Raab carpet

Earlier this week, the potting soil in the planter box outside our kitchen window began to bulge, relentlessly expanding upward in uneven swells, until one day, it erupted with the broccoli raab seeds I’d planted last Saturday. 

I’d seeded the planter thickly, to the point of ridiculousness. I wasn’t a novice gardener being overly cautious. I wasn’t sloppy with my hand. I wasn’t in a rush. Furthermore, I understand the concept of thinning. And, I understand that one is not to waste seed. But, when I planted this box, I didn’t have food production in mind. This planting was about artistic expression and about testing the laws of nature. I wanted to see if I could grow raab like one might grow grass. And if I could, what would it look like? I wanted to sip tea in the morning while gazing out our kitchen window (which has a terrible view) at a lush carpet of rich green raab. I imagined myself putting down my tea just long enough to take a couple of careful snips of the raab-shag, tossing the tender shoots onto a plate of warm breakfast potatoes. 

When I did this, I understood (theoretically) that there are laws governing natural systems. Who questions nature’s requirements of at least six hours of sunlight, good soil and adequate room for roots to grow? Last week, I did. Next week, I’ll very likely be posting a picture of a mass of pale, undernourished, dying raab—and those of you who are especially sympathetic to all living creatures, will curse me—but, for now, I’m enjoying my experiment, like any good third-grader would. 

All rise

Everyone is up now. A combination of rain, sun and warmth has brought all the seeds to the surface: Sugar snap peas, carrots, turnips, beets, arugula, radish and mustard. This week, I also planted 'tristar' everbearding strawberries and mizuna starts. Here at home, I planted chervil seeds which are now up, and yesterday, broccoli raab seeds (saved from last year’s plants), and red leaf lettuce variety 'rouge' (seeds from a friend which are several years old by now. We’ll see if they sprout). 

Today promises to be dry, sunny and in the mid 70s. And though it won’t be raining today, and  I’ve yet to see any slug damage (it could be all the filbert shells I paved the paths with—slugs don’t like sharp barriers.), I sprinkled Sluggo around all the starts and seedlings for good measure. Yesterday, in a gardening class taught at the garden by a fellow gardener, I learned that Sluggo takes a couple of weeks to take effect, so this should help when the rain starts up again.

The white currants and blueberries are flowering and from the looks of the number of currant flowers, we’ll be eating plenty of berries this summer, unless the birds get them first. The blueberries are making a few flowers, but I’m not counting on more than a handful to top a bowl of oats. 

Today, Tom is helping me attach a planter box to the railing of our back porch, which I’ll sew with cilantro for our much loved chip and guacamole dinners, which are just around the corner.

Sprouts in six days

Sunday night I dreamt that my seeds had sprouted. Monday I headed to the garden to find out, and there they were, forming tiny squiggly green lines across the deep brown beds. I can’t identify everything that is up because I, naturally, failed to label the rows. But I have recognized a few by their cotyledons and general placement. This might be really annoying to some gardeners, but I’m not very scientific about the process, and I know that as they mature, they will eventually reveal their identities to me. There is so little mystery left in life. This is one way to have some for a little while.

Here is what I think has surfaced:

Radish

Turnip

Beet

Mustard

Spring’s first drought

Drought isn’t the first word that comes to mind when I think of Portland in April, which is why it seemed perfectly acceptable to plant seeds last week. It was a regular plan. Plant seeds and then watch as the rain continues. One’s main concerns are that the seeds will wash away and pop up some place that was never intended and/or that they will be mowed down by slugs overnight. Not for a moment did it occur to me that a drought might be near. And if it had occurred to me, I wouldn’t have thought to check and see if the water had been turned on at the garden. Well, the drought came and the water doesn’t get turned on until April 15th. All of this is to say that on Sunday Tom and I found ourselves hauling five gallon buckets of water to the garden in an attempt to keep everything alive. 

I don’t want this to sound like I am ungrateful for the uncharacteristically dry and warm days. I’m not. In fact, it has been fun to be suddenly dropped into summertime life. Or maybe it is more accurate to say that I feel as if summertime life has dropped itself onto me. Colonel Summers park feels like I imagine New York City might have in the late 1970s. Or at least it looks like I imagine it would have. The place is awash with hipsters who have taken up sports. From American Apparel striped knee highs on the basketball court to dirty jeans, headbands and big beards in the baseball diamond (with a keg on second base), the park is one big party.

 

But, just over the fence, my little seeds are using all the energy they can muster to poke through a thick, hard ceiling of compost which has become dry and crusty in all this sun. No party for the seeds and little starts. No keg on second base. It is up to me to see them through this, one bucket of water (from home), at a time.

Here is what Tom and I planted this weekend:

Starts from the Urban Farm Store on 20th and Morrison:

Red Orach

Arugula

English Thyme

Hood Strawberries

*If you don’t know this place, check it out soon, before it is so packed that you have to elbow your way to the vegetables, herbs, small fruit trees, tea bushes, olives—and chicks! 

Starts from Wildcat Mountain Farm from People’s Coop: 

Red Kale

*People’s is a great place to pick up starts from Wildcat Mountain Farm, a local grower. Food Front also sells them. Later in the season, look to Wildcat for a good selection of tomatoes that are well suited to our climate.

Remembering how to live

A handful of goth teenagers spent the better part of the afternoon slowing drinking down pitchers of juice and alcohol concoctions while perched in a tree next to my garden. Annoyed with the breach of peace and beauty, I resigned myself to the fact that this was going to be part of the community in community gardening at Col. Summers Park. Part of the deal. At first I found their tedious, loud, and in every way, awkward announcements and flirtations with each other almost unbearable. But then I found myself obsessed with them. An hour later, their ambient chatter had taken me down memory lane, back to junior high and high school. Not that I spent high school drunk in an elm tree. It was something more universal than that. I remembered when my best friend, Jody, and I got ourselves kicked out of Mr. Gorchel’s chemistry class so that we could sit in the bleachers and watch football practice in the beautiful fall light. I remembered hanging out at the laundromat in downtown Gaston at 1AM with Erin Coffee. Doing nothing. Just kicking our heels against the driers. We were waiting and being at the same time. In that empty laundromat, we had our lives ahead of us. We had time to kill. Every moment was charged with anticipation of the next and at the same time, every moment was complete.

 

I’d stopped gardening. Who knows how much time had passed. I realized I’d been sitting on the edge of one of my raised beds, in the sun, just sipping tea and remembering. I decided to plant two rows of carrot seeds, and call it a day. Most of the goth kids took off about the same time. But one was pretty bad off and when I left he was tossing and turning in the muddy field, clenching his pitcher of juice, saying something about wanting a song for his birthday. His friend, a very large girl dressed in black with magenta hair, sat next to him as he rocked back and forth, and told him he’d be okay.

From sprouts to loaves

Tonight I took a pan bread making class at Grand Central. Because of a small error made by the teacher of the class, we ended up with mounds and mounds of extra dough. I mean mounds. A mound which filled an industrial size mixing bowl. Mounds that had to be transported not by hand, but via rolling carts. 

Tonight, we were showered not only with dough, but also with dinner. By the end of the evening I’d enjoyed two cups of wine (served in plastic juice cups), a heap of gooey baked mac and cheese (made from what Piper referred to as cheese butts—the ends of the blocks of cheese from the slicer) which filled 1/2 my dinner plate, a beautiful salad of spring's newest, crisp greens, a cup of white bean and tomato soup, a slice of coconut cake with fluffy white frosting, and a slice of pineapple upside down cake. I brought home four loaves of bread and enough dough to make four more. It was a night of learning, of generosity and of excess. And it also marked the completion of a cycle.

Just about one year ago, I took a trip to Walla Walla, Washington with the owners of Grand Central to visit some of the farmers who make up the Shepherds Grain Collective. GC was looking to find a way to source 100% of their flour from the cooperative. Tonight, Mel told me that about two weeks ago they made the switch, and that the flour we worked with tonight likely came from the grain which was only just sprouting up under our feet as we walked the Walla Walla wheat fields last spring. 

As my friend and I left class, the cab of my truck filled with the scent of freshly baked bread. Just imagine it. A tiny cab and eight loaves of bread. I nearly drove us off the road and onto the sidewalk, my head drunk on the sweet, yeasty perfume. Things feel right in the world.

Spring’s other wet side

It has been three days since I planted the season’s first seeds. Serving as my little helper, the rain has faithfully kept the beds evenly moist as recommended on the backside of the seed packets. 

I’m feeling evenly moist too, though perhaps a little more wet on my feet. I made the hopeful but ultimately unfortunate decision to wear my favorite boots today. The ones so favored that their soles have holes throughout. Walking in them from the truck to the office proved slightly better than doing so barefoot, but not much. Feeling like I had nothing to lose (I’d been sitting at work with puddles for feet for nine hours after all) I came home, pulled on my muddy rain boots and headed to the garden to see if the radish sprouts had poked up yet. No luck. Though it looks like birds have been poking around the plot. They left holes, where they were likely foraging for my newly planted seeds, and some poop. 

One of the best things about gardening in the rain is coming home and getting even wetter—in a hot bath. Baths should be followed up with time in a warm bed with wool blankets to keep your heat in. It is from here that you can best watch the rain and then, drift off, thinking about those tiny seeds nestled in the mud, getting plump and ready to shoot up.  Maybe tomorrow.