Dangers of Obsession!

The challenge with having two obsessions is that at any given time one gets neglected.

This weekend, though the sun came out briefly on Saturday and Sunday, I was busy watching dog agility, not working in the garden.

I am guilt ridden and torn. I enjoyed the trial tremendously, I even participated in a fun run at the end of the trial. But every time the sun glanced through the windows in the barn, I felt its warmth and its urgent call to go home and shovel chicken manure and straw in the new bed. Even over 15 miles away I could hear my garden sirens. I ignored them both!

When I did finally get home, John had already installed the Strawberry Stacks, my peas had grown an inch, the broad beans had finally poked through the snow, the lovage and fennel buds had started to unfurl and the chives had produced enough spears to add to the bean burgers I made for dinner.

My obsession for next week has to be the garden! Sorry Willie!

Dam Those Garden Sirens

Garden Pre Sirens

The slushy rain is coming down hard outside my study window. The trees are bending in the wind; the dogs are frustrated they didn’t get their morning walk. But they’re lying patiently at my feet, ever hopeful. I’m not so patient. Either the microbes in the ground have set up an unholy chorus or the garden sirens are getting a bit chatty because I swear the dirt is calling me.

It could be that the days are getting longer, the light stimulating new growth and awakenings. It could be that renewing energy sifts through the ether and wafts around me like a seductive cloud of sensual oils. It could be that I’m getting older and confusing ringing in my ears with the gentle whisper, “Broad Beans should be in the ground, peas need planting. Another layer of Sea Soil should cover all the beds!”

I braved the cold and rain this morning, bundled up in my t-shirt and nor’easter hat. The house had a nip to it as the fire died in the night. We needed kindling and the chickens needed checking. When it’s windy their gate swings open. The girls don’t wait for freedom’s call, they run and if a particularly strong gust hits them as they’re running for freedom it picks them up and hurls them around the yard.

After securing them in their run, with the dogs happily gamboling about my feet, I walked past the raised beds. And a siren song captivated me, it sang of bright green vines arching around notched bamboo poles, of velvety pods plump with seed, of the air redolent with the scent of crushed fennel and oregano and of bursting moist flavors.

Retrieving the hoe from my new Lee Valley tool organizer I felt a familiar rush of anticipation for the ancient symbiotic relationship humans have with dirt. With tool in hand, boots on my feet I waded through the few remaining patches of snow towards the garden bed.

I tapped the soil lightly with the tip of the hoe. Nothing gave. I tapped a bit harder, not even a speck of dirt broke from a tightly encased icy layer of top soil. Raising the hoe high above my head, visualizing the breaking of soil and the feel of the tool sinking deep in rich, soft earth, I heard the siren song crack a little and I hesitated. Maybe it isn’t time yet, maybe the soil needs to warm up. But the momentum started was hard to stop and I brought the hoe down with all the hope, earnestness and passion of a frustrated gardener.

Nike barked her encouragement and support. Willie flipped the Frisbee at me in a salute of praise and honor for ignoring the elements and reveling in work outdoors in pouring rain and snow. And the hoe hit solid earth sending painful vibrations through metal and wood to tender flesh and nerves.

Okay, so the sirens were just voices in my head. Cradling my aching arm I put the hoe back in my lovely Lee Valley tool organizer and stomped into the house. Next week sirens, next week!

I Was Born a Baby Boomer

I was born a baby boomer. I grew up with parents and grandparents who lived through at least one war.  Thrift and preparedness were unspoken beliefs guiding every monetary decision. A good portion of my summers were spent helping my grandparents or parents tend a large garden and greenhouse interspersed with sporadic bouts of preserving. Nothing edible was wasted, no patch of soil left empty.

My favourite place in our garden was the pea patch. Many a morning mom would be hollering at me from my sister’s bedroom window to stop eating the peas. I could never understand why she was so vehement about eating them cooked rather than raw. I hid in between the giant rows of soft green vines, sitting on the neatly tended path looking for hidden gems, the peas whose shell was still soft enough to eat. Dad only grew shelling peas and the pods would get tough and inedible as the seed inside ripened. Thing is, I loved the taste of the pod. It was like a sweetened version of the pea itself and I had discovered the pea’s secret. There was a critical period in the pea’s growth where the pod had not yet formed its fibrous protective covering. I could eat pod and pea together. The pea seeds were small and tender and the combining of both pod and pea in a single bite was gastronomic heaven.

My mom and my reasons for canning and preserving food are radically different. Mom preserved food out of necessity and fear. Post war fear of more rations and shortages and necessity because in the middle of winter frozen peas, blackberry jelly, canned pears and tomato sauce may not have been available and/or were too expensive. I put food up because I want my family to consume food grown close to home, even in the winter. I don’t need to, I can go to the grocery store and find all forms of vegetables and fruit preserved and fresh at prices I can afford. But I don’t know where it was grown, whose and how many hands touched it, how long its been sitting on the shelf and what’s been put on it or in it pre planting to post picking.

Dad always grew enough peas for mum to freeze. They wouldn’t come ready all at once so she’d be freezing peas for a couple of weeks. It was work intensive, peeling off the top, sliding your finger down the seam to split the pod open, then popping the peas out into a bowl. Sometimes you’d find a small white pea weevil, that pea would be thrown out, the rest in the pod could be saved.

When the bowl was full, mom would drop them in boiling water for a few seconds to blanch them. I never understood why she had to do that until I tried freezing them myself, without blanching. Fortunately, I only froze two bags. I knew something hadn’t worked when I pulled a bag out of the freezer and the peas looked pale. When steamed they were hard and had no flavour. Blanching deactivates enzymes that make certain foods lose flavour and colour and turn tough. Mum’s frozen veggies always tasted of summer: fresh and sweet. Dad used to say it was because her spit was sweet. For years, I believed him.

My mother and grandmother did food preservation very well. Mom could turn any vegetable from the garden into an amazing and exotic chutney, relish or jam. Nannie turned green tomato relish into an artistic rendering of everything left over at the end of the season.

Though neither mom nor nanny formally instructed me in the intricacies of putting up food, I now am fully immersed in its culture. I mean I am hooked, passionate, even zealous about lining my shelves with jars of all sizes, filled with the bounty from my garden.

Preserving food is addictive. I have two rooms filled with jars of colourful jams, jellies, salsas, and more. Our family could survive an emergency for at least six months living off my preserved food. My favourites are canned pears and peaches. John’s is salsa. The kids like any of my jams, but their favourite is blackberry.

Both our kids grew up grazing in our garden. Both have worked on a farm for the summer. When Megan comes home on weekends, she’ll go out to the farm to work…just for fun. My hope is that she’ll have the same passion and understanding of food preservation. In my generation we put food up because we could, in her’s it may just be that they preserve food because they have no choice!