Project Homestead

Naturally addictive "tossed" garlic kale

"Have you tried this kale?" amazed friends asked me at our school's fall fair a week ago. Once I did, I realized what all the commotion was about. It was Delicious, with a capital D. We hunted down the parents in charge of the soup/bread/kale stand, and we promptly begged for the secret to this savory, not-raw-but-not-wilted, garlicky, gingery magic. I knew I could have eaten a whole bowl this size once I found it. I envisioned regular meals made from the Red Russian kale I am still growing in the garden...

A targeted phone call, two messengers, and a couple of bunches of kale later, here it was. Loosely:

• Pour a "good bit" of sesame oil and a little olive oil into a pan. I put about 2-3 Tbs. of sesame and 1 Tbs. olive oil to work in my wok. I minced a piece of fresh ginger the size of my thumbnail, and thinly sliced 2 huge garlic cloves (equivalent to about 4 regular cloves). Keep the ratio about two garlic to one ginger. 
• Over a medium flame, heat the oil to hot but not smoking (trust me); then sautee the garlic and ginger for about 30 seconds. Mine bronwed a bit too quickly, which I could have avoided if my pan and oil weren't so hot. Take the pan off the heat to let the aromatics keep infusing the hot oil without fear of over-cooking them. Then, add a teaspoon of salt to the oil and stir around.
• Finally, toss the trimmed, torn kale into the oil mixture and stir it around to coat. You're not sauteeing or frying it. The alchemy comes simply from combining these leafy greens with the warm garlicky, gingery oil; it just softens every so slightly. 
• That's it. Try to share it with your family. They'll soon crave it—and you can be their dealer.

 

How to grow BIG garlic.

Garlic could be my favorite crop to grow. A bit of preparation, some early planning and effort, and its spring reward is a feeling of effortless accomplishment. Last year, I got serious and sourced a few pounds of my favorite variety, Music. Fedco had sold out, and I found it at Runaway Ranch in Michigan. I pledged that I’d plant enough to keep us eating garlic all year (we need white pizza) and still have enough to plant this fall. Store-bought garlic can’t compare.

I prepped a big bed at the bottom of the hillside by mixing in chicken manure and old hay by hand. The site, clayey soil just where the water drains downhill, meant I would rarely have to water it. I planted the bulbs, pointy side up, in the straightest rows I could manage—trenches, really. I blanketed them with eelgrass and seaweed and planned to top those with mulch hay. The hay never got there.

The shoots came up in spring, and despite the heavy soil, they seemed healthy and uniform. I don’t think I ever fertilized them and only watered a few times that I can remember. We cut the scapes off of the upper section, and used them in a spring garlic scape carbonara we all love. I froze the ones we didn’t use to start soups and stews now.

Here’s where things went wrong: I left the scapes to flower on the lower half of the bed and admired the lovely, seedy globes. I could have sworn that gardeners were split on scapes—the fussy ones cut them in hopes of increasing bulb size, but other, experienced gardeners believed it didn’t make much difference in the end. My experience proved otherwise. When it came time to harvest them, the bulbs from which we trimmed the scapes (on the left) were half again or even twice as plump as the bulbs we didn’t trim (they're on the right). Lesson learned. Will not forget garlic 101: Harvest scapes + spring garlic carbonara = bigger bulbs.

All wasn’t lost, though. I took some puny bulbs and those I’d knicked with my pitchfork—it wasn’t easy to dig in the hill—and preserved them in olive oil. Gorgeous.

Peaches.

I am almost speechless. And proud. And have been doling out these  h o m e g r o w n  peach beauties to those willing to eat them over the sink or out of doors, where their juice can drip freely down our chins.

These lovely fruits taught me a fine lesson. 

I planted our two peach trees—one Red Haven, one Reliance—back in May of 2009 right after the Fedco Tree Sale. They were beauties, and I sited them down near the pond, where they could bask in the sunshine and welcome visits from the honeybees. They flank the raspberry patch, which made sense to me at the time, given how much I love peach raspberry pie.

They've done beautifully. I was shocked by their second summer, when they produced 24 downright floral fruits. But my south-facing siting, where they warm up early, beside by the pond, where late frosts settle first, caught me off guard in their third season: The cold killed their early buds, and we got no fruit at all. This year was their fourth, and they were LOADED with fruit. The new beehive is a short flight away, and our mild spring meant that I didn't even have to cover them when a late frost threatened. It never did.

And yet, I did not thin them. I'd never had to before, and I really didn't think about it until the smaller but more beautiful of the two trees, the one I smile at every time I drive up the drive, the one with the loveliest shape, snapped to the ground under the weight of its fruit. The main stem cracked (perhaps with help from something climbing it, given that all of the fruit was gone). I was devastated. I'd waited patiently and checked regularly for the time when I could harvest just early enough to outwit the squirrels and finish the final ripening indoors. I waited too long, and it is now half the tree it once was.

So, I quickly thinned the other tree (turns out, it takes no time at all!) and left the best fruit, which wasn't yet ripe. Choosing the cream of the crop suddenly didn't seem as hard as thinning seedlings always is for me, given the alternative. Then, we left town on a trip. About a week later, the fruit that remained looked 50% larger. It oozed peachy promise. And this much bigger tree held off the casual nibbling passersby long enough for me to harvest a couple trays of my favorite fruit of all.

Some people meditate, and maybe I will, too, one day. For now, I wander through the garden. And when I look at my broken peach tree, I'm reminded: Fewer are better. Fewer are better. Fewer are better.  

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.

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.

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.

stacking wood

 

Woodstacking lends itself to folksy phrases (which I'll translate later). My favorite is the old dandy, "stack it loose enough for a mouse to run through, but not for the cat to follow." Perhaps it's because every step of the way—from cutting the timber, to splitting it, to hauling it, and, finally, stacking it—leather-gloved hands are handling the wood. And those hands have time to think.

Burning wood is said to warm you three times (splitting, stacking, carrying it inside to burn). In our case, it's four. We made a mistake of inexperience our first year, when we we ordered "seasoned" wood. It was supposed to have been dry, ready to burn, we thought. But it wasn't. Wet wood takes far more time (and cursing) to heat up. So, that year, we burned through far more fuel oil—our heating insurance. That lesson taught us to season it ourselves. That means we order our firewood at least a year in advance. We stack it once in a "fieldstack" back behind the house, where it dries in warm sunshine and cool breezes. By the time we're ready to stack it near the house, patience has turned what was green and damp a warm, silvery gray. Deep cracks through its ends, known as checks, reveal that it's ready to burn. Then, we stack it once more. 

Well, by we, I mean Michael. He's got a knack for spacial relations and details. So we specialize. I haul it. He stacks it. And here's where the folklore comes in. He tells me that he learned a lot of what he knows about burning wood—from BTU output to stacking to fire-starting—from the astonishing Woodheat.org. (Go there.) Stacking wood takes ample patience and a fair bit of problem-solving ability. But one good trick is to bookend each unsupported pile with the familiar "Lincoln Log" pattern. It's bomber.

From there, you can get fancy. We left our stack ends wide open in the middle (using two logs per row instead of three) to allow for even more airflow ... we were also getting tired. In fact, this is a great way to ensure that your well-dried, well-built pile stays put through the coldest days of winter. As for the rest of the pile, we stack it straight on, piece by piece. And we nestle the logs together with gaps that are "loose enough for a mouse to run through, but not for the cat to follow." In other words, no gaping holes. But airflow is key. Remember: Dry wood = hot fires.

Woodstacking is a rite of autumn around here. But, log by log, it's also one that feeds a tangible, monetary, sustainable fire. Once finished, Michael couldn't help grinning and taking deep breaths of satisfaction every time he looked out the window at our pile of winter heat, waiting to be burned.

I'm off to bed, and feed the woodstove...

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.