Tag: Maple Syrup

Ready for Rhubarb Time?
Rosslyn Rhubarb Time (Photo: Geo Davis)

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.
May 28, 2023
Old Glory & Mud Season
Rosslyn boathouse during Adirondack mud season (Source: Geo Davis)

I recently returned to Rosslyn after almost two months away. It was my single longest absence since buying the house in July 2006, and the extended hiatus was a bit surreal. I departed Essex in February and returned in April!

For readers familiar with life in the Adirondacks, you’ll remember that we have the distinction of a fifth season in addition to spring, summer, fall and winter affectionately known as “mud season”. Okay, not so affectionately. Mud season — tied with black flies for least sexy North Country inconveniences — is tolerable for two reasons:
1. Sugaring: Authentic maple syrup is an Adirondack staple. Remember the smell and flavor of real maple syrup, before corn syrup and artificial flavoring and coloring elbowed their way onto the breakfast table? Sugaring is as much a gourmet delicacy as it is a theme of story lore. Extracting maple sap and concentrating it into syrup or sugar wasn’t just a local sweet source before grocers and box stores. According to Bill Yardley, sugaring provided an occupation for lumberjacks during mud season.
2. Transformation: Like a rite of passage, the Adirondack mud season is sometimes dreaded, usually messy, often cathartic and almost always revitalizing. Tucked between winter and summer, two of the most glorious North Country seasons (the other two are spring and fall,) mud season is our annual reminder that we aren’t living in paradise, just a near-perfect facsimile of paradise.
This year I was traveling during mud season (not altogether a coincidence, I admit) which meant that I missed almost the only snowfall that the Champlain Valley experienced this winter. The silver lining? I also missed the slush and mud that followed.

Maple Syrup (Source: Wikipedia)

But despite my absence, life at Rosslyn sailed on smoothly. By now you may have realized that my bride runs a tight ship, possibly even more so when I’m away from home. And with Doug and Lorri contributing muscle and follow-through to my bride’s decrees, not much slips between the cracks. Except for the tattered flag…

Upon returning from my travels I discovered that a concerned passerby had stopped to complain about the tattered American flag flapping over Rosslyn boathouse. He spoke with Doug, referenced his years of military service and departed. By all accounts, the passerby was courteous and respectful, and his concern was justified. Old Glory was in a sorry state of neglect.

Doug promptly replaced the tattered flag and assumed that the case was closed.

It wasn’t.

A few days later the same gentleman returned and expressed his gratitude. And then he departed. No name. No way to thank him for his attention. A mysterious stranger with a patriotic soul and a neighborly spirit.

Good flags make good neighbors.
April 30, 2012
Garapa Decking 2008-2009

I left you wondering, patiently waiting for a couple of weeks after the “Deck Rebuild” update. I promised a post specifically focusing on the garapa decking, but days turned into weeks, and no garapa gallery. Sorry. Rest assured it was an act of omission, my friends, not an act of commission. (Maybe “fall” earned its name as an abbreviation for “falling behind”?)

Before 2022 re-decking… (Source: Geo Davis)

But you needn’t wait any longer. Patience is overrated, and the new deck “eye candy” is ready. Pictures aplenty coming your way shortly, but first a little backward glance to Rosslyn’s first garapa deck waaayyy back in 2008-2009. You see, this newly completed deck is a redo of the same deck and decking completed during our epic rehabilitation project a decade and a half ago.

So, without further ado, let’s look at the first iteration of Rosslyn’s garapa deck.

Garapa Decking v1.0

Let’s start by rewinding the timeline to 2008-9. Building the new deck and installing garapa decking was the proverbial caboose in a virtually endless train of construction that started in the summer of 2006. And with winter upon us, December days flurrying past, the year coming to an end, carpentry conditions deteriorating rapidly, and the risk of missing yet another deadline, we were pushing hard to get the deck complete before 2008 morphed into 2009. Fortunately most of our crew had been with us for years and they were really, really good sports about giving everything they had to finish the year with a completed deck.

Although the deck had been underway for many weeks at this point, let’s start with a couple of cold and drizzly December 10, 2008 snapshots.

Doug’s Decking Tent, December 10 2008 (Source: Geo Davis)

This makeshift weatherproofing was an attempt to endure the increasingly cold and wet conditions as autumn gave way to winter. Decking was closer, closer, sooo close,… but not yet done. And the damp child found its way into every every gap between clothing, up sleeves, down collars. Winter’s warning was everywhere as the team hustled toward the finish line.

Wondering about that smiling, blurry apparition at the left? That’s Doug Decker, hustling to keep warm. (And his colleague, partially concealed beneath the tarp, is Jonathan “Boulder” Schier.)

Here’s another glimpse of the challenging conditions the crew endured during the final stretch of the garapa decking project almost fourteen years ago. It’s not east to discern but Doug’s under the tarp tent working on the stairway.

Decking Tent on Rainy Winter Day, December, 10 2008 (Source: Geo Davis)

Of course, the only way to make these drizzly early December conditions look pleasant is to leapfrog forward to December 22, 2008.

Installing Garapa Stairs on December 22, 2008 (Source: Geo Davis)

You might almost miss freezing rain once a couple feet of snow have blanketed the North Country. In the photo above, a dauntless carpenter (either Kevin Boyle or Warren Cross, I believe, though perspective and bundling make me uncertain) is scribing and installing garapa treads, the final step to completing the deck. And despite the snow, it’s sunny and he’s dressed for success. This is certainly one of the downsides of installing a deck so late in the season (and one of the upsides of having such an amazing team of carpenters, willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done right and on time!)

Garapa Deck, January 1, 2009 (Source: Geo Davis)

What a perfect way to start the new year! Garapa decking installation complete; access to and from vehicles, garbage and recycling shed, side yards, safe and convenient; and an absolutely breathtaking addition to the property, transitioning perfectly from interior to exterior space.

Garapa Deck, February 2, 2009 (Source: Geo Davis)

One month later Rosslyn’s garapa deck looks as if it’s always been there. Patinated perfection. Still unsealed, waiting for more forgiving conditions, but that too will happen in due time. (Although it’s an off-topic segue, I will revisit this period between garapa installation and sealing down the line. There was an unfortunate hiccup that required attention, but — spoiler alert — it wasn’t actually caused by the gap between install and oiling. Another gap was the culprit…)

Wayne Gryk Sealing Garapa Deck, September 19, 2009 (Source: Geo Davis)

Friend and jack-of-all-trades-master-of-many, Wayne Gryk tackled the challenge of sealing the garapa decking 9-10 months after installation. He’s an artist, a perfectionist, a productive and diligent finisher, and exactly the right person for the final step in Rosslyn’s [first] garapa deck.

Home stretch… One of the boobytraps of sealing a deck is maintaining house access. It’s easy to accidentally close off entrance and egress without forethought about how you’ll access the dwelling while patiently swaying the often lengthy cure time. Fortunately this isn’t the sort of drama Wayne delivers

Sealing Garapa Deck, September 19, 2009 (Source: Geo Davis)

Wayne proceeded strategically, leaving a small unsealed “pathway” on the deck for us to enter and exit until the newly sealed decking had dried sufficiently. Once we could switch to another doorway, Wayne finish up the last little bit. In the photo below he’s almost finished, but you can already see the glorious accomplishment.

Wayne Gryk Sealing Garapa Deck, September 19, 2009 (Source: Geo Davis)

At this point it’d be reasonable to fast-track from 2009 to the present, 2022. With a newly rebuilt deck, brand new garapa decking installed, and a fresh coat of oil accentuating the unique color and grain of the garapa, it’s a site to behold.

But before showcasing the new decking, I’d like to make a quick pitstop on November 25, 2016 which is a handy example of the results of resealing our first garapa deck. Let’s start with a high sun, midday look across the deck shortly after oiling.

Resealing Garapa Deck, November 25, 2016 (Source: Geo Davis)

You’ll note the considerably darker decking in the photo above. This is not because we used a dark pigmented sealer (we have always used clear sealers). It’s the effect of graying as the deck ages. We generally allow a few years between resealing, in part because we actually really enjoy how the gray patinated decking looks next to the Essex quarried limestone (aka Chazy limestone) walls. But a sealed deck is better preserved against the snowy Adirondack winters, so we reseal in service to longevity. In this photo you can see how much depth and character the garapa exudes as it matures. Each season offers intriguing nuances to discover and appreciate.

Resealing Garapa Deck, November 25, 2016 (Source: Geo Davis)

The same deck, the same day, viewed from another angle highlights the honey and maple syrup range of Rosslyn’s garapa deck approximately eight years and several resealings after her debut.

In more recent years we allowed the decking to gray without resealing because we knew that the substructure was failing and deck replacement was iminent. In preparation for our summer 2022 deck rebuild we carefully salvaged all of this original garapa decking, and current experiments are underway to determine the most appealing adaptive reuse in the new icehouse project. (I’ll post an update on that soon!)

Next up? Installing garapa decking on the newly rebuilt deck!

September 30, 2022
The Farm

Rock Harbor Rhubarb (and memories of The Farm!)

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.

My parents, living and working in New York City, had purchased an 1840s farmhouse on 85 acres near Greenwich, New York five months after getting married. I was born less than two years later.

Although The Farm served primarily as a weekend getaway for the next five years, it dominates the geography of my earliest childhood. A stream of nostalgia gilded memories flow from this pastoral source: exploring the time-worn barns, absent livestock except for those conjured up by my energetic imagination and the swallows which darted in and out, building nests in the rafters, gliding like darts through dusty sunbeams; vegetable gardening with my mother; tending apple, pear and quince trees with my father; eating fresh rhubarb, strawberries and blackberries; discovering deer and raccoons and snakes and even a snapping turtle.

May 31, 2011
Orchard Rumination

Apple Blossom (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Lately I’ve been reflecting on all the trees I wish I’d planted in the fall of 2006 and the spring of 2007. We’ve been adding new trees for a year now — a half dozen or so each spring and fall — and yet I can’t help but imagine what might be today if I’d started earlier. Fruit trees ten or twelve feet tall would still be blooming. We would have been harvesting apples and pears and plums and apricots and peaches for a couple of seasons by now.

In fact, we have harvested some apples and pears during the last two years, but they didn’t come from newly planted trees. I’ve been restoring a couple dozen gnarly, long neglected apple trees (and two pear trees) scattered throughout the meadows behind our barns. Whittling a third of their old growth away each season, I’ve begun to nurse the old trees back to health, and several have begun to produce palatable fruit.

I’ve wiled away many beautiful hours lopping and sawing from the top of a ladder or winding my way through the limbs like a monkey. I’ve loved every minute of it and not just for the promise of future fruit.

It’s a funny thing, an orchard. So many functions wrapped up in one little plot of land, one little grid of fruit trees. Obviously one of the most important is also the most self evident: an orchard is a neighborhood “market”, if you will. A fresh fruit grocery less than a minute from the kitchen. An organic grocery where I can be 100% confident that no pesticide and no unwholesome ripening techniques have sullied the fresh fruit.

Doug carrying orchard ladder

And then there are the flowers. Gardeners, landscapers, poets and painters have romanced the seasonal blossoms of fruit trees for hundreds of years. I am no exception despite my utilitarian, upcountry ways. An orchard is a geometric bouquet of blooms, an annual riot against leafless canopies and gray, drizzly spring days. And even when blossoms flutter earthward and the boughs fill with thick plumes of adolescent foliage, there remains a subtle nobility in the orchard’s orderly procession.

During hot summer days the orchard becomes contemplative, concentrating on nurturing promises into bounty. The fruit trees reach deep into the cool earth for water and high into the sky for sunshine. They brace their increasingly heavy load against winds and thunderstorms.

And then it’s time for the harvest. Whether a crisp apple plucked during a mid-day walk with Griffin or a pear sauce cooked down with vanilla, cloves and a jigger of maple syrup, I’ve already begun to enjoy the fruits of my labors. This August through October should offer up an even more robust crop of apples and pears. And someday soon I hope to acquire a cider press and invite friends and neighbors for a weekend of fruit gathering and cidering. A potluck. Music in the meadows. And by then, with luck, the apricots and peaches and plums will have begun to produce as well. What fruity feasting we’ll do!

Old Apple Tree; New Chapter (Photo credit: virtualDavis)

During the winter months another often overlooked function of the orchard reveals itself. In order to maintain healthy fruit trees while improving their physical architecture and productivity it’s necessary to prune the trees during the period of winter dormancy. This is a chore, and the bigger the orchard grows, the bigger the chore. But unlike most chores, pruning an orchard is far more than a line item on a To Do list.

There’s a creative element, shaping and guiding the trees’ growth habit year after year. And there is a serotonin inducing pick-me-up triggered by dedicating yourself to an activity during the winter doldrums which will increase summer abundance. An investment in future harvests.

But for me, the single greatest reward of fruit tree orcharding occurs during the off-season. My bride is an avid and dedicated practitioner of yoga. Not I. For me it’s fruit tree pruning. I don’t think it’s a reach to suggest that pruning fruit trees in the late winter and early spring is my yoga. It’s my mindfulness meditation.

And then there’s grafting… But that alchemist’s hobby for another day, another post.

Now I’m off to sleep to dream of the orchards we might have had today if we could have initiated our orchard yoga sooner!

May 2, 2012