Mulish & Co.

The Great Garlic Harvest of 2013

I have the best intentions, really I do. I took the May writing challenge at 750 Words and was cruising right along until Saturday when the thought of writing never crossed my mind once. Not once. Then a few minutes after midnight I remembered but, too late, I was already on The Wall of Shame. Yikes! As a follow up to my somber disappointment I did not bother to visit 750Words on Sunday or Monday, either.

I really like the website. The writing platform is clean and straightforward and for someone like me, who likes to quantify everything, it's nice to have a word count, the time it took to peck out those words and see some other data as well. It is based on Julia Cameron's advice that writers can benefit from morning pages, writing 3 pages of whatever is bouncing around in the ol' echo chamber first thing in the morning.

I found that it gave me a space to write about work and to purge bothersome little annoyances that aren't worth expressing out loud without coming across as petty and hateful. It was also a good place for me to write about dreams and goals without coming across as unrealistic. I'll go back to it eventually, probably as soon as tomorrow. I couldn't do it today because I wanted to share the garden news with you!

Last summer, in late September, possibly even very early October, we planted our first garlic. We chose a variety called Inchelium Red. It is a softneck variety and stores for 6 to 9 months. Michael planted the individual cloves 6" apart along the length of the large bed. That must be about 10'. They sprouted right away and have looked healthy and hearty for months now. I pulled one up just to see how far along the bulbs were back in January, then again less than a month ago. There was no bulb development and I was starting to think that I'd never see a garlic head. I looked at You Tube videos, read blogs and books to try to determine when I should harvest.

All the information said that the garlic is ready to harvest when the green leaves start to turn brown. Our garlic leaves seemed to look healthy still. There was some drying brown husks at the bottom but overall they looked pretty good. Or so I thought.

Ready or not, here I come

 

Who's a pretty little bulb now?

Yesterday I pulled the most withered garlic stalk that I could find and BEHOLD! There was a big, fat bulb at the other end. I thought it might be a fluke so I pulled its neighbor out and again, a swollen, albeit a very dirty white bulb came up and out of the soil. I raced back into the house to show Michael, trying to hide the garlic stalks behind me until it was time for the big reveal but when I saw him I immediately thrust them out, "LOOK!"

I had him take a picture of me on the front porch beaming like a dope with my newly dug garlic. Afterward, I tried to rein in my excitement and help Michael with the dead tree removal (he cut down the dead hackberry on Saturday) but I was far too distracted by all of the garlic. I pulled the row up, one after the other a bulb dangled at the end. I can hardly express the satisfaction. I laid them out on the picnic table and eventually found a good place for them to cure.

Garlic pile

The first stage of garlic curing is to set them out for a week or so intact. The second step is trimming the roots and the long stalks unless you intend to braid them. I'll try a few braids but probably not the entire bunch. They are pretty much perfect except for one that was left in too long and grew through the papery wrapper and one that wasn't developed all the way.

Too far gone

I already cleaned and used one clove from one head for eggs this morning. It was peppery hot and looked like a pearl on the cutting board. We are definitely planting garlic again in September. Probably twice as much unless I come to my senses before then.

Perfect little pearly cloves

 

The Choked Fennel and The Displaced Stripey Monster

This guy...

 

recently lost his home.

 

It's sad, I know. He may have been picked off by a blue jay. Or a mockingbird. Or a grackle, for that matter. He just wasn't there after awhile. He had lots of relatives living just a frond or two away. They all disappeared one day. I looked for cocoons but could never find even a one. I always thought that maybe they went down to the base of the fennel, nearer to the soil.I hope they didn't drown.

Last weekend, when we actually got measurable rainfall, I noticed that the fennel was very saggy. I planted the fennel from seed and it took forever to reach it's towering height so I found the sag distressing since I had taken a great deal of pride in the robustness of this particular herb. When I went to inspect, I could see that the planter was waterlogged. The roots must have been gasping for air. I tipped the planter  over (with some resistance and difficulty) to spill out the water thinking that would take care of the problem. I then put it back to its upright position.

The next day the sag was more noticeable. I checked again and again the soil looked to be waterlogged. I tipped the planter over, again with some difficulty, and inspected the bottom. I could see a root coming out the bottom. I went to move the planter but it was anchored into the ground and took a great deal of effort. It was heavy from the water and rooted into the soil. This is what I found:

I couldn't believe the mass of roots that I found. They had managed to squeeze their way through the 1" hole at the bottom of the planter. The roots had bottle necked at the hole and eventually blocked it completely. Not a drop of water could pass through. I tugged and pulled at the mass until it let go. The air filled with the smell of licorice. My hands, too. I clipped what I could to use later. I doubt that I will use it though, it's still in a cup of water in the refrigerator. It looks pretty in there. It looks like the outside living in a cold box inside.

If there was a caterpillar living in that mess it was completely displaced that day and I apologize. I'm sorry for the short notice, Stripey Thing. I hope that you found your way out of the doomed ark and not in the beak of a jay.

Tis The Spring Season

'Tis the season for doggie raincoats, it is! It's usually hot and sunny in Central Texas by now so maybe I am out of order with all the "Tis the season" jazz but there is nothing quite as refreshing and hopeful as a good spring rain. I like to pretend it is a common occurrence. I imagine the roots of my tomatoes and peppers all swelling with delight and happily absorbing copious amounts of nutrients. They look happy out there. In fact, they look so happy out there that I had to go see what all the garden hubbub and murmuring was about.

I felt like I was in a multi-patient delivery suite. The tomato mamas are all pushing their babies out. I see round little crowns peaking from below the leaves on every tomato plant back there. The Azoychka pulled a fast one on me. I thought she would bear large yellow beefsteak fruit but instead it looks like her offspring will be just slightly larger than cherry-tomato size. The Cherokee is, once again, putting all the other ladies to shame. Her fruit is large and abundant and nearly ready for the table (sorry tomato-baby, don't be too scared).

The rain has washed away enough topsoil to reveal the zinnia seedlings. They've sprouted after just a week. I'm already regretting not having planted more. Tomorrow maybe. And isn't that how gardening goes? There is always tomorrow and it's going to be beautiful when it gets here. Here's to your tomorrow, may it be ever fruitful and abundant. May your tomatoes thrive and your flowers bloom. Have a good weekend!

There Will Be Melons

 

Future Home Of The Sugar Baby Watermelons

Sunday, April 28th. We want to remember that date. It's the day that I planted the watermelon seeds in the center of the big bed. It was a risky endeavor, one that I didn't take lightly. I planted the Moon & Stars variety last year to great disappointment. We didn't get a single good watermelon. I think only three formed and one was edible. At least the chickens found it edible.

The thing about watermelons is that they take up space, both in the garden and in the shopping cart. They demand it. Have you ever had one of those things rolling around in your cart as you navigate through the market threatening to crush the bread? You have to anchor it between a half gallon of milk and the toilet paper.

As far as space goes, I have little of it to give away. I went back and forth this year whether to plant the melons in the big bed and forego the squash or give the melons an entire 4x4 to themselves. Two years ago I grew cantaloupe in a 4x4, the one nearest the house. The cantaloupe vine grew beautifully and the melons were delicious. I am hoping that these little Sugar Babies produce at least one unforgettable summer melon.

Decision making in the garden never gets easier, no matter how many  springs and summers come to pass. I still have a 4x4 reserved for either cucumbers or basil. I'm leaning towards basil with a few zinnias planted in the center for height.  But that means just saying no to pumpkin and zucchini and eggplant.  I need more space which means I need a tiller or a stronger back. I need to dig and sift and amend. It's a lot like life, the garden. Work it out there, in your garden beds, and your good to go.

Garden Time

I gardened until well after dark last night. When I looked up, after sinking the last marigold into the bed next to the peppers, I wondered why no one had called me in. But who? My mother? This childhood memory still lingered after watching the neighbor girl across the street wander down the road with her two friends and hearing her father called out to her, "D! You be home by dark!"

My mind has so much room when I garden. I'm either entirely focused or off in another decade in another town with different company. The tomatoes, however, are always present and doing what tomatoes do best. They are thriving. The Cherokee Purples have lots of green tomatoes as does the Azoychka. I anticipate a banner year but still knock on wood because I know, and you know if you are a gardener, that anything can happen between now and then. Four weeks, eight weeks - it's time enough for insects to come and eggs to hatch. It's time enough for disease to gain an upper hand. It's time enough, no matter how often I feel like I am running out of it.

 

We have had days and days of rain. This makes me really glad that I did all of my difficult garden chores over the Easter weekend. I told myself when I was raking and shoveling the contents from one compost bin to another that, "This is the hardest work that I do in this garden! Nothing is more grueling that this." Afterwards, when one bin was raked clean and the other was full and fluffy, I moved on to the chicken coop. 

I made sure to arm myself with the chicken rake. It's a bit flimsy but lightweight and easy to wield. Tiny has become unpredictable ever since I ran out of his scratch a week ago. He doesn't like the layer crumble and vents his anger in my direction. Most days when I enter the cedar elm grove that is his land, it feels as if I were suddenly transported to Westworld. Tiny plays the part of the rogue Gunslinger, and I (desperate for cover) dart from tree to tree, all the while pleading with him to, "Be nice to me! Be nice to me!"

I wheeled the barrow into the coop and started shoveling and sifting. A few minutes into the chore I told myself, "This is most definitely the hardest chore that I do! Nothing is worse than this, not even turning the compost bin". The internal dialogue continued. I told myself that it's all worth it because the chicken manure is gold. It's pure gold! I'll add it to the compost and get a nitrogen rich blend in, oh, six months or so? Another voice chimed in and told me to calm down and keep my perspective on things because, really, it's all just chicken shit. Plus, I could buy compost for three bucks a bag at the nursery and save myself all of the raking and shoveling and sifting and dodging from one tree to another. 

Neither job is particularly pleasant on it's own, turning the compost or raking out the chicken coop. But everything together is very satisfying. When Michael tells me that he made a great salad the other day and thanks me for growing the lettuce and I counter with, "It's nothing, really. I just put a few seeds in the ground" we both know what really went into it. I could have and maybe should have just said, "It's my pleasure" because it was and is and the garden does as much for me as I do for it.

How To Plant Peanuts by Jimmy Carter - Yes, THAT Jimmy Carter

It's funny what friends can spur us to do. Not in a creepy peer pressure kind of a way but more along the lines of inspiration. We're different people when we're with others. Our minds simply engage in a different way than when we're alone.

And gardeners are a funny lot; all of us. We seem to want it both ways - the company of others and the solitude that our gardens offer. We have community gardens and meet ups and we go on garden tours together but the next day we will want to trundle off to our own green space and get lost in our own minds. Being alone in our gardens, that's when the real work gets done. That's when we can heave and ho and grunt and dare. We don't have anyone lifting an eyebrow and casting doubt. We can sit doing nothing and that's okay, or we can rip out a long established rose bed that for some inexplicable reason we feel is out of whack with our own personal feng shui. Being alone in the garden frees us from the company of a lesser person bent on micromanaging us.

Still, there is a place for others in this semi-private realm of ours that we call gardening. I would never have thought to plant peanuts had it not been for fellow gardener Katina, for example. And had I not considered the idea of planting peanuts, I would not have written to President Jimmy Carter. And if I had not written to Jimmy (we're on a first name basis, you know) I would not have received the glorious honor of having had him respond to my request for advice on growing peanuts.

We're all in this together, you and me and Katina and Jimmy. We can all inspire and give in even the smallest of ways. You might think that telling someone that the best time to sink peanut seeds is in May is inconsequential, but it might mean a whole lot to the person receiving the advice. And who knows why? For the advice? For the connection? For the acknowledgment that your endeavor is worthy and matters even if it is just  a mere kitchen garden? Who knows why connections matter. They just do.

And now for you, the letter. Thanks for planting the idea of peanuts in my head, Katina.

 

Bonus Track: Thank U Falletinme Be Myself Again