The Garden Dirt: The Selfish Side of Sharing

Sharing doesn't just help others, it can help you, which you're not supposed to care about if you're a good sharer, but I can't help myself.

Let me tell you about some garlic.

My beloved Spanish Roja arrived, years ago,  in the form of one bulb from Territorial Seed Co. I planted it in October, was delighted by its early vigorous green spears in January, and moved by its spicy dirt smell when I harvested it in August.

The cloves from the largest couple of bulbs from that year went back into the soil a few months later, and the following year, I had a larger crop, of larger bulbs.

 How exciting! This has gone on for years now, with each subsequent generation bringing consistently large, robust, delicious, bulbs.
 

Just when I thought I had really gotten the hang of this garlic-growing thing, I suddenly lost this year's crop to some disease.

My internet-based diagnosis is white rot. This saddened me, not just because I would miss eating Spanish Roja, but because I found myself garlickless, with nothing to plant this October. I guess I could buy a new variety, maybe two. The shopper in me can totally roll with this tragedy, but the gritty survivalist cheapskate in me gets cranky at the thought of losing my line; my fine giant friend who could wondrously reincarnate, better than ever, year after year.

It felt like we had such a good thing going. But hang in there, because this story has a happy ending. It takes place here, in what I refer to as "Vecino* Garden."

 *Vecino is how you say "neighbor" in Spanish. Our neighbors know what we mean when we say it, and my kids are learning.

It's the spot of lawn closest to our neighbors. I do most of the work and they are allowed to eat what grows there. We have some of their favorites: Raspberries, strawberries, and sugar snap peas.

One thing I decided to plant here last fall is ajo. A who? Ah-ho. It's how you say "garlic" if you're our neighbors.

I put it in because I wanted the kids to see something growing there over the winter. A few weeks ago, I invited them to pull out the bulbs and shake away the soil. The crop was small, but healthy, thanks to being far from the fungal bed.When I described garlic to the kids, I got blank looks which quickly evaporated, leaving only disinterest. This was not sweet or ready to eat now. They were reluctant to pester their mom with it, so I got to have it back! I plan to plant every clove.

 What a nice lady I am, right? I planted a garden for the neighbor kids. So patient. So generous.

Hardly! I have a thick streak of grumpy old man to me. Years ago, the sight of these very neighbor children, wandering through our property, snapping the blooms off the tulips and hanging from my magnolia tree, made me shout "Get off my lawn!" in botched Spanish. Not to be territorial, but I was growing food and they were destructive to it.

So, I had a fair reason to enforce a border, but I still didn't feel good about waging a war on it. Eventually, I realized that these children were not going anywhere. They were very soon going to be teenagers, with childhood memories of the forbidden garden next door and the mean lady who wouldn't share.

As much as they had annoyed me, I couldn't forget that they are also healthy and smart. Thus, they crave a connection with the natural world around them. They are like my children. And my children are far easier to get along with when engaged rather than thwarted. Truly believing that nature benefits a person as they grow up, I couldn't deny that I wanted that for them too. So, I asked what they wanted grown in their garden and made sure their parents knew they had my permission to be there and eat whatever ripened.  When I work in rest of the yard, they hang out there, eating and asking questions. They have learned to respect the plants in their garden and no longer deflower everything in sight, since they know some flowers eventually become berries.

Our little neighbors have lived here for five years now, and my kids call them friends. We haven't had much more garden damage at their hands. That might be because they've grown up a little, but I prefer to believe it's because I cultivated a compromise in that little spot of grass we share, along with three bulbs of garlic that grew far far away from the fungus-ridden spot which claimed the rest of my crop.

Here's what I have learned in Vecino Garden: Sharing is necessary for survival.You have to share because you don't know what will happen next. When life deals you troublesome tots and white rot, operating with a little generosity can turn vecinos into amigos and save your bulbs.

The Muddy Kitchen: It's Easy Being Green

Whew, summer! Is it just me or do the longer days act as a vacuum, sucking into existence ten million new things to do everyday? More daylight should mean getting more done, and while we have been doing a lot, it doesn't feel like we're getting much done. Hence the blogless month of June.  But I am grabbing a very squirmy July by the tail. I have something to say and I am carving out time to say it, minute by minute, as I work on tonight's dinner.

That's right, a recipe! But first, some details: I have a summer job. That might be contributing to my overflowing schedule, now that I think about it, but it's totally worth it. I have the best job I could possibly have. I work at my local farmer's market, running a booth that is like a co-op. My neighbors bring what they grow, and I sell it for them. Not only does this generate income for the smallest scale farmers in my area, it supplies our market with a more diverse selection. People grow interesting stuff when they know they'll be using it on a small scale. I mean, Magenta Spreen?

I'm pretty sure we were the only booth in town with iridescent pink leaves last weekend.

Of course, my booth showcases a lot of conventional fare as well. One thing that grows and sells like hotcakes is greens. Kale and chard, mostly. People want to eat them, they know they should eat them, they buy them, they try to cook them, but sometimes they hate them, but they know they should eat them, but they really don't want to anymore. So, regularly, someone dutifully lifts a bunch of great ribbed rubbery leaves from its water-filled bin; and holds it, dripping, aloft, asking, "But, what do you do with it?" That's when I get excited and start talking fast. Because I used to HATE eating greens, but now I LOVE them. I believe this transformation warrants capital letters, and is due to my having developed a method of preparing them which renders them delicious (especially with roasted potatoes.)

Mix It Up: Back where I grew up, this would be called a mess of greens.

It would also be cooked in bacon fat, but now I'm just getting ahead of myself. Look at this photo.

There are five different kinds of leaves here. One thing that always made eating a mess of greens less than appetizing, for me, was that I was usually eating a mess of one kind of green only. Collards and kale, in particular, I never liked. But I can eat them now, because I eat them with a bunch of other plants. When there is a variety of flavors (turnip tops, beet tops, chard, kale, mustard), my mess sings, rather than bash you over the head with one funky or spicy form of chlorophyll.

Separation of Leaf and Stalk: One sacred rule when cooking greens, and a lot of vegetables, is not to overcook them. Removing the thickest portion of the leaf allows it be cooked separately.

For tender stalks, I just trim them off of the end of the leaf. For thicker stalks, I cut the stalk out of leaf a bit.

 This means the delicate leafy part can be cooked later in the process, for less time than the stalks.

Add Allium:                

 This little guy is your secret weapon. 

Who says greens just have to contain greens? Add some chopped garlic, onion, scallion, chives, whatever to your mess before the delicate leafy parts go in.

I put onions with the stalks. The chopped garlic is in its own bowl because I add it a little after the stalks and onions have cooked, a few minutes before adding the leafy parts. Onion turns translucent and sweet when sautéed for a long time, but garlic turns brown and bitter,.

 Flavorful Fat:

 As I mentioned before, bacon fat is the preferred oil for those who prepare greens the old-fashioned way. I use butter, or vegetable oil I've saved from frying.

Meet my girl, Sherry: 

 Well, la-dee-da. Look who thinks she's all fancy. It's the lady who adds a little cooking sherry to her sautéeing leaf stalks, (seasoning with salt and pepper, and letting it cook on med-high for a minute, to remove the alcohol and reduce to a light broth.)

 You might be reading this thinking, "Okay, now you lost me. I'm not one of those fancy 'cooks with wine' people." Neither was I! But then, I obeyed a succotash recipe I read online. Later, another online huckleberry sauce recipe used up the rest of the bottle I bought for the succotash recipe. I bought another bottle as a replacement, without a recipe ordering me to do so, I missed it that much. It's probably in the salad dressing aisle of your grocery store. Get some and get over yourself. You're one of those people now.

When the stalks are tender, add the chopped leafy parts.

The more finely you chop them, the easier they are for little mouths to eat . Turn the heat to med-low and stir constantly, for about two minutes. Then cover and remove from heat.

Sweet and Sour:  Give your greens a stir and a taste. Do they need something? Think sweetener. Sometimes a sprinkled pinch of sugar helps. Or a little acid. Try a splash of balsamic vinegar or squirt of lemon juice.

Last Ditch Effort: This is for those of you who cannot be reached. You did everything like I said, and you still hate your greens. But now you have this mess on your hands, and it'd be nice if you could find some way to get your family to eat it, after which, you swear, you will never never try to eat them again. Parmesan cheese. A handful or two of that has made all the difference with those in our household who are less inclined to love their leafy meal. Beyond that, I don't know what to tell you. Feed it to your chickens.

The Truth About Fairies

Do you believe in fairies? Well, I not only believe in them, I am dealing with one! I spend a good deal of time on the internet, researching how to deter the damage this particular pixie has been doing to my onion beds.

According to the Peter Pan Principle, I should deny her existence, as a fairy's very survival depends on my conviction. Clapping and believing in something brings it back to life, in children's theater, but what about the world outside of the theater? Why do we operate on stark reality out here, but in that dark, rehearsed place, need so badly for our belief to be needed?

This is what occurred to me as I acquainted myself with the story of the Cottingley cousins today.

 Ages 16 and 10, Elsie Wright and Frances Griffiths did something, back in 1917, that I could see my own or many other kids doing: They used technology to make things they've imagined seem real. As soon as their famous photos were publicized, people were begging to know, "ARE THEY FAKE?"

Oh people, you make me so sad sometimes. I mean, look at this!

That is a paper doll, obvs. 

These poor girls had to spend their young adulthoods, playing coy with answers, so as to be neither hoaxing hoaxers, nor Tinker-Bell Slayers.

It's hard to believe anyone would spend a second wondering if those lovely painted pieces of cardboard were tiny, winged, garden-dwelling ladies, when there's so much actual reality here to relish: Artistry, technology, whimsy, and a secret childish place inside of each of us that wants to know more about the story of girls who photographed fantasy. Once a closer look was taken, I believe most scrutineers chuckled a little and figured there was no harm in not calling young girls liars.

"For the true explanation of these fairy photographs what is wanted is not a knowledge of occult phenomena but a knowledge of children." Truth (1921)

See?! Even a magazine called TRUTH couldn't say what is staring everyone in the face. Because you can't prove that something doesn't exist. Try it sometime, if you've got a lot of time to waste. Tell someone that a dream they hold dear is all cardboard and watercolors. No matter the veracity, a larger truth presents itself, which is that you are a pooper of parties, to be excluded from the future fun times. And don't these girls seem fun?

As Elsie eventually conceded, "They are photographs of figments of my imagination." That is exactly what I love about them. A young imagination is too rarely documented in its authentic state. To see it brings hope to this skeptical observer; not that "fake" things are "real," but that in every one of our heads there is a new world, unseen by others, until we find ways to express it.

 Gentle, creative and weird; when I look at the Cottingley girls' work, I see magical creatures in whom I am compelled to believe, and I'm not talking about the fairies.

Tails and Tidings: Weirdos Welcome

Tres! Trois! Something in German!

Today marks the first day of Backyard University's third year online, and rest assured, we are only taking things up a notch.

You see, when one decides to homeoschool their young, one may come to depend heavily on the internet. For everything. TED talks, Oregon Department of Education, Kid President, All The Blogs, Pinterest, and YouTube*

*because how else to convince your Hungarian husband, and young children that Milli Vanilli was actually a thing?

So, there is a tendency to want to give back, so to speak. To make the sort of resource one might rely on if one were someone else.  To capture up some of our crazy with words that can be understood, and even used, to recreate mushroom logs, pumpkin bread pudding, a week-long family film fest; it feels like the natural thing to do after being enriched by the bountiful creativity and work of others.

Part of the shenanigans needing to be documented was the keeping of our backyard beasts. The BU started out with a resident pig and goat frolicking, napping, munching, and sadly, dying. So, chickens filled the land and we resigned ourselves to waiting until we can have a big farm before welcoming more off-beat critters.


Until I got a call from the local shelter, telling me they are in need of a home for an animal that had recently come into their care. I have a hard time saying no to such calls, especially when I heard what sort of creature they needed to place.

Meet Justine! She came to this rainy land all the way from Tasmania, as an exotic pet of a wealthy local. She's young, lays eggs, and is comical-looking. Plus, being female means her ankle spurs aren't venom-filled! So having her as part of our menagerie seems only natural. And, seeing as how the platypus is an endangered species, I am checking petfinder every day, to find her a boyfriend, so that we might help bring the global platypus count back where it should be.

In order to accommodate what may be an indefinite number of water-loving mammals, we are putting in a pond; a platypus pond, which will hopefully be overrun with bottom-feeding, splashing little oddities for us to name and cuddle. So, watch for more posts on Justine the platypus, a lovely bizarre animal once thought to be a HOAX, as she wiggles her way into our hearts. 

George Breaks Down Ballet Class

I'm doing a relevé in this photo. I learned it in ballet class. At my dance school, there was a huge mirror. Dancing is so nice.

Item #1 There were girls.
Item #2 And a teacher
Item #3 I kept dancing.
Item #4 The girls & me kept dancing.
Item #5 When the hour was over, I found my dad.
Item#6 I loved it.
Item #7 My dad drove the car.
Item #8 I told my dad that I did great.
Item #9 And Perfect
Item #10 It was an excellent job.
:-)

Tails and Tidings: The Ovoid of Life

 It is the end of winter. The migrating birds are migrating, the crocuseses are crocusing,  and the air is filled with the sound of squawking hens, and the neighbor, pounding on the back door, shouting, "Your dog got out and she's killing your chickens!"?

 Yep. I'm sad to write, last week started with our big, muddy, puppy giddily galloping around the yard, snapping our hens' necks with a playful snatch n' shake technique we dog owners recognize from any game of tug-o-war. The whole event was shocking, and left us mourning the ladies we loved so. There were five casualties, when all was said and done.

Silver Lining: In times of strife, you learn a lot about the people around you. We would have lost our whole flock that morning, if our neighbor hadn't come to alert us. Also, Zelda's victims were cleaned, plucked, and given to a family who really appreciated the free organic food, thanks to my friend and farm wife mentor, Tawnya. The most helpful thing any of us can have on a journey of learning is someone who knows what they are doing and is inclined to help. We are humbly grateful for the smart, kind people in our lives. They kept a bad situation from getting worse, and even made the best of it.  

Back to Bloody Monday: At first, I was thinking like a pet owner. My girls! No more would I giggle at the sight of Rosalyn's cheekpuffs, or marvel at Pilar's beautiful silver-laced feathers. Anya, known as Onion, was our successful attempt to bring a Buff Orpington into the mix, without having  her end up a rooster. Pippi, who came to us in a post-rooster backwoods-style chicken trade, and fancied herself in charge (although we all know Hot Sauce is running the joint.) And the lovely Vilma, Blue Wyandotte who classed up the yard with her distinguished demeanor. I was heartbroken that I didn't do a better job of keeping them safe.

Then I started thinking like a farmer. A hungry farmer, who hasn't paid more than $20 for eggs in the last year. Five birds left, but six egg-eating mouths. We'd like to get an egg per person, per day, so we'd need at least six chickens. You do the math. Unless the guinea pigs suddenly start laying, we're in need of more fowl.

So we got two new chicks, because you just never know.*

*Step one in the process of starting over: When planning for the future, factor in a little failure.**

**Since beginning to compose this blog post, right after getting the chicks, we also lost Hot Sauce, our Rhode Island Red. The despondency-turned-resiliency cycle that kicked in around here went by so quickly, I nearly scrapped this whole post to make a big lofty one about never giving up. Instead, I'll just say that here, quickly. Never give up. Not until you're dead. If you give up while you're living, your days after that will be miserable disfunction, even if they aren't chockfull of frustrating failure. A dream, burning within you, is your best fuel. It may never be realized, but you are better off  powered by that than hapless resignation for the rest of your days.R.I.P, Hot Sauce, you elegant backyard boss. 

 Yo, you just got a blog post in your blog post, dawg.

 Returning to the issue at hand, and the regular-sized font: This was supposed to be the first year in a few when we would skip the fun of bringing chicks home from the farm store, Sure, they are cuteness walking, and I love that spring around the corner means the cheeping of fluffy little baby birds, but we were at capacity, until last Monday, that is. So, after feeling sad for a bit, I redirected my energy, dusted off the heat lamp and the tiny feeder I made years ago, and set up a brooder (a good place for chicks to stay warm during their first few weeks.)

Chicks need warmth, but they also need their area to have a cool spot. This is because they need to be able to find the right spot that's just the right temperature. During the day, the temperature around them fluctuates, and they will keep the all-important correct body heat level if given freedom to move from one temperature to the another. This is why they have a heat lamp focused on only one half of their cage.

The cage is the other thing. Usually, a high-walled container is ideal for a brooder, especially if it's going to have more than two chicks in it. I opted to put a high-walled area in the cage for them: an old basket with a door cut out of the side. They like to perch on it, and nap.

On the other side of the cage, we have the food, and grit, and water. The cool side of the cage is the best place for these things because the water can get murky under the warm light. I suspect all sorts of microscopic life forms might flourish in both their food and their water if it's warmer than necessary.

The sudden loss of most of our flock still makes me sad, but it's hard to stay that way when watching Parkour and Sasha, (Gold and Black Stars). Chicks are entertaining and engrossing. They're kind of reptilian, despite their eye-searing fluffy cuteness. Just like miniature chickens, they cock their heads, perch, scratch, preen their wing feathers and do battle: hilarious, wee warfare in which there is cranky peeping and tiny wing flapping. We call them our little dinosaurs.

They make me think of death and life. You usually see those terms reversed. Life, then death, right? But what if death is put first? Get out your mental pitchforks and help me turn this compost pile of ideas. Flip the cycle upside down and think of it that way, death almost seems like birth, because it gives way to what is next. As John Lennon said, "Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans." I agree with John, even when what happens while you're planning, is death. So, while I feel sadness at the unexpected end of something, it is me mourning a lost plan, and plans are just plans. They aren't life.

Life is waking up and stretching your wings. It's tunneling your way out of a boring place, to run free. It's sensing danger and acting instinctively to save yourself, even if you can't. It's sensing food and acting instinctively, to hunt. It's running and hiding in fear. It's running and hurting with glee. It's helping and comforting those around you shocked by a day's events. It's thinking of tomorrow, with your stomach. It's starting over and over again, and getting better at it each go-around. It's a flow of behaviors that continue as the organisms who carry them out cyclically appear and recede. People will always make plans, dogs will always chase things,  and chicks will always be cute, and welcome.

Bring it, Father Time!: Musings of a Birthday Girl

It's my birthday!

Today begins the last year in my third decade of life, and can I tell you something strange? I'm actually excited about that. Why is it strange to be excited about your birthday? You aren't asking that if you're an almost or over forty year old woman. We commonly react to birthdays as if they are postcards from the Grim Reaper, evidence that our prettiest and most oblivious years are behind us.


But, as far as I can tell, this whole life we get is a big chance to learn as much as we can for as long as we're here. Why would I want to freeze it in the middle, when I only knew what I knew then? She was nice and all, but I have no interest in being this girl again.

She had no blog, and would have laughed at the sound of that word.

Sure, she could brag that she was merely twenty something, but she couldn't play the accordion, or go a few hours without smoking a cigarette, or talk civilly to someone who angered her. She also hadn't met her four most favorite people in the world, poor girl.

Now is where it's at for me, and I get a feeling I'll still see things the same way if I am lucky enough to get really and truly elderly. This clock goes one way, not backward, not forward, but inward. Living is about mastering the moment right before me, as me; a skill honed with time. There is no shortcut to this vista, it's enjoyed only by those who have done the climbing.

So, welcome, wrinkles and gray hair! Have a cup of tea, random shooting pains and disconcerting skin discolorations! I am ready for you. You are evidence that I am still here, part of the scene, the old lady in the back of the room, with a lot to say.

And scary lipstick.

Because when you're old, nobody will tell you your lipstick looks scary. So many unforeseen benefits to this gig, I tell you.