Rewards

Today was a good day. A day to savor every small bit of the garden that is still shining. A day for standing in the sunshine and drinking in the warmth of an October sun. No big swaths of color to thrill anymore. Just little treasures like this magnolia pod that has burst open to reveal its richly red seed.

And the finely described pinwheels of the sweet autumn clematis seeds (Clematis paniculata or sometime c. terniflora).

The one aster (Aster novae angliae) plant that bloomed pink rather than purple like the rest.

I'm still enjoying the morning glories that are still magnificent,

and a sedum that drapes softly over some european ginger.

There are still some roses

The marigolds that I plant each year in honor of my mother are still blooming without a care,

and the fat seed heads of the sunflowers are now a smorgasbord for the goldfinch and chickadees.

Every single one of these things are the rewards I reap for making a garden. I never take them for granted. But today I got to savor one big reward for a decision I made 12 years ago.  I like native plants and I like birds. I have made an effort to plant native shrubs that produce things birds like. Twelve years ago I planted a very small northern bayberry shrub (Myrica pensylvanica), as it was always one of my favorite shrubs for its waxy leaves and the smell of its beautiful, gray berries. I included it in the bouquets for my winter wedding.  I was delighted to discover a few years later that yellow-rumped warblers (a juvenile shown below) are some of the very few birds that can digest the waxy coating of bayberries.

Courtesy Cornell's http://www.allaboutbirds.org/

That small shrub I planted all those years ago, along with two more have now grown into a large hedge along with some winterberry (Ilex verticulata) and a summersweet shrub (Clethra alnifolia). 

This morning I spotted a yellow-rumped warbler in the yard for the first time ever. This afternoon I watched it land in the bayberry and eat a few berries. They came, they came!

This is one of the sweetest rewards of my life.

The Tomatillos that ate my Garden with a small foray into Tomato Butter

I tried growing tomatillos this year. It was a successful experiment. I grew two types, green and purple. This is what the purple looks like on the bush. I planted three plants--crazy too many.

This is what the inside of a tomatillo looks like.

This is what eight pounds of tomatillos look like. This is a lot of tomatillos. So I decided to make Salsa Verde and can it. Wouldn't you?

But before I proceed, let's just say there was an earlier harvest from which I made a small batch of salsa verde and then used about 40 more tomatillos to make this tomatillo-chile beef stew. It was very good.

Clearly, though, a larger effort was required if these tomatillos were not going to go to waste. So, here are the same eight pounds along with some onions, garlic and chiles going into the oven to roast. 

I neglected to take some photos at this point, but here's one of the roasted jalapenos right before its seeds are removed (I'm pretty wimpy when it comes to heat).

Once the chiles were seeded and stemmed, all ingredients were tossed in a pot and I stirred things up with an immersion blender--one of my absolutely favorite kitchen tools--until it looked like this.

Kinda boring, I know. It was brought to a boil and then simmered for about 20-25 minutes or so. Husband Mike then helped me fill the jars and do the water bath. I won't show you the pic of the jars going into the water bath, cuz you probably know what that looks like--jars going into a big pot full of water.

Here is what eight pounds of tomatillos look like when jarred as salsa verde. I got eight and half pints, although the recipe suggested I should get 10 pints.

It is very good. Let me know if you want the recipe. I really don't consider this a "food" blog.

I also had a small accumulation of tomatoes, too few to process and freeze but too many to use any other way. So I made tomato-garlic butter. It is sort of like tomato paste. The basic recipe is one garlic clove to one pound of tomatoes, but I usually add more garlic. It all goes into a pot and gets cooked down until soft.

Then I ran them through the chinois (big word alert!) to separate pulp from skins and seeds. If I had more I would have gotten out the regular food mill. The chinois requires more elbow grease.

 This is what I ended up with. It simmers low on the stove for hours............

Until it looks like this on a spoon. I ended up with one cup of tomato butter, which I promptly used in the crock pot butter chicken for dinner tonight. If I had more, I would freeze it in small quantities (plastic snack-size bags are good) and save it for later use.

There are more tomatillos out there waiting for me.

Meditation Over Coriander

Everyone who has grown cilantro knows how fast it goes to seed. Frustrating. That fast bolt does have its rewards, though: Free coriander. But only if you are willing to do some work. I am willing, as I don't consider it a chore. For me, it is a mediation.

They have pretty flowers, no denying that.


















I harvest the whole plant once the majority of seeds have dried and turned brown.

I use a large bag, cover the plant and then cut off the stalks. Hanging the bag for a week or two helps the plant fully dry and makes the seeds easier to remove. (forgot to take a picture of that!)

Here are the stalks after they have dried out and I have removed the seeds.

I shake and rub the stalks through the bag first so many will fall to the bottom of the bag. The rest I pick off roughly by hand; all go into a large wide bowl.

Here's where the mediation comes in. As you can see, there is a lot of "chaff" with my seeds. This all needs to be separated out.  I park myself on the edge of the deck with my legs sticking out onto the lawn and I do this:

Everything goes into a fine mesh colander over a bowl. You can see the fine twigs and stems that have already fallen through the colander below in the bowl.

Then I "thresh" it by rubbing my hand vigorously in the colander to break up the dry stems and leaves into smaller pieces so they fall through.

This takes a good while and it is here that I have learned to just be in the moment, not rush and not get impatient. I think about women in third world countries who do something like this every day just to feed their families. I look at the flowers in my garden. I think about how lucky I am. Towards the end, I am picking out small stems and leaves by hand. I am serene.

And the result is this:

I let it sit in the bowl for a week or so to let the last of the moisture escape, if there is any, and then I bottle it up and it goes in my spice drawer.

I will have more to harvest soon. If you would like to practice this meditation, I am willing to bag and cut plants for you--but you have to sit over your own colander to get the serenity. And the free coriander. Let me know.

A Transformative Day

Last week I walked out the Gull Point, Presque Isle State Park, here in Erie. It stormed the night before and I was anticipating that storm bringing in some new shorebirds, perhaps some rarities. It was still pretty dark and windy as I walked out.

I was "disappointed"in the shorebirds I did find. Short-billed Dowitchers, Lesser Yellowlegs, Least Sandpiper, Semipalmated Sandpipers and Plovers. I had my heart set on godwits or phalaropes. I compensated by watching the Caspian Terns, a favorite of mine. Here's one bringing in a treat.

Things perked up when a juvenile Northern Harrier showed up. Jerry McWilliams explained to me that the rufus color on the scapulars (shoulders) was an indication of its youth. It flew persistently over the open sand plain of Gull Point looking for a meal.

 As I walked back to my car, I noticed signs of the approaching fall-poison ivy already starting to turn.

As I drove away from the trail head I was making plans for what I would do at home, but in a spontaneous moment I decided to stop at Leo's Landing (where the "Feather" installation is on PIAS) in hopes of finding some fall warblers. That turned out to be a momentous decision. 

Sitting on the ground, unable to fly, was a young Turkey Vulture, with some white down still visible on its back and sides. It was huddled at the base of a tree, obviously injured and barely moving around. I called Tamarack Wildlife Rehabilitation and Education Center, they agreed to take it and with their help I hatched a plan for catching it. Anne Desarro, a park naturalist generously agreed to help and soon arrived with gloves and tarps for securing the bird. I had a box in the back of my truck. After several attempts, we eventually cornered the bird and I wrapped it in the tarp. It calmed down in my arms. It felt much lighter than anticipated. In the process of the catch we both discovered that its injuries were far worse than we first thought; most of its right wing was missing. We both knew that Tamarack would probably have to euthanize it due to the severity of its injuries, but we agreed that I should still take it.

We put it in the ready box, secured the lid and I headed out for Tamarack. When I arrived, the rehabber on duty agreed when I explained the injuries. They deftly and gently prepared the bird for its last. 

The rehabber asked if I wanted to stay.  I learned many years ago that I should always stay at moments like this. I had a cat named Buster who was one of my greatest delights. He developed cancer and at the tender age of three needed to be put down. Thinking that I could not bear it, I elected to not be in the room with him when they injected that shot. I still regret that decision and will always feel that I abandoned him at his most vulnerable moment. And I learned that love is not selfish.

I said yes and reached out, putting my hand on the vulture's chest. It was breathing hard. Slowly, though, it became more shallow. Eventually its chest stopped moving. The room was quiet and filled with respect for such a magnificent bird that did not get to live very long. Eventually, the rehabber said to an intern, "you can let go of its legs now." 

We were done. It was done.  This young vulture may have never even had the opportunity to experience the magnificence of flight, of soaring high on a thermal. But it transformed my day from ordinary to extraordinary and I know the gifts it gave me will be revealing themselves to me slowly for years to come.

Anticipation

The garden teaches me patience. Every year, I looked forward to the unfolding season of growth that it provides. We are in the midst of the cycle now with some flowers already faded, some in bloom now and more to come. I sit on my deck and look, cataloging what is still left to anticipate. I crave those blooms, vegetables and fruit; I want to see them, eat them, savor them. Years of experience has taught me though that I cannot crave them too much. I must give them their time and learn to enjoy the delicious anticipation for itself.

I have to wait until July each year to see the butterfly bush bloom.

The mandavilla I saved from the clearance rack has its first open blossom today.

As does this tiger lily. This one took a long time to open--I was expecting it last week.

We are eating the cherry tomatoes, but these Carmellos are making us wait.

As are these stunning San Marzanos. These will be sauce later on. 

The Joe-pye weed is starting to get its color,

but we're going to have to wait a while longer for the moonflower vine. I'm really anxious for these--I haven't grown them in at least 10 years.

We won't be eating the pears until late August or early September.

I've already harvested the garlic and it is drying in flats on the driveway. I am happy knowing that we have more to savor--the cardinal lobelia, onions, carrots, a second wave of roses, morning glories, fall-blooming anemone, tomatillos and more.

When the toad lily blooms (the strappy leaves not the variegated ones), however, I start to panic just a little. This is the last flower to bloom in my garden. It will be late September before it shows off its orchid-like blooms. The anticipation then will only be for colder temperatures and, well, snow shoveling. It's much harder to enjoy that anticipation. Until then, the garden will carry me. Still so much to look forward to.