Catherine Seidenberg, our now-year-two vegetable garden guru, has once again aced the Broccoli Bonanza. That’s right, my bride and I have been devouring 100% organic, pest-free broccoli fresh out of the garden for a couple of weeks now. Quickly steamed, it’s packed with flavor, and oh-too-sexy to resist!
This morning I spied a Colorado Potato Beetle (Leptinotarsa decemlineata) or three in the vegetable garden. Here’s a fuzzy snapshot of one Colorado Potato Beetle contentedly munching away on young eggplant leaves.
Do you see the yellow striped beetle? It’s approximately center frame.
Here’s a closeup of another Colorado Potato Beetle once I flicked him/her onto the ground.
Despite the fact that these pests are aren’t questionably distractive to the vegetable garden, I find it difficult to kill such a beautiful creature. Somehow it’s easier to squish a slug that it is to crush this handsomely striped beetle.
Despite my aesthetic misgivings, I dispatched each Colorado Potato Beetle and made a mental note to doodle or perhaps watercolor one. Or two. (See above.)
This post, the latest installment in my friend or foe series, will endeavor to demystify Colorado Potato Beetle (Leptinotarsa decemlineata).
Here’s what you need to know about the Colorado Potato Beetle. (Many thanks to Sally Jean Cunningham whose book, Great Garden Companions: A Companion Planting System for a Beautiful, Chemical-Free Vegetable Garden, informed this and many of my gardening posts.)
I’ll start by hunting, doodling, and crushing. And then I’ll hustle up on installing our straw mulch (we’re WAY behind!) and adding some companion plants. Fingers crossed.
I wrap my digital arms around friend, neighbor, artist, and gardener extraordinaire Catherine Seidenberg for this memorable birthday gift. Thank you!
Catherine’s whimsical black and white watercolor of Rosslyn’s front facade offers a chance to reflect on the past decade Susan and I have spent reinvigorating this quirky property and an invitation to daydream about its future. The matched tree hydrangeas are a nod to a pair of similar (though far older varieties) hydrangeas that flaked the entrance columns before we excavated the front of the house. The older plants were transplanted with an excavator and now thrive astride a gate in the garden behind the carriage barn. The view to the right of the house, beyond the stone wall, reminds me of photographs of Rosslyn in the 1800s when the rolling hills beyond the carriage barn and ice house were far more open than today, a sea of apple orchards and green pastures dotted with grazing sheep.
[Sometimes a post is born, neglected, orphaned, left unpublished in blog purgatory. Sadly this is one such case, despite the fact that I’ve enjoyed this painting daily from its perch above the fireplace in my study. The following update reminded me that Catherine’s painting was never properly celebrated, so I conjoin the two newsworthy items here to showcase the multidisciplinary creativity of artist Catherine Seidenberg.]
After two years assisting with Rosslyn’s vegetable and flower gardens Catherine moved on to new challenges. She notified us this past spring that she was returning to ceramics, and would be spending much of this year in Keene, NY as the Craigardan artist-in-residence.
HARVEST PLATE RESIDENCY For ceramic artists who wish to participate in Craigardan’s delicious celebration of the farm, the food, and the plate. 9-month Winter residency. The 2017 Harvest Plate Resident: Catherine Seidenberg (Source: Craigardan)
If you’re in the Adirondacks (or near enough to swing through Keene, NY) I encourage you to meet Catherine in mid-September.
Slide Talk: a conversation with harvest plate resident, Catherine Seidenberg (Friday, September 15, 2017, 5:30 PM to 6:30 PM) Meet artist-in-residence Catherine Seidenberg, view her ceramic work and learn about her beautiful processes. Catherine is our summer Harvest Plate Resident, crafting all of the tableware for the fall benefit event, Dinner in the Field. (Source: Craigardan)
Susan and I are looking forward to the fall benefit!
It’s but a month and a day after Independence Day and we’re eating our first peaches of the season. Eureka!
So memorable a moment each summer when I savor the first bites of the first peaches of the season that I’ve begun to wonder if we might need to create a floating holiday. It’s hard to conceive of a better cause for celebration.
Summer’s first peaches,
— Geo Davis
sunshine soaked and siren sweet,
seduce all senses.
Growing up in the Adirondacks’ Champlain Valley, we grew fruit trees. Apples, pears, quince. But never peaches. I honestly think it was considered foolhardy in those days. Perhaps conditions pre/post climate change have shifted enough or the varietals have become hardy enough that we can account for the difference in perspective this way. Or maybe it was just unfamiliarity.
For this reason, I’m abundantly grateful for our stone fruit harvests in general and our peaches in particular. It’s almost as if we’re cheating nature! And my tendency to romance the first peaches of the season is rooted in this enduring awe. We actually raised peaches! Almost too good to be true. Perhaps this peach plenitude will eventually become familiar enough that we’ll take it for granted. But it’s hard to imagine. Such a delicate ambrosial fruit prospering in our northern climes. Truly a bonanza!
If you’re new to my blathering blog, welcome. And you might be curious what sort of peaches we’re growing. Our proximity to Lake Champlain creates a microclimate that favors us when it comes to stone fruit and other marginal crops for our northern growing zone. On the other hand our soil, especially west of the carriage barn where the orchard is located, has an extremely high clay content. This is not ideal for growing peaches. They do not favor wet feet.
That said, we’ve been fortunate growing Reliance Peach (2 trees) and Contender Peach (2 trees). I’d welcome a recommendation from growers who think we’d be wise to add another winter-hardy variety that responds well to holistic orcharding.
Poppy poems! At last I’m bundling a batch of verse celebrating my favorite blooms. Poppies. Papaveraceae. Coquelicots… Most of these poppy poems started out as Instagram posts inspired, at least in part, by daily snapshots of poppies blooming in Rosslyn’s gardens. For this reason I’ll include links at the end of the poem if you’re interested in seeing the original posts. Just click the link and a new window will open with the poem as it originally appeared with accompanying image(s).
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. And so I initiate this slowly evolving post with a collection of haiku poppy poems.
·•·
From velvety spokes
a supernova outburst,
ivory crushed silk. (@rosslynredux)
·•·
Unfettered, unfazed
by cloudburst or thunderclap,
sensuous stalwart. (@rosslynredux)
·•·
Papaver flashbacks
bloom in frosted flowerbeds,
daydream confections. (@rosslynredux)
·•·
Come coquelicot,
come crinkly crepe paper kin,
come and laugh and lift. (@rosslynredux)
·•·
Poppy blossoms pop
into crepe paper fireworks
and flamenco skirts. (@rosslynredux)
While poppies and haikus strike me as cousins (or perhaps even as one and the same being at different stages of transmogrification), there are times when a poppy poem’s florescence exceeds the restraint of micropoetry. There are instances in which a poppy poem’s petals bloom into a lyrical sketch or rhapsody.
·•·
Amongst vegetables,
fruits, herbs, and spices
pop, pop, populate
floral fireworks,
flamenco skirts, and
crepe’s crinkly kin,
the coquelicots.
So sensuous, so
beyond beguiling,
so delicate yet
robust, resilient,
as exotic and
mysterious as
the whispering wind. (@rosslynredux)
Sometimes a poem is crafted out of words, letters and spaces coalescing around a moment, an experience, a sentiment. Other times poetry is so visual that an image better conveys the poem. Please think of my “poppy portraits” as visual poems. Maybe you’ll agree that visual poems can sometimes eclipse the letter-tethered lot!
https://www.instagram.com/reel/CgSOV5-g-WL/
She short video in the post above essays to distill the grace of a poppy in motion, buffeted by the breeze, petals fluttering, stem swaying. I’m not 100% pleased with this series of moving images, but it’s a start. I’m still learning the nuances of video, especially phone video. I’ll get better. Hopefully soon!
https://www.instagram.com/p/B0a6ufKgWpj/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link
I’m as smitten with the poppy pods as the blooms. Once the papery petals yield to the wind or gravity, a handsome hull plump with poppy seeds remains. Ample. Memorial. Geometric.
https://www.instagram.com/p/B0GlMkNAh-1/
There’s something profoundly compelling in that image, don’t you think? A mystery unraveling. Or re-raveling. Wonder is summoned, and it answers eagerly.
Ever wonder how cucumbers would taste for breakfast? One of the joys of vegetable (and fruit) gardening is the opportunity to try new things, dip into the abundance in unusual ways, and experiment with combinations of ingredients and unusual pairings. As it turns out, a handsome woodchuck — a North American marmot (Marmota monax), if I’m not mistaken — and I agree on the appeal of cucumbers for breakfast!
Don’t get me wrong, I’m a cucumbers-for-breakfast newbie, but I can confidently vouch for the refreshing crunch of peeled, sliced cucumber with your first mug of coffee, tea, or MUD|WTR. Especially when you lather it with honey roasted peanut butter. It’s practically a full, balanced meal.
You convinced? Try it!
Our hungry Rosslyn marmot, let’s call him Woodchuck Chuck (more of a nod to my juvenile enthusiasm than a gift for gabbing with varmints), turns out to love cucumbers for breakfast too. And his palette doesn’t even depend on peanut butter to tempt.
After a couple nights of excessive buffet-ing his way through the veggies, we decided it was time for relocation. He’d burrowed himself a cozy accommodation beneath a temporary rock pile adjacent to the garden, so that’s where we placed the live trap. A broken up cucumber proved irresistible, and we were able to assist with his relocation to a less populated area with plenty to eat and no pesky gardeners vying for harvest priority.
Will Woodchuck Chuck return? Perhaps. But if he’s anticipating a never ending smorgasbord, well, hhhmmm… Maybe peanut butter?
After sharing pics on our Instagram (@rosslynredux) and Facebook (@rosslynredux) feeds it seems that peanut butter *might* be the secret sauce.
Sara Star: Looks like you trapped the varmint. Did you use peanut butter? It’s great bait for critters. We have live trapped a few skunks with it, and relocated. That woodchuck looks big!
Geo Davis: Huge! We didn’t even need to resort to peanut butter, just chopped up cucumber bits. Next time we re-relocate him it might require peanut butter though…
Sara: Such are the challenges of growing good food. Everyone wants to eat your veggies.
Geo: Heheh. True enough. Cheers to good food (and enough to share!)
And another similar experience.
Lorraine Townsend Faherty: we re-homed one (very chubby fellow) a few years ago using PB as bait for the trap. He knew how to get pb out of trap without getting himself trapped. but we persevered and he was taken away.
You see? Peanut butter.
Whether or not I’ve inspired you to try cucumbers for breakfast — with or without peanut butter, with or without woodchucks — it’s worth concluding this post with some context. Gardens invite eaters. Human eaters. But also insects, mollusks (yes, slugs are actually gastropods), birds, animals, and all manner of hungry opportunists. So what’s an organic gardener to to?
I post often about our various creative solutions for gardening holistically, but I’ve never talked about marmots. And the reason is, until now, we’ve never felt with garden pressure from marmots. Deer, yes. Raccoon, yes. And plenty of others. But no marmots until Woodchuck Chuck. So this is a first foray but not likely a final foray. I’ll update if/when useful developments.
Until then, it’s worth reiterating my underlying assumption that garden–to–table lifestyle need not focus on scarcity. I’ve likely explained that my gardening philosophy (upon rereading this sounds decidedly stodgier than intended) is an abundance mindset. What?!?!
An abundance mindset refers to the paradigm that there is plenty out there for everybody. (Source: Forbes)
Wait… what? Gardening enough for everybody? Everybody?!?!
Actually, pretty much yes.
We overgrow in the hopes that there will be plenty for us to enjoy even when our wild neighbors help themselves. Within reason. But when a wild neighbor, Woodchuck Chuck for example, gorges to excess, then we try to get creative. If our first relocation attempt is unsuccessful, then we’ll brainstorm how to leverage the magic of peanut butter!
[N.B. Were you looking for Why are my Cucumbers Orange?]
Glorious indeed it is to report that our peaches this year are the tastiest I’ve ever grown. Also the biggest, juiciest, sweetest, and IMHO the prettiest.
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! — Lewis Carroll
I’m chortling in my joy. Imagine, if you dare, the decadence of lifting a sun warmed peach, freshly plucked from the branch, up to your mouth, lips parting against the fuzzy flesh, teeth sinking effortlessly into the sweet meat, juice dribbling down your chin,…
It’s truly sensational! Peach perfection. Almost.
Sadly our perfect peaches this year belie a bittersweet backstory. But let’s micropoetry-pause a moment before sharing the slightly sadder side of this decadent moment.
Few peaches this year
— Geo Davis
but plump, nectar swollen with
best flavor ever.
That haiku actually tells the whole story, backstory and all. Our peaches this year are startlingly few after the bumper crops we’ve enjoyed over the last few years. It’s fair to say that 2020 and 2021 provided enough peaches to satisfy our most gluttonous appetites and to share with all who desired, from friends to wildlife. But 2022 has been a been a poignant recalibration.
We lost our two Reliance Peach trees this season. All of four peach trees budded on time this spring, and all four began to push out tiny little leaves. But then the two Reliance trees stalled. No apparent weather shock or fungus or predation. Just withering. And then suddenly the Reliance trees were dead. The other two trees, both Contender Peach variety, struggled as well. But they gradually overcame whatever was afflicting them (despite never really recovering 100%). Both Contender Peach trees experienced some die-back, and both set an unusually light load of fruit.
We will be replacing the dead Reliance trees and likely adding in a third new peach tree as well. Any suggestions? (Reliance vs. Contender Peach) I’m definitely open to recommendations for hardy, tasty peach tree recommendations that respond well to holistic orcharding (i.e. don’t rely on pesticide.) I’ll enjoy researching replacements, so that’s a silver lining, I suppose. But the best upside to the paucity of peaches this year has been is that the few we’ve enjoyed are quite miraculously the tastiest we’ve ever grown!
We’re grateful to our Amish community for assistance nurturing Rosslyn’s organic vegetable, fruit, and flower gardens; our holistic orchard and vineyard; and sixty acres of landscape. While there’s much to admire about the dedicated women who have planted and weeded, pruned and suckered, nurtured and harvested for us, I’m especially grateful for their petroleum-free, exhaust free locomotion!
You suspect I jest? I do. Often. But not in this case. I’m actually quite fascinated with their efficiency of 21st century horse-and-buggy travelers.
And not only when our dedicated Amish gardeners arrive and depart, but on most every morning’s bike ride between the Adirondack foothills and Lake Champlain. I often share quiet, winding backroads with these courteous drivers. And last night, returning from Westport at an advanced hour, we witnessed three buggies moving along at a startlingly quick clip despite having no headlights. Only a single, diminutive lantern bounced within each buggy scarcely illuminating the driver, so certainly offering no navigational assistance.
As muscly pickup trucks and stealthy EVs wind through our rural communities, the Amish manage admirably to accomplish whatever locomotion they need without combustion engines or power grid tethers. There’s plenty to be learned from them, and not only for their dedicated industry.
This is a new opportunity for us. One nearby Amish family has been trafficking between our properties, learning quickly what each garden, each plant, each property needs. Since early spring the two to three sisters will arrive in the morning via ultra quiet conveyance. Although it took Carley a little while to become accustomed to the horse-drawn buggy, she’s no longer startled when the staccato sound of horse hooves and the curious crunching noise of carriage wheels on crushed stone awaken her from her postprandial snooze. She perks up, saunters into the screen porch, and observes. The bonneted young women wave, and I return their greeting. Carley watches until the horse and buggy disappear from view.
I’ll close with a short video I shot early in the morning last summer as another Amish buggy for a moment rolled in front of the rising sun.
Poppies aplenty! A gardener can never grow too many poppies in my estimation. Biased? Yes, unabashedly biased when it comes to Papavers, I’m afraid. (The oriental poppies that we plant at Rosslyn are in the genus Papaver in the subfamily Papaveroideae of the family Papaveraceae. No worries, you won’t be quizzed later.)
So smitten am I with this almost impossibly perfect pairing of sensuous and carefree, delicate and robust, that I’ve gathered a passel of poppy poems as a rainy day elixir. Feel free to avail yourself of this sure cure if you’re stuck in the doldrums and need a boost. I can’t guarantee that the poems pack the euphoric punch of actual poppies, but they just might remind your heart and soul how to conjure these beguiling beauties out of your own memory.
The advice, “bloom where you are planted,” apparently owes it’s pithy endurance to the Bishop of Geneva, Saint Francis de Sales (1567-1622), but my first point of reference was different. It was 1999, and I had just relocated from Santa Fe, New Mexico to Paris, France. I received a book in my workplace welcome packet that had been compiled by the FACCP Franco-American Community Center of Paris. The title was Bloom Where You’re Planted: Tips for Living and Thriving in Paris.
Although I grew up admiring poppies that my mother grew in the Adirondack’s Champlain Valley, there’s no doubt that visits to Normandy where poppies still dot green fields, and teaching John McCrae’s “In Flanders Fields” to my students at the American School of Paris deepened my connection to Papavers. Somehow the helpful manual provided to me in my late twenties became connected with the poppies in my memory and in my gardens.
This morning’s poppies and the lovely reminder from Saint Francis de Sales and the good folks at the FACCP Franco-American Community Center of Paris coalesced for a fleeting moment, and the first semblance of a new poppy poem unfurled its still wrinkled petals. Not sure where it’s headed, if anywhere, but here’s where it stands today.
Bloom where you’re planted,
where the wind blows you,
where you are needed.
Bloom when conditions are perfect
and when they are not. Bloom.
Might need to let it rest a bit, and possibly, hopefully resurface anon. After all, I surround myself with poppies aplenty, so perhaps this poetry seed will germinate some day in the future, a reminder that preservation by neglect applies not just to orphaned buildings and blog posts, but also poems.
Fair warning, gentle hearted readers. I’m about to share an image of an anthropomorphic carrot alongside a human hand returning the misanthropic gesture.
Still reading?
And accompanying this potentially offensive image is a potentially offensive poem. So if you’re super sensitive and/or if you’re indisposed to gardeners’ laugh therapy, no judgment (but best stop reading now.)
Still reading?
If so, “The Impudent Carrot” (below) may well tickle your funny bone. I certainly hope so.
If carrots unearthed
are caught coupling,
surmise that it might
augur auspicious.
If carrots unearthed
are gnarled in a fist
(except one flipped bird),
return the gesture.
Garden humor to lighten the mood of your shortening days and lengthening nights. Levity is my go-to analgesic, and maybe, just maybe, I’m not the only to get amused when pulling funny looking carrots out of the dirt.
In this case, thank you, Hroth Ottosen, for documenting your Rosslyn harvest with a visual poke in the ribs.
Sowing seeds, witnessing unassuming flecks burst with life, observing brave tendrils wobbling-then-rising out of the moist soil, phantom white threads greening as they ascend, precocious seed leaves opening toward the sun,… Germinating seeds that will find their way into Rosslyn’s vegetable garden (and eventually onto our table, into our mouths and the mouths of family, friends, and plenty of opportunistic wild neighbors) fills me to brimming with exuberant optimism. Life out of specks. Beautiful, delicious food conjured out of miniature promises pushed into moist earth.
Thinning leggy sprouts —
anemic shoots, green seed leaves —
culling vigor… life.
Such possibility, such awakening in the germination of seeds. Each one miraculous. Each a gift. But after almost 5 decades of gardening, I still struggle with thinning these sprouts, favoring the strong, the dominant. With these Organic Calabrese Broccoli seedlings I’ve decided to spare the earnest sprouts s little longer. Perhaps, once they’ve matured just a little bit more, into micro greens that can be eaten maybe, then I will find it easier to uproot the weaker, the wobblier, the more vertically challenged?
Time for a late season look at our still-semi-new hoop house’s new upgrade: scissor doors. We made it through our first season with ropes to gather and tether the “caterpillar tunnel’s” east/west ends with the assistance of ballast (rocks and bales of sod) to secure the often wind-loosened plastic. We made it, but by season’s end we knew there was plenty of room for improvement.
So we decided to gather a few simple parts, mostly from Johnny’s Selected Seeds. Pam and Hroth spent a Saturday morning experimenting and tweaking, eventually accomplishing a relatively convenient, weather proof closure for both ends of the tunnel.
It took some patience, but it all came together.
A little trimming here and an adjustment there. And voila!
There remain a few questions such as how well the doors will hold up to harsh winter windows.
And how best to secure the doors when they’re closed to minimize air leakage and secure against wind flapping.
I’m sure we’ll adjust further in the months ahead, and we’ll post updates if/when any useful learning is acquired. Until then, here’s what the high tunnel / hoop house scissor doors look like now.
Hroth’s video proves proof of concept!
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