
• Green beans, trimmed and blanched
• A few herbs like parsley, summer savory or oregano
• A can of tuna (I didn't have any on hand on this day, but I usually do. Of course, fresh tuna would be divine.

For the genius vinaigrette:

• 4 Tablespoons olive oil
• 4 Tablespoons cider or white wine vinegar
• 2 Tablespoons seeded mustard (if you don't have any—and I often don't—I just use dijon and toss in  a spoonful of mustard seeds; they are the key to its interesting texture)

Stack several slices of potato in a wide bowl (I choose a bowl over a plate, any day). Scoop chunks of tuna—about half a can per person—onto the pile. Then, lay a handful of green beans and herbs on top. In a separate, little bowl, combine the olive oil, vinegar and mustard, and a bit of salt and pepper. Generously drizzle the vinaigrette over each.

Now, dig in. And tell me if it isn't the most surprisingly yummy meal you've eaten—maybe ever.

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.

The tractor man cometh.

Meet Andy.

Andy is the "tractor man" of my dreams. He has helped friends carve out, rototill and maintain farms, fields and gardens of all sizes. I've heard how fast he works, and how many things he can do in no time. For more than a year now, I've had a grand plan in mind for our hillside permaculture garden. And Andy has been the lynch pin for realizing it.

We were finally ready for him. One wonderful morning last week, he pulled in and hopped onto his friendly Kubota. The boys instantly recalled Mary Anne, the steam shovel of their storybook imaginations. Owen was happy to offer directions: Head over the bridge, to where Mama is waiting. With color-coded sketches for you to follow.

The garden above where Andy cut a comfortable path was a swath of land I cleared myself, over several weeks, last spring. It was backbreaking. And slow. Once I knew how good the soil beneath the encroaching Japanese honeysuckle was—and how much sunlight bathed it all—I couldn't wait to open up the rest of the hill. (See the color of that soil? My beloved arugula bed is just above it.)

Andy's tractor dug twice as much in half a day as it took me a whole season to clear, weed, and till. To say I was giddy would be an understatement.

It may look like unconventional farmland, and I suppose it is. But I was inspired to reclaim this sunny hillside for growing food by an Austrian permaculture pioneer/loveable kook named Sepp Holzer. He grows apricots and peaches, tomatoes and lemons—all on his high Alpine forest farm, at an altitude of between 3,300 and 4,900 feet above sea level. (We're at sea level.)

Holzer's theory of expending fossil fuels once to carve a productive annual and perennial garden into of bright hillside (and mild microclimate), made perfect sense to me. Access is key. That's why I love my terrace path so much.

Of course, I'm not the only one who loved Andy. I think the boys would invite him to move in, if he'd stay.

Wouldn't you, if the earth-moving amusement park came to you? It did for all of us, in a way. The boys took several spinning bucket rides. And I've planted tomatoes on the top of the new path, where they'll bake in the heat radiating off the new hillside. Pumpkins, beans and melons are ready to tumble down the lower hillside. I'm so elated that something I've dreamt about for so long exceeded my expectations. Now comes the work of soil improvement, replanting, and patience.

I can't wait.

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.  

Fairly full from Common Ground

I just returned from a glorious, enriching day of lapping up organic living and growing in Unity, Maine, home of the Maine Organic Farmers and Growers Association. The group's annual Common Ground Fair is so full of information, friends and amazing food, I left feeling full to bursting. Here's what I can remember...

• Angora goats are “addictive.”
• Organic, locally grown fair food is VERY expensive.
• The Maine Organic Farmers and Growers Association, a.k.a. MOFGA, is magic: Its fair is simultaneously down-home and ethereal.
• Young bulls are called bullocks.
• Who needs roller coasters, when kids can slide down a grassy hill, using only cardboard, for two hours and 17 minutes?

• Top-bar beehives give bees room to build honeycomb in the size they naturally need. Some beekeepers plant lavender and thyme beneath their hives to keep mites at bay.
• If you have a cordless drill, you can whip amendments into worked soil with the nifty Tilther from Johnny’s Selected Seeds. 
• I pine for Johnny’s Six Row Seeder.
• “Chestnut” crab apples are sweet, juicy and bright; the perfect size for little hands or a few big bites.
• Apples are the most interesting fruit I know.
• You can make fire by rubbing two sticks together … after tying a basic bow, carving a peg to rub in a whittled plank, and kneeling very carefully while rubbing furiously. Having a friendly Maine Guide nearby is a big help.

• Sheep are far easier to herd than goats. Sheepdogs have an easier time doing it than kiddos.
• Spinning wool is a quiet art; spinning "in the grease" works wonders on dry winter hands.
• “Fingers look like carrots” to livestock.
• Friendships made in the course of pursuing your passions are lasting and real.
• Forests selectively harvested and replanted with varying species are less stressed than single-species stands of timber.
• Hula hoops whirl around hips longer if you stand with one foot in front of the other, spread apart a bit. If you can manage it, your kids will cheer.
• You can live without cell phone service for an entire day.
• Garlic is easy to grow in fertile soil (6 inches apart on 12-inch rows). Hardneck varieties are easier to peel than softnecks. Curing bulbs in a dry place will help them store them well for months.
• Abundance is all around us.

It's time to harvest just about everywhere. Eat up, and enjoy.

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.

garden planning with google

Whenever I have looked up from the mud while trying to outrun the rain to plant two peach trees, one nanking cherry bush, three high-bush blueberries, 100 strawberry plants, and a new raspberry hedgerow, I have been madly envisioning where the rest of our food will go. The tomato and pepper seedlings, the greens waiting in flats, and the pumpkins, gourds and corn all need fertile homes, too.

This is the "year of the garden." It's the year I stop dreaming and reading and surfing YouTube (for swale-building tutorials, no less) ... and START PLANTING. It took me a few years, and as many meager harvests, to locate just the right site for really productive fruit and vegetable gardens. This process took a while because, along the way, I became obsessed with permaculture and forest gardening. Lucky for me, deep contemplation is as necessary as good compost for gardens that are high-yield, low-maintenance and as perennial as can be.

Well, the tines hit the topsoil over the past few weeks (please forgive the long lapse between posts), and our new hillside garden is well under way. (The tomatoes are stretching their toes as I type.) A tool I found especially helpful was one I learned about from my friend, Lisa, who runs our impressive local permaculture meetup. She told me that she uses Google Earth to track the layout, patterns of sunlight and even make measurements on properties for which she's designing gardens. I downloaded it, zoomed into our location (the top image is a snapshot of our fledgling homestead), and then traced everything from existing gardens to a tiny future vineyard. A girl's gotta dream, right?