Summer homecoming

As a child, I took my share of family road trips every summer. The six of us, four under 18 (with the occasional additional kid- friend), would pile into our Dodge Caravan and set out for the open road for weeks at a time. Vacation.

Summers were hot, and the caravan, without air conditioning. We were a sticky, somewhat smelly bunch. Our kitchen was a bright yellow cooler, from which we’d eat peanut butter and jelly or cheese and mustard sandwiches. Our dining room, rest areas or the car. I’m sure no family member will argue with me when I say that our trip soundtrack was a chaotic one: The hum of the tires on the road punctuated by the now and then rattling of something loose on the caravan; Dad commanding my brothers to sit on their hands, rendering them incapable of pestering my little sister with them; and on top of all this, the sweet sound of Lionel Richie or Kool and the Gang blasting through the not so super car speakers.

These trips were memorable for different reasons. Some were better than others of course, and I’m not sure they counted at all as vacation for my parents. One thing was for certain on each trip; if dad was with us (sometimes he stayed home to work on the farm) he was always looking forward to the day when the caravan would pull onto our dusty gravel road, returning him to his land. At the time, I figured he was worried about the farm. Worried that there had been a break in the irrigation line, that deer had munched on the rootstock, or that the crew hadn’t shown up. And while all of that may have been true, I realize now, after being away on my second vacation of the summer, that it was also perhaps love that made him long for home.

My garden welcomed me back to Portland like a porch light in the night. The bush beans had exploded; tomatillos hung like hundreds of tiny lanterns on the bushy vine; on the lowest branches of the Stupice vine I found my first tomatoes, which inspired unparalleled excitement even after years of growing tomatoes; and cucumbers lazed around like giant sea lions on a dock.

Overwhelmed by the abundance, I tried to focus on the task of harvesting as my mind bounced here and there thinking of what I might do first. Make salsa, dilly beans, pickles? In the end, I couldn’t decide, and so I did it all, practically at the same time. On my first day home I baked two loaves of bread, made a big bowl of garden fresh salsa, cleaned up the garlic for storage, made my favorite pickle from the Zuni Cafe cookbook, froze a half flat of blueberries picked on the way home, made fresh pasta and tossed it with dried chili pepper, lemon zest, cream and just-picked figs from a friend’s tree, and made currant preserves (Bar le Duc).

Tom and I did okay on our trip eating out of the bright yellow cooler. But much like my dad, I think I’ll always love coming home to places that greet me, and feed me, like this one.

Savoring summer

Yesterday we joined the masses at Sauvie Island Farms, picking the fields to fill our larder. In the mid morning sun, we walked the rows of marionberry thickets searching for dark, long fruit that would easily acquiesce to our plucking. As is sometimes the case when berry picking, opportunities for eavesdropping were equally ripe. Thick rows of canes give the illusion of privacy. 

Tom and I pick different rows in silence; Tom taking in the natural world, and I listening to snippets of the conversations all around me. A couple in the row next to me have the same conversation for about twenty minutes, which goes something like this: "These are too hard to pick. They poke you, and they are either too ripe or not ripe enough.  I’m going to pick the raspberries because they are easier." I wonder why these people have gone to the trouble of coming to the farm. Shopping at a grocery store might better suit them. 

When I’m about halfway down a long row, seemingly alone, the unmistakable smell of pot overwhelms me. For a moment, I wonder if they are growing weed under the cover of the berries. But then I come to my senses, reminding myself that pot probably doesn’t smell this way when it grows. Soon, I hear the equally unmistakable sound of people getting high—giggling.  I look up to find a trio of old men who look like they just arrived from Beaverton, and maybe from a game of golf. One is bent over taking a drag and it occurs to me that I should suggest that he offer some to the unhappy couple who can’t tear themselves away from the marionberries they claim to detest.

By 11:30am we were back in the truck and headed for town. Together we’d picked 10.5 pounds of marionberries and three pounds of green beans. As soon as we got home, I threw open the door to the back porch to let the breeze in, and got to the task at hand. By sundown I had four quarts of frozen marionberry pie filling,  four quarts of dilly beans and a loaf of bread for the week. My face glistened with sweat. Blobs of thick marionberry pie filling dotted the kitchen floor and the soles of my feet. The scent of hot sugar and vinegar permeated the house. It couldn’t have felt more like summer, and I couldn’t have been happier.

Why not take care of yourself?

The more I feed us by working in the garden and the kitchen, the more I wonder why we (humans) gave it all up to work outside of the home in the first place. Growing food is one of the most rewarding, challenging and important things I know of to do. 

Last year, I reduced my hours at work so that I could be outside more, rediscover natural rhythms, and learn more about growing food and stocking a pantry. I wanted to get back to the things I knew made me feel good and I wanted to know that I could take care of our basic needs, or at least a few of them. 

When I tell people that I work less (and make less money) by choice, they are often quite puzzled. When they learn that I make bread every week, they say things like "Why would you want to do that when there are so many great artisan bakeries in town?" or "Must be nice to have that kind of time." When I tell people I also make cheese on occasion, that I make stock once a week, and that I grow most of the vegetables we eat, I’m often labeled a foodie. 

These sorts of reactions make me wonder when taking care of oneself in this manner became "a thing." Not too long ago, living like this wasn’t really considered a lifestyle. It was simply life. And it certainly didn’t fill the pages of newspaper style sections like it does today. Blogs like this one would have been ridiculous had blogs existed.  I don’t want to be an outcast, but I don’t want to be a foodie either. There was a time when this was normal, and while I know we can never go back, how I’d welcome this to become the new normal.

For all the wrong reasons

I love the idea of jam. Last year I made half pint after half pint not because I loved jam, but because I loved the idea of jam. I told myself that although jam had never played much of a role in my adult life (I don’t know that I’ve ever purchased it in the grocery store), that surely I would eat jam if it was in the pantry, and homemade. But, by Christmas I had given most of it away as gifts, and anything left by the time the new year rolled around was put to use as hostess gifts or birthday presents. 

Last year, I loved the idea of jam so much that I froze peaches that didn’t immediately make it into jam so that I could be free to make jam any time I pleased throughout the year. Now, nearly one year later, several quarts of peaches stare at me from the back of the freezer. Determined to be rid of these before the next round of peaches arrive, and against my better judgement, I decided to turn some of them into jam last week. When the jam failed to set and I was left with a few pints of peach sauce, I decided to try my hand at peach butter. As it turns out, I love peach butter. Not just the idea of it, but the actual food. I like the deeper flavor it takes on after cooking for so long. I like the way it coats a piece of toast.

So I begin this season of putting food by with clarity. I will not try to make myself love something I don’t just because I can make it myself and think it romantic. I will not use the freezer as a tool for prolonging the life of something that I plan to preserve in some other fashion at a much later date. 

I’ll make the things I love. Because homemade might make it better, but it might not be good enough to make me want to eat it. 

A little bit every day

Extreme weather can teach a gardener a lot about growing food. Whereas most of the season a gardener might not notice the nuanced chemical processes occurring daily within a plant, the effects of a stretch of very hot weather are quickly apparent, and not often good. In my garden, the extreme heat of early July caused the tomatoes and peppers to drop their top blossoms, beet greens to wilt in the late afternoon heat, and pea vines to turn yellow and crispy. Beet tops recover. But the tomato and pepper blossoms are lost, and with them, the potential for fruit. This episode reminded me of how little control I have over the natural world. Humbled, I hope for the return of warm and sunny days so that new blossoms will unfold and new fruit will set in time to ripen. 

Now the middle of summer, harvests are constant, and at the same time I must begin sowing fall crops. Something must go to make room for the seeds which will feed us this fall and into winter. I bask in the bounty of summer but am mindful of hungrier times ahead. So here is what I do.

What’s in

Sweet Potatoes: A couple of weeks ago I received an urgent message from a friend who was on her way out the door for a long summer vacation. She had a small box of sweet potato slips that needed a good home. Unable to say no, I found some space and am trying to create a tropical environment for them. I constructed a small hoop house out of pvc pipe and perforated plastic. I water regularly to keep the inside of the house moist. The plants are responding well with lots of healthy growth, and yet I still feel as though I will only get sweet potatoes by way of a miracle.

Cilantro, Dill, Bush Beans: A second planting of these crops means we will have dill when the cucumbers are ripe (for pickles), and another round of beans and cilantro when the first plantings have been harvested.

What’s out

I’ve become increasingly interested in watching plants complete their entire life cycles. Not immediatly good for the eater who grows in a limited space, but important for me as I seek to develop a comprehensive understanding of how things grow. Eventually though, I’ve got to pull.

Red Orach: I removed all the remaining edible leaves, even if tiny, for salads, then clipped the flowers for arrangements and chopped the stalks into small pieces to compost onsite. One plant remains so that I can see it through from seed to seed. I’ll use its seed for next spring’s planting.

Peas: I cut the plants at the base (leaving the roots to rot in the ground), laid them in the pathways and covered them with horse manure (a sheet composting experiment).

Cilantro: Though we’ve been eating it regularly for about a month, this week I harvested about six cups at once and made pesto. To enjoy pesto year round, simply freeze it in ice cube trays. Once frozen, pop the cubes into freezer bags and use as needed throughout the year. 

Beets: I’ve read that high temperatures can make them woody, so I harvested all but one row which I’m leaving as an experiment to find out for sure.  I steamed half of the harvest, tossed them in balsamic vinegar, and put them in a bowl in the fridge where they are readily available for use in salads throughout the week. The other half is storing in the crisper. 

Garlic: The garlic is in its second week of curing. From the outside the bulbs look dry, but the skin is still drying around the individual cloves. I am guessing it will be another two weeks before it can be safely stored for the year.

Carrots: I’m harvesting a few a week now. They are perfectly formed and blemish free, though unfortunately not very sweet, so I’m researching varieties and growing conditions to see about improving the flavor of my next sowing.