Yesterday’s nod to Hemerocallis Fulva, notwithstanding, my floral fondness for Papavers is an open secret. Who am I kidding? It’s no secret at all! So I brimmed with jubilation when Pam surprised me today, with our first poppies of summer. I was euphoric!
Pam Offering the First Poppies of Summer (Photo: Geo Davis)
And so a spontaneous haiku was born…
Summer’s First Poppies
Summer’s first poppies: petite preemies, delicate, fuzzy, threadlike stems.
Perfection at quarter scale. Stems almost too slight to support the floppy blooms. Vulnerable. Durable. Both.
First Poppies of Summer (Photo: Geo Davis)
I remember a previous pensé on poppies and haiku. It perfectly applies to these first poppies of summer.
Almost ephemeral brevity, stark minimalism, and — at best — a tingly eureka moment overlap haiku’s distinctive hallmark. Delicate. Vigorous. As unlikely a juxtaposition as poppies. Exuding a fragility and sparseness, but remarkably robust and resilient, the poppy is the haiku of flowers… (Source: Poppy Poems)
Hallelujah! The daylilies (Hemerocallis fulva) are blooming. That, THAT is the color and exuberance of early summer. Sometimes known as Fourth of July Daylilies because their bloom time (in the northeast) roughly corresponds to Independence Day, Hemerocallis fulva have begun to erupt into spectacular fireworks-esque blossoms about a week ahead of schedule. Must be the intermittent but persistent rain.
Hemerocallis Fulva (Photo: Geo Davis)
Daylilies Abloom
Although my floral polyamory (flower zealotry?) is wide ranging and broadly inclusive, summertime vibes are captured in a quasi Norman Rockwell way when Hemerocallis fulva joins the fête. What?!?!
No, that wasn’t a challenge — can you work, polyamory, zealotry, inclusivity, and Norman Rockwell into the same sentence? — but I concede a slightly self indulgent surrogate *MAY* have hijacked the keyboard. But I’m back at the helm. Back to basics…
Hemerocallis fulva, the orange day-lily,[3]tawny daylily, corn lily, tiger daylily, fulvous daylily, ditch lily or Fourth of July lily (also railroad daylily, roadside daylily, outhouse lily, and wash-house lily),[citation needed] is a species of daylily…
A daylily by any other name. Hemerocallis fulva by rights (but least applied name.)
Just beginning to bloom in the last couple of days. Should be a tiger orange riot by Indepence Day. And then a chance to gather the expired blooms for a meal or two.
What?!?!
Hemerocallis Fulva (Photo: Geo Davis)
Daylilies are not only edible, they are spectacular…
Let me start by saying that edible daylilies are the common daylily, Hemerocallis fulva, as well as its various Hemerocallis friends and relatives…
Perfect. Hemerocallis fulva is exactly what we have in abundance at Rosslyn, so I declare a feast. But how?
According to Shaw, the best way to dine on Hemerocallis fulva is to sauté the unopened flower buds in butter and salt.
Delicious. Briefly cooked, the buds have a bit of knacken, a German expression meaning a “pop.” Yet the insides reminded me of squash blossoms. The taste? Green, with a whiff of radish and a dash of green bean. Honestly, I’d eat this as a side dish any day, any place. It needs nothing else.
That’ll be clarified butter (aka ghee) for me in order to juggle my lamentably dairy free diet. I’ve also read that the post-bloom flowers are tasty, especially when dried and added to soups and stews. Time for a little experimentation…
“Heaven can wait…” while we enjoy the inimitable crunch of June: French breakfast radishes!
French breakfast radishes: Heaven can wait! (Photo: Geo Davis)
Remember when I asked if you were ready for radish time? Well, it’s upon us. Lots. Of. Radishes. French breakfast radishes, my favorite, to be precise. That slightly spicy, slightly sweet crunch is sooo satisfying. For breakfast. For lunch. For dinner. For snacks all day long.
French Breakfast Radishes
For the uninitiated, I’m a bit of a garden geek. And radishes, in all their punchy, hyper saturated color, flavor, and ASMR glory are one of my early season favorites.
The French Breakfast Radish (Raphanus sativus) is red-skinned root vegetable… with a white splash at the root end… [that] is distinguished by its oblong shape… [and mild flavor] if harvested and eaten early. Widely considered a spring radish, the French Breakfast Radish is ideally grown and harvested when temperatures are still cool. Hotter temperatures increase the “spiciness” (peppery bitterness common to most radishes) and often result in a pithy interior.
So the increasingly hot weather (and the week of rain in the forecast) threaten to abbreviate prime time for radishes. So, we’re enjoying them without restraint!
And not just the tasty red and white roots. We added radish greens to the succulent homegrown spinach we wok-sautéed with garlic and olive oil last night. Sublime.
As with standard radish varieties, the “radish greens” of the French Breakfast Radish can also be eaten. Washed and tossed into a saucepan of olive oil (or avocado oil), garlic, and onion, this wilted green is a delicious accompaniment to just about any meal!
Sooo close to arriving at Rosslyn, but these peony blooms (Paeonia lactiflora) have exploded into exuberant bloom before I made it back. A false start. Preterprecocious peonies, at least from my present perspective.
Fortunately Pam documented these peony season precursors. (Thanks, Pam!) Beautiful debutants, welcoming Rosslyn arrivals. Our arrival. Shortly. But, inevitably rain will arrive, as if on cue, once the peonies bloom…
Perhaps micropoetry might capture a petal or three. And offering it up to the universe just might invite a rain free reprieve?
Preterprecocious Peonies (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
Bursting with color and perfume, peonies might seem an unlikely culinary accessory. But the roots and petals are, in fact, edible. Of course anybody who’s cultivated propones (preterprecocious or otherwise) would resist disinterring peony roots for eating. But the petals?
The art of home is a tidy title with an unpretentious posture. And yet it’s idealistic and evocative, ample and ambitious. Frankly, its restrained and self contained first impression is a little misleading. Maybe even a little ambiguous. What do I even mean? I’m not offering a catchy epithet for design and decor. Nor architecture. And yet, it certainly may include some or all of these. When I describe the art of home, I’m conjuring several things at once.
In conjoining art and creativity with home-ness, I’m alluding to my own personal outlook on an intrinsic relationship between the two as well as an aspirational goal. Home isn’t science. Or, home isn’t only science (or even mostly science.) Sure, there’s science and math and all manner of practical, detail and data driven inputs in transforming a house into a home. But there’s much more. There’s a profoundly personal, subjective, intimate relationship at play in the act of homemaking. And, in the best of circumstances, essential circumstances in my opinion, home becomes a sanctuary for creating, an oasis for art.
All of this binds art-ing and homing. The art of home is a look at the homeness of art and the art of homing. It is an attempt to discern what allows one’s domestic sanctuary to transcend mere utility (a garage to cache one’s car, a grill to sear one’s supper, a nest within which to sleep, a shower with which to wash away the sleep and sweat), to transcend the housing function and become a place of growth and nurturing, an incubation space, a revitalizing space, a dreaming and dream-fulfilling space,…
In the photograph at the top of this post you can see the icehouse, mid-rehabilitation, tucked in beside the carriage barn, both frosted in snow like fairy tales illustrations or gingerbread confections. After a decade and a half my slowly percolating art of home has matured from a pipe dream into a concept into a clutch of sketches into construction plans into a creative collaborative of many. And for a few short weeks I’m privileged to participate daily, to engage in a real and hands-on way after participating from afar, participating virtually. It’s a peculiar but exciting transition. An ongoing transition.
The Art of Home: Poem Excerpt
I’ve been excavating through layers of creativity compressed into, and coexisting within, my notion of homeness. While shaping a house into a home is in and of itself a creative art — indeed a nearly universal creative art, even among those quick to volunteer that they are not artistic, not creative — I’m deeply curious about my awn associations with home as a cradle and catalyst of art. I’m trying to tease apart these different layers of art in a still embryonic poem, so I’ll include only a section about gardening, a creative pursuit that I inherited from my mother decades ago.
...composing a garden,
my own personal patch,
from selecting seeds —
corn, radishes pumpkins,
tomatoes, and sunflowers —
to turning the soil,
working compost
into last summer's
stems and stalks,
into clay clodded dirt,
into July-August hopes.
Watering and weeding,
thinning, scarecrowing,
suckering, and staking...
Composing a garden is but one of the many instances that the art of home means something to me. Cooking. Writing. Telling stories. Pruning the orchard. Entertaining guests. Landscaping. Drawing. Adapting old buildings into new lifestyle enabling and enriching spaces.
The Art of Home: Documentary
At the heart of Rosslyn Redux is a quest to discern and describe what I’m learning about the art of home. But there is still more question than answer. I’m still untangling my thoughts, still reaching for some sort of clarity that might improve my ability to communicate concisely what I have found so captivating, and why it has obsessed me for so long.
But I’m not there there. My journey is ongoing. So I will, for now, offer another perspective on the art of home, a captivating documentary that obliquely sheds light upon our Santa Fe / Essex home duality.
Two indigenous artists create new works reflecting on their tribal homelands, the Wind River Indian Reservation. Ken Williams (Arapaho) is a Santa Fe art celebrity and Sarah Ortegon (Shoshone) is an up-and-coming actress in Denver. Both artists travel to Wind River Reservation to reconnect with their ancestors and present their art work to a somewhat isolated community. (Source: The Art of Home: A Wind River Story,PBS)
Intertwined with Sarah Ortegon’s and Ken Williams’s extended meditation on the relationships between art, creative expression, identity, home, culture, family, and belonging are the perspectives of other Native Americans including George Abeyta who touches on home as a place of strength.
“Your home, it’s a place of your family. It’s a place of warmth and comfort and strength and happiness. It’s the place where were you look forward to going because that’s your stronghold. That’s your place of prayer.” — George Abeyta
In the context of beadwork Abeyta is examining it feels seamless and comfortable the way we moves from beading motifs to home as a bastion of strength, as a stronghold. Also a space where family, warmth, comfort, happiness, and even prayer coexist. Perhaps even where they are rooted, where they thrive. The subject of his reflection, a beaded ornament akin to a necktie, is an intricate work of art, and as such it functions as a vehicle or a vessel to showcase and honor these fundamental elements. This notion of home, and more specifically the art of home, as a sort of sacred space for strength and belonging, for identity and connectedness, for family and for happiness resurfaces throughout this documentary. I encourage you to make time (just under an hour) to appreciate it from beginning-to-end.
Spring-into-summer is a celebratory parade of gastronomic gateways. Nettles, ramps, fiddleheads, asparagus, rhubarb,… So many seasonal ingredients and tastes. And now it’s radish time!
Ready for Radish Time? (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
These early French Breakfast Radishes are almost impossibly delicious. Crisp and spicy. Uniquely refreshing.
The French Breakfast Radish (Raphanus sativus) is [an] early summer classic — and perennial staple of Rosslyn’s vegetable garden — [that]… tends to be mild (less “spicy” than other standard radishes) if harvested and eaten early…(Source: French Breakfast Radish)
Ready for French Breakfast Radish time? (Illustration: Geo Davis)
Perhaps four years living in Paris account for my preference, but these early season benisons — as enticing to the eyes as to the tongue — beguile me year after year.
Radishes (my favorite are French Breakfast Radishes) celebrate precocious summer’s spicy return with vibrant, bye-bye-mud-season colors, a super satisfying crunch, and tastebud reviving explosions of peppery sweetness. (Source: Radishes and Radish Greens)
Such sweet springtime seduction. Love at first crunch. New and invigorating each year despite familiarity and anticipation.
And that’s just the red and white taproot. To be sure, the tuberous vegetable is what we envision when radishes are on the menu. But they’re only part of the radish time rewards.
Radishes aren’t just crunchy eye candy for crudités. Radishes are nutritious. Especially the radish greens! (Source: Radishes and Radish Greens)
That’s right. The lush greens you snatch to lift a ripe radish from the soil are a delight themselves.
As with standard radish varieties, the “radish greens” of the French Breakfast Radish can also be eaten. Washed and tossed into a saucepan of olive oil (or avocado oil), garlic, and onion, this wilted green is a delicious accompaniment…(Source: French Breakfast Radish)
Whether wilted alone or mixed with spinach and shredded Swiss chard, these nutrient rich greens will improve your plate. And radish greens sautéed then puréed with cream (or nondairy alternative such as Macadamia milk) make a delicate soup as pretty as it is piquant.
High Tunnel Tomato Plants, Take One: Frost Damaged Tomato Plants, May 18, 2023 (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
Sometimes, when I’m trying to explain the many merits of gardening, I describe the cultivation of plants as a quasi-religious force in my life. Sincerely. Hyperbole? Perhaps, but there’s much in the practice of planting and sowing, cultivating and composting, even weeding and pruning and grafting that underpins my worldview, informs my optimism, and provides a circular and self sustaining system of belief and practice. What constitutes a religion is a debate for another blog. But tossing this into the mix may help contextualize the significant ache I was veiling in my recent High Tunnel Hubris post.
I tried to remain matter-of-fact, sidestepping the debilitating discouragement that sidelined me for a day or two after a severe frost shocked dozens of the plants that I’d helped transplant.
High Tunnel Tomato Plants, Take Two: Suckering Back to Life? (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
So… when we jumpstarted our spring starts in the high tunnel, I was fueled with fervor and faith. We’d have tomatoes by the end of June!
But a severe frost reminded us that BLTs and gazpacho aren’t a matter of pipe dreaming alone. Yes, nature humbles.
High Tunnel Tomato Plants, Take Two: Suckering Back to Life? (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
No blame, except my own optimism. I understood the stakes. I understood the risks. And I understood the consequences. Although the perspective is pretty bleak, at this point, I’m tentatively hopeful that some of the tomatoes may recover. If the soil was warm enough, the roots may remain vital. If a sucker shoots in, we can cultivate it into a new plant. The prospect, of course, for tomatillos is less good. But I’m not prepared to give up yet. The possibility of new growth might yet eclipse the discouraging dieback we’re now witnessing. After all, I’m not aware of anyone who has ever died of optimism! (Source: High Tunnel Hubris)
And so I fell back on optimism. Pollyanna optimism. We left the cold-shocked tomato plants in the ground. And little by little *some* regrowth has occurred. A minority, but an inspiring minority of our zapped tomato plants have rebounded, sending up new growth as “suckers” that we’re endeavoring to cultivate into new stems, new productive tomato plants.
High Tunnel Tomato Plants, Take Two: Suckering Back to Life? (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
It’s still early, as you can see in today’s photographs. They may endure. They may thrive. They may produce a robust tomato crop. Or, they may not. But we’re tending them. Loving them. Believing in them. We’re fertilizing these resilient tomato plants with optimism. If fortune so chooses, we’ll have learned from our hubris *AND* we’ll be able to celebrate our wisening with the sweet tangy sacrament of Black Krim and Green Zebra tomatoes!
Holistic Orcharding: June pears (Source: Geo Davis)
I’m excited to report that we may finally be able to enjoy Rosslyn peaches, nectarines, and even a few pears and apples this summer. For the first time since we began planting an orchard, several trees have matured enough to set fruit.
Fruitful Orchard
Holistic Orcharding: Mulberry fruit ripening in June (Source: Geo Davis)
Holistic Orcharding: Mulberry fruit ripening in June (Source: Geo Davis)
Those bright red mulberry will darken as they soak up sun and begin to sweeten. They’re still pretty mealy (though the birds don’t seem to mind at all!)
The photograph at the top of this post shows a couple of small pears. A couple of pear trees set a pear or two last summer, but they dropped (or were eaten by critters) before I ever tasted them. Most of the pear tress are still fruitless, but a couple small green and red fruit are looking promising.
Holistic Orcharding: Young peaches in June (Source: Geo Davis)
For the first, our peach trees are setting fruit. Heavy winds and rains have resulted in steady fruit drop, but I’m guardedly optimistic that we may actually be able to sink out teeth into a few fuzzy, nectar-sweet peaches soon.
The peaches are the most fruitful of all the trees at this point. In fact, a couple of trees are so laden that I’ll probably begin thinning fruit as they grow larger, culling the runts and least healthy fruit and leaving the best.
The photo below on the left offers a wider perspective on a fruitful peach, and the photo on the right shows a young and almost equally fruitful nectarine tree.
Holistic Orcharding: Young peaches in June (Source: Geo Davis)
Holistic Orcharding: Young nectarines in June (Source: Geo Davis)
The three nectarine trees are 3-4 years younger than the peaches, so I’m curious why two of them are already setting fruit. The third nectarine tree has never been very healthy. Dwarfish and sparsely branched, leafed, I’ll try for one more summer to help it along. If it doesn’t begin to catch up, I’ll consider replacing it next year.
Like the apricot that I replaced this year…
Holistic Orcharding: Transplanted apricot tree (Source: Geo Davis)
We’ve struggled with apricots. Few of our apricot trees are thriving, and one died last year. We replaced it this spring with the Goldicot Apricot above, the only variety that seems to be adapting well. I can report good new growth so far on the transplant, but another apricot has died. Both are lowest (and wettest) on the hill, so I plan to address the drainage this fall. Perhaps the heavy clay soil and high spring water table is simply to much for the apricots to withstand.
Deer-full Orchard
Unfortunately it’s not all good news in the orchard. We remain committed to our 100% holistic orcharding (thanks, Michael Phillips!) mission, but we’re still playing defense with Cedar Apple Rust and other pesky challenges. I’ll update on that soon enough, but there’s another frustrating pest that provoked my frustration yesterday.
Holistic Orcharding: Apple tree browsed by deer (Source: Geo Davis)
Can you see the munched leaves and branches?
Holistic Orcharding: Apple tree browsed by deer (Source: Geo Davis)
Holistic Orcharding: Apple tree browsed by deer (Source: Geo Davis)
Ive you look just below center of this photograph you’ll see where a large branch has been snapped right off. It was laying on the ground below. Also plenty of smaller branches and leaves chewed.
The two apple trees which were targeted by the deer were planted last spring. They’d both established relatively well, but they were short enough to offer an easy snack. We keep the trees caged during the fall-through-spring, but we had just recently removed the cages to begin pruning and spreading limbs (see red spreader in image above?), so the trees were easy targets.
And there’s worse news.
Holistic Orcharding: Young persimmon tree browsed by deer (Source: Geo Davis)
That’s a young persimmon tree that we just planted a couple of weeks ago. It was a replacement for a persimmon that arrived dead from the nursery last year (another drama for another day…)
Not only did the deer browse the persimmon, but it ate both leads, presenting a serious hurdle for this transplant. Not a good situation. I’ll pamper this youngster in the hopes that one of these blunted leads will send up another lead, or—more likely, but far from guaranteed—a fresh new lead will bud and head skyward. Fingers crossed.
For several years I’ve been absorbing holistic orcharding and gardening wisdom from Michael Phillips. I no longer recall how I came across the pied piper of organic, non-toxic fruit tree propagation, but it’s quite possible that my first introduction was an article in Mother Earth News titled, “Organic Apple Growing: Advice From Michael Phillips“.
If you’re uninitiated, Michael Phillips is the owner (along with his wife, Nancy, and their daughter, Gracie), steward, and chronicler of Lost Nation Orchard in New Hampshire. His book, The Holistic Orchard, is the bible for organic apple growers. Here’s a trailer for the companion DVD, Holistic Orcharding.
Whether or not “Organic Apple Growing: Advice From Michael Phillips“, the article in Mother Earth News, was my introduction to Michael Phillips’ ideas about holistic orcharding, there are some great takeaways that I’ll highlight here:
Q: How big of a hole do I need to dig for planting a tree? A: The size of the tree hole needs to be large enough to accommodate the roots without bending them. A 3-foot diameter hole generally fits the bill. (Source: MOTHER EARTH NEWS)
Q: A friend told me I should buy a mycorrhizal product to boost the growth of my trees. Does such a product have any worth? A: Plants have developed an incredible symbiotic relationship with certain fungi to help get nutrients from the soil, as well as to ward off pathogenic organisms. An apple tree has specific mycorrhizae that interact with its roots in the humus layer in these ways. You can inoculate your soil by finding a healthy wild tree and then bringing a few scoops of the soil beneath its branches back to your ground. Ecosystems adapt to the needs at hand without our necessarily having to buy a packaged product. (Source: MOTHER EARTH NEWS)
Q: Some bug is tunneling into a lot of my fruit when it’s just the size of a nickel. What’s up? A: We deal with two “petal-fall pests” in the eastern half of the United States that easily could be your culprits. Plum curculio larvae get their start in a crescent-like scar the female weevil makes to prevent the growing fruitlet from crushing her egg; European apple sawfly larvae first scratch the surface of a pea-sized fruitlet, and then go on to eat the seeds in another three or four fruitlets. (Source: MOTHER EARTH NEWS)
Q: What’s up with the new kaolin clay spray? A: Those petal-fall pests identified above can be held effectively in check with a nontoxic white clay covering applied over the entire surface of the tree. The kaolin clay panicles confuse the insect adults and prove incredibly irritating… Application begins as the blossoms start to fall and needs to be thorough. It takes two or three initial sprays to build up a thick enough base to repel these insects. Renew the clay weekly for the next month. (Source: MOTHER EARTH NEWS)
Q: Why did my grandparents hang open jugs of vinegar and molasses out in the orchard? A: Such homegrown traps usually target adult fruit moths such as the codling moth. Unfortunately, all sons of bugs end up drowning in this brew, some of which might have been beneficial allies. I prefer to control codlings moths with well-timed sprays of Bacillus thuringiensis (Bt), a biological pesticide stomach-specific to caterpillars. Others have had some success wrapping corrugated cardboard around the trunk of the tree, where the larvae crawl to continue their development. Then at the end of the summer, the cardboard is removed and burned. (Source: MOTHER EARTH NEWS)
Q: When do I hang those red sticky ball traps? A: Apple maggot flies (AMF) are the culprits drawn to these effective traps. The new generation emerges from the soil beginning in late June, with females seeking fruit in which to lay eggs throughout July and August. The sticky balls mimic the best apple to be found in the orchard. The female alights on the trap and stays put because of a layer of sticky goo called “Tangletrap” covering the red sphere… Two to four traps per tree generally suffice to keep AMF larvae from ruining a good harvest. I set out traps on early maturing varieties by the first of July, then scrape off the dead flies and renew the sticky material when moving the traps to later-maturing varieties in early August. (Source: MOTHER EARTH NEWS)
Just as there’s a time for asparagus (and tulips and dandelions and radishes and maple syrup and…) there’s a time for artichokes. As it’s only just beginning, today’s post is more of a prelude, an artichoke time prequel.
Artichokes Ready to Transplant (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
Look at those healthy artichoke starts ready to transplant into Rosslyn’s garden! We were actually ready a week ago, but the damaging cold snap tempered are enthusiasm. So we post plowing to our planting until we know that temperate weather is here to stay.
Artichokes Ready to Transplant (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
At this point, we’re probably safe, but if you more days of delay, can’t hurt. We’re still crossing our fingers and waiting to see if any of the frosted tomato plants recover, so at this point, we’re experiencing the gardener-equivalent of “gun shy”, I guess.
Once these beautiful thistles are thriving in the ground, I will post an update. And then, the next magical moment will be the formation of the chokes!
Spring along the Adirondack Coast tempts us with plenty of enticing seasonal flavors, but a personal favorite is the sweet tart medley of local maple syrup and homegrown rhubarb. Although we’re still a little shy of rhubarb time, the maple syrup is standing by, and my imagination is conjuring up this springtime staple. It’s as perfectly paired with a steaming cup of morning tea or coffee as with grilled protein and a spring mixed green salad.
Rosslyn Rhubarb Time (Photo: Geo Davis)
The images in today’s post, rhubarb photos that I posted on Instagram back in 2021, were inspired when Pam thrust a healthy handful of rhubarb stems into my grateful paw one morning. They’re a pinch more poignant now because our rhubarb crowns were accidentally rolled under last spring and we haven’t yet propagated a new generation.
Now that I’ve dangled the palate puckering temptation of rhubarb sautéed in maple syrup I’m going to ask your forbearance as I take a brief detour. I’ll get back to the super simple recipe in a moment.
But first an amuse-gueule: rhubarb haiku.
Rosslyn Rhubarb Time (Photo: Geo Davis)
Rhubarb Haiku
Still chill, spring soil parts.
Green, red, unclenching, stalking,
sweet tart rhubarb.
When spring’s still inhospitable weather and clammy soil don’t seem to suggest this potent plant coming forth, just then, it does. Courageous and colorful. A fist unfurling from the earth, stretching out into impossibly lush, almost tropical, foliage. It is rhubarb time again.
Perhaps this tangle of tartness and sweetness, cool climate growth and tropical semblance, is the allure of rhubarb time.
Rosslyn Rhubarb Time (Photo: Geo Davis)Rosslyn Rhubarb Time (Photo: Geo Davis)
Rosslyn Rhubarb Time
Rhubarb was one of my first forays into homegrown edibles back in 2007. I transplanted several crowns from my parent’s Rock Harbor property. We did not yet own the acreage west of the barns, so I hadn’t even begun to conceive of the gardens and orchard that we’ve been fortunate to develop since acquiring the first portion of our backland from Greystone in 2008/9.
I propagated the transplanted rhubarb crowns directly to the south of the carriage barn within the stone foundation of a long gone lean-to addition to the barn that may have at one point housed animals judging from the fertile soil. Combined with sunlight and heat reflected off of the carriage barn’s southern facade, this proved a productive microclimate for rhubarb (and asparagus) in those early years.
When fortune cast her benevolent gaze upon us, allowing us to add +/-28 acres to Rosslyn, I transplanted the rhubarb (and the asparagus) to a new location about 100 feet west of the carriage barn, where the plants would benefit from plenty of sunlight. These hardy perennials served as reliable forerunners for today’s productive vegetable and fruit gardens.
Their propagation served another symbolic, if sentimental, importance to me. Both — Rosslyn’s rhubarb and Rosslyn’s asparagus — were transplanted from existing beds that my mother had previously transplanted from our childhood home (see “Homeport in Wadhams, NY”) to Rock Harbor a couple of decades prior. A continuity reaching back to childhood, a lineage of homes, and a meaningful association with my mother, the self taught gardener who exposed me as a boy to the uniquely fulfilling practice of germinating, propagating, cultivating, harvesting, preparing, and sharing homegrown food. A perennial interconnectedness.
Rock Harbor Rhubarb Time
Turning back the clock a dozen years to May 31, 2011 I posted about harvesting Rock Harbor rhubarb some 5-6 years prior. (If lost in the math, the following refers to the time when Susan and I were contemplating the still-unlikely possibility of moving from New York City to the North Country. Rosslyn was still more playful pipedream than reality.)
We walked down the road from the tennis court and stopped off at my parents’ house, still closed up for the winter. It would be several weeks before my parents arrived in Rock Harbor for the summer, and by then the asparagus would have gone to seed, so we picked enough for dinner and enough extra to bring back to the city for another meal.
I also picked a fistful of rhubarb to sauté with maple syrup for dessert. Susan disliked rhubarb, but I loved the lip puckering tartness. The taste transports me instantly to The Farm. (Source: The Farm)
Rock Harbor Rhubarb (Source: Geo Davis)
Much as our Rock Harbor rhubarb bridged time and place, Rosslyn’s rhubarb had become a seasonal reconnection bridge to a timeless tapestry of family, gardening, meals shared, and home oases.
Before I slide further down the slippery slope of sentimentality, I’d better get on with that recipe!
Maple Rhubarb Recipe
This maple rhubarb recipe may well be the simplest how-to you’ve ever come across. Sometimes the best recipes are the simplest!
Trim rhubarb ends to remove any leaf remnants (which are toxic to humans due to high levels of oxalic acid.)
Trim rhubarb ends to remove earthy bits.
Chop rhubarb into 1/2″ to 3/4″ pieces.
Fill a saucepan about halfway full of chopped rhubarb, and place on low heat.
Add a cup of water and a teaspoon of vanilla.
Cover the sauce pan and simmer for 15 minutes, stirring periodically to ensure even sautéing.
Once the rhubarb has begun to break down evenly, add a dash of cinnamon
Add maple syrup to taste.
Top this quick dessert/snack with whipped cream, vanilla ice cream, or a dollop of vanilla yoghurt. (If you’re dairy free, as I am, substitute your preferred alternative!)
The sweet tart flavor profile of sautéed maple rhubarb is so unique, so scintillating, so memorable that my taste buds are tingling as I write these words. Enjoy.
Looks like my spring 2023 veggie garden exuberance (and perennially Pollyanna optimism) served me poorly. As we all well know from the time tempered tale of Daedalus and Icarus, the consequences of taking risks can send us plunging. Or, in the case of cheating the calendar by prematurely planting tomatoes, tomatillos, and other delicate spring starts in the hoop house, the fickle fates can zap our healthy vegetable transplants. Ouch! The consequences of high tunnel hubris is at once humbling and heartbreaking.
High Tunnel Hubris: Damaged Peppers (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
Rewind the calendar a few weeks. I was chomping at the proverbial bit, anxious to get plants into the ground, overconfident that the high tunnel would take the sting out of any late frosts.
There’s something about springtime, about gardening, about the promise of colorful blooms and produce that I’m finding too tempting to resist… with all the enthusiasm and optimism of an almost 100% planted garden. May 2023 be as abundant as 2022!(Source: Giebel Garden Flashback)
For a couple of months, we’d been monitoring a dozen data logging thermometers positioned strategically throughout the high tunnel. I made the apparently ill informed decision that we were ready.
High Tunnel Hubris: Freeze Watch (Source: Apple Weather)
I’ve learned again, and again that worrying about the weather is an unhealthy and unhelpful practice. So I won’t. Or, I will try not to worry. Nature, benevolent nature, will offer us what she considers right. (Source: Giebel Garden Flashback)
Benevolent, yes, in the grand scheme of things. But the peaks and valleys of nature’s day-to-day EKG is perhaps, slightly less benevolent.
This will be our second season high tunneling, but it’s our first opportunity to jumpstart planting (by about two weeks).
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We’re tempting fate by leapfrogging the typical Mother’s Day planting date, crossing our fingers, and imagining tomatoes by the 4th of July. (Source: Green Zebras 1st in High Tunnel)
There it is: “tempting fate“. No blame, except my own optimism. I understood the stakes. I understood the risks. And I understood the consequences. But, friends, I find no analgesic in any of this today.
High Tunnel Hubris: Damaged Tomatoes (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
With metaphorically melted wings and a painful plunge, it’s now time to regroup. Time to triage.
High Tunnel Hubris: Damaged Eggplant (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
Geo: How do the damaged plants look?
Pam: Not good. Looks like three tomato plants survived. Possibly lost all of the tomatillos as well.
Geo: Crushing. Hardly seems possible. Let’s allow them to adjust. Tomatoes may send out new shoots. Tomatillos too, but less likely.
Pam: The garden is fighting me this year. Soaker hoses and timers have been a struggle.
High Tunnel Hubris: Damaged Peppers (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
Although the perspective is pretty bleak, at this point, I’m tentatively hopeful that some of the tomatoes may recover. If the soil was warm enough, the roots may remain vital. If a sucker shoots in, we can cultivate it into a new plant. The prospect, of course, for tomatillos is less good. But I’m not prepared to give up yet. The possibility of new growth might yet eclipse the discouraging dieback we’re now witnessing. After all, I’m not aware of anyone who has ever died of optimism!
