Things in the garden I wished I'd never learned and the lies I tell myself

Our Texas heat has arrived so I got up early this Saturday to slog it out in the yard before the sun started beating down on me. We've had an unseasonably wet and cool spring this year, perfect for the weeds, and I needed to get the worst of them pulled before they set seed.

I've been particularly plagued by Torilis arvensis, known as spreading hedgeparsley. The Texas Invasives site has a description that just makes me laugh. "U.S. Habitat: 'This plant usually grows around waste areas, edges of woods, and low shady places' (Dixon 2011). 'The preference is full sun, mesic to dry conditions, and a rather heavy soil containing gravel or clay. Because this plant often grows in soil containing limestone gravel, it appears to tolerate alkaline conditions' (Hilty 2012)." Yep. That's my yard. I have battled it back pretty well in the front but the backyard got away from me. The nice rains and mild winter have stimulated it to epic proportions. The black swallowtail use it as a host plant, but I've yet to see a caterpillar on it. It likes to hide near my fruit trees and against the fence, which means that Penny the dog gets covered in burrs whenever she goes out on patrol. As I was yanking it out this morning I discovered a few new interesting things about my garden, and that made me think of all the other things I wished I'd never learned and the lies I tell myself about them. See if any of these ring true to you.

1. Horseherb (and other weeds) are easier to pull when they are three feet tall. I guess it's all about the leverage. Plus the verdant growth means they grow up, instead of spreading horizontally, so there are less roots to pull. However, many develop tap roots that rival any tree and it's a recipe for three aspirin and a glass of wine later. Waiting to weed until they get bigger is just plain laziness on my part. 
2. Wildflowers are not just flowers. Oh sure, they are pretty growing out in fields and along the highway. I get particular inspiration from my friend Jenny Stocker who blogs about her experiences at Rock Rose. Jenny's garden has been featured in magazines, tv shows, books, you name it. I go there and have to remind myself that the carefree way her plants grow masks a lot of hard work. I planted quite a few seeds in my gravel pathways to mimic what she does. They are stunning, but they reseed everywhere and I usually am tripping over them before I finally clear them away. Any plant out of place is a weed. I make all sorts of excuses for leaving them, but I must be ruthless and pull them out. Dandelions are pretty too (and delicious) but I don't seem to have trouble yanking them out.
3. Bluebonnets are traitors. Lupines in general are some of my favorite plants because they are like the marines. It's their job to establish a beachhead on these alkaline soils so that other plants can land and thrive. Lupines are legumes, which means that they have bacteria on their roots (rhizobium) that fixes nitrogen from the air and makes it available to the plant. In my yard, the bluebonnets grow to about eight inches tall and then flop over to spread about a foot for each plant. That's awesome except that they harbor weed fugitives that I can't see until they outgrow the bluebonnet - often this is after they've already spread their weedy seeds everywhere.
4. You'll never clear an area of weeds in order to put down mulch. The great thing about mulch is that it serves as a weed suppressant. For that reason, I try to clear the mulching area of weeds first before spreading the layer of whatever I'm going to use. The trouble is that I'm so exhausted from weeding that I never get around to the mulching part. I lie to myself and say that I'll do it next time. This goes along with other great lies like "I'll mow the grass when it quits raining."
5. It's the journey, not the destination.  Plants on the edge of the garden will never get weeded. When I get overwhelmed with how overgrown things are, I play games with myself and try to prioritize the work. "I'll just work on the vegetable beds" I say to myself. Trouble is that I have to walk through a jungle to get there. This means that I weed on the way to weeding, then get tired and never even start the job I meant to. I guess this means I need staff. The other great lie I tell myself is "I'm just going out to turn the compost." Sure, but it always needs screening, which means I have compost to spread, which means I need a weed free area to add it to, which means see #4.
6. Everything in Texas has spurs. Yee-howdy. Every single dang native plant and weed has some sort of spur, burr, thistle, or other device whose sole purpose is to extract blood meal for its community. And that doesn't even begin to include the biting insects and other varmints. 
7. Elmer Fudd had the right idea. Yeah, that bugs bunny was a hilarious wise cracker but Elmer Fudd was totally justified in hunting down that wascally wabbit, not to mention his friends the squirrels. You know, I am a good person, I provide food for wildlife, I planted just the right shrubs and plants to contribute to the circle of life. However when those squirrels take one small bite out of a peach then throw it to the ground, or the rabbits just dig up carrots and leave them on the surface, or the mockingbirds fight each other and knock down the grapes, it just gets to be too much. This leads to the next thing I wish I never learned.
8. Cages are for the people. The only relief from the wildlife is to cage your plants. Mere netting is not going to do the job. You need to build boxes for every edible plant, screen in your porches, and basically see the world through the fine haze of mesh. The Great Outdoors is over rated.
9. Plants are not passive. For the inexperienced gardener, it seems that every plant is out there doing things on their own and just takes what comes. Not true. They're organized, they're manipulative, and they're arrogant. I've been spit on, stabbed, scratched, bitch slapped, and poisoned - all by plants I really like! Who needs enemies? The soil food web research and other microbiological studies show that plants communicate to each other and manipulate microbes, animals, and especially humans to work on their behalf. Don't believe me? When was the last time you ran outside to cover a plant from a freeze or gave it that special elixir to make it grow better. Sucker.
10. Whatever pest or weed you brag about not having shows up the next growing season. It's gardening karma. I've learned to be much more sympathetic when people complain about a particular nuisance in their garden. You don't want to alienate these people because they may have the solution to the problem you are definitely going to have. It's the old "do unto others" thing.

What would you add to this list?

Garden Glamour Thwarts Biting Flies

As usual, our Texas winter has been a mixed bag of weather. It's ranged from freezing temperatures to nearly 80 degrees. I'm not complaining. Texas winters are glorious compared to the gray cold skies of western Oregon, where I lived until 2009.

One dark side to the balmy weather is that the bug population doesn't get killed off in the cold and wet like they do in the north. It's a constant battle in the vegetable garden to stay ahead of pests no matter what time of year it is. I even had a lacewing fly into the house a few weeks ago. They like to hang out in the Mutablis rose near the deck and my recent pruning of it disrupted their housing.

According to my records, we've had a nearly average amount of rainfall this past fall and into January. The weed seed bank accumulated from not keeping up with appearances has sprouted with abandon. I've got plants coming up that I've never seen before and suspect they arrived in a torrent from some uphill neighbor. Weeds, weeds, everywhere so must haul my butt outside to try to catch up before hot weather arrives. I put on my shorts and tank top since I don't have to fear heat exhaustion, slather on sunscreen and am ready to do battle.

Except for the biting flies.

January and early February are usually mosquito free due to the temperature, but the biting flies are apparently more cold tolerant. Like fire ants, they pack a bite compared to their relative size. They are commonly called "Blackfly", scientific name Simulium meridionale. The female is the biter, and she uses her modified mouth parts to draw blood. They are super fast and I've been unable to swat and kill them. Once one of them draws blood a bunch more show up so it becomes really annoying. I've tried toughing it out but the bites creates a really itchy rash that no lotion will soothe. The only way to avoid them is to go in the house or wear protective clothing. I hate having to cover up because winter is the only time I can be outside without sweating like a horse and I'd like to enjoy the cool air. I guess I could get one of those insect protective suits, but they can be expensive.

This past week I had to give up in a huff and come in the house to put on long sleeves and pants. But then I had an idea. I've got a whole drawer full of pantyhose left over from when I used to work in offices whose dress codes required them. I'd order them online in bulk in the four colors I needed and kept well stocked since I was always snagging them on my desk. Once I didn't have to wear them I started using them as plant ties in the garden, so never threw them out. (They are also handy to dry garlic and onions. I hang them on the deck fully stuffed and they look like the worse case of cellulite EVER.) I pulled on a pair of navy hose, put my shorts back on, donned a long sleeve shirt and went back outside. For those of you in the know, panty hose fabric is not solid, and I've been bitten by mosquitos right through it, but I hoped that it would discourage the flies.

And it did! I was buzzed a couple of times but they didn't land and bite me, allowing me to stay out several more hours. Of course the bad thing is that I also developed several runs, which means I'm going to go through that drawer pretty fast to stay ahead of the flies.

Mission accomplished. Thankfully my backyard fence saved my neighbors from seeing me in my glamorous glory. Although if I fashioned some sort of tutu out of bird netting it could get very interesting...

Cheerfully incompetent

About 60 days ago I injured my back. I pulled up a tree and gave myself sciatic nerve issues. These past weeks have been agony, but I am lucky to have found a great chiropractic wellness center (which I fondly refer to as "the pain palace") and helpful advice from Jess and Val who have experienced the same thing. Walking the dog, using a standing desk at work, and lots of careful stretching have culminated into me getting back into the garden today.

What a mess it is. Weeds everywhere, compost stone cold, vegetables long past their pick date, roses that need deadheading, the list goes on.

But today my return outside was markedly different. I spent more time taking care of myself than taking care of the garden. I did my morning stretches, walked the dog, stretched again, then went outside. I limited my activity to two garden beds. I was out there for only a few hours and did some mildly strenuous work. Happy to report that I was able to bend and yank vines without issue. But then I cleaned and put away the tools, came into the house with the harvest, made myself a cup of tea and have called it good for the day.

I walked past the lima beans that desperately need to be picked. I walked past the green beans that are trying to outpace the weeds. I walked past the blooming dandelions and sow thistle. I walked past the crabgrass, horse herb, and johnson grass. I walked past the 10 bags of unopened mulch laying in the beds waiting to be spread. I walked past the okra and zinnias that are covered in powdery mildew. I walked past the garden beds that have rotted corner posts and are springing their sides. I walked past the boards that are cut and ready to use for bed repair.

Once I'd harvested the sweet potatoes and squash, I lightly raked the beds and threw on a cover crop of crimson clover. It's way too late to plant it. Worse, I just lightly patted it in and failed to give it the usual dusting of compost. I used five year old seed which has a small chance of germinating. I don't have a Plan B mulch prepared. I hear my own voice telling people during my master gardener speaking gigs never to do what I just did.

But I did it. Then I just walked away. Cheerfully incompetent.

This willingness to sacrifice myself for a bigger picture has always been a problem - and is something my employers are happy to exploit. I've got a huge compulsion to finish things, to work on large projects, to push myself to exhaustion. I don't spend time stretching, exercising, or just being quiet, all because I see some cog, some stray string, that needs to be repaired/built to keep the wheels of my life turning and the web of my existence intact.

And then my back said "uh uh girlfriend." My little voice reminded me that my friend Jennifer (who blogs at Rock Rose) has always cautioned us to warm up, do some core work, and otherwise take care of ourselves before running outside and doing something stupid.

Yep.

So now I'm trying to do better. I'm trying to turn my focus from what needs to be done to what I must do to care for myself. And please, I'm not being a martyr, no one would ever describe me as a selfless humanitarian or care giver. "Hard worker" and "dependable" are two things that come up instead. I'll take that, but it's time to be a little less of those and more cheerfully incompetent - someone who is happy to turn away and not try to solve everything.

Someone without back issues.  Ha!

Thanks for listening and don't call me if you need rock hauled.

Brown is the New Green - the Quest for a Sustainable Lawn

Carex texensis - in spring

These hot August days have driven me inside for my summer dormancy where I weakly wave to my plants and wish them the best until October. I do suit up (hat, gloves, long sleeves) to mow my neighbor's lawn on occasion so that I can add the clippings to my compost.

Many people have strong opinions about lawns in relation to the chemicals and water resources used to keep it perfectly green. Not just lawns - driving home from work the sprinklers were mostly watering the road in an attempt to keep the median green.

My own front yard is approximately 625 square feet. If I watered it the recommended 1 inch per week, it would use about 1,677 gallons a month (1 inch of water = .62 gallons/square foot.)  That's a lot of water to keep alive something that you can't eat or put into a vase. It will also require fertilizer to keep it going, which then means I'll have to mow it. Water, fertilizer (even if it is organic), and gasoline. Suddenly the word "sustainable" isn't springing to mind.

What is sustainable anyway? There are a lot of definitions. Environmentally speaking, some say it is anything that endures over time without artificial, or man-made input. Watering from a hose is not considered a sustainable act, while rain falling from the sky is. If you have to supplement plant growth in any form, that, to some, is not considered sustainable. The lines blur when you enter in the whole organic movement. Some say that as long as you use organic inputs, like cow manure or compost, you are being sustainable because those sources are renewable resources. So, if I go ahead and have a lawn, get rid of the mower and use a goat to graze and fertilize it, I'm being sustainable. To me the argument becomes ridiculous because having a patch of green grass that requires all this maintenance makes it artificial - and therefore not sustainable - to me. Plus I'm not fond of goats (used to raise them, don't want to repeat the experience.)

Clearly, there must be room in the middle. There is something about the makeup of human beings that loves to see a sea of green. Maybe it is our pastoral past where we associated green fields with good hunting. In any case, telling people to give up their lawn is just not going to fly. What we can do, is help people make better choices. Instead of a thirsty lawn of St Augustine, consider reducing the size of the lawn and plant more ornamentals. Trees and shrubs don't require as much maintenance and are just as lovely. We also must change. It should be perfectly fine to plant Buffalo Grass and let it go brown and dormant in the summer - thus eliminating the need to water at all.

My own lawn is history. I killed all my St Augustine grass seven years ago and planted sedges (Carex texensis) in a much smaller footprint. I only water once a month if it hasn't rained and I don't mow it (although you can if you wish.)  I've spread wildflower seed so that in the spring and early summer I have my own meadow.   The peripheral ornamental beds are planted in natives and antique roses that don't need to be babied through the growing season. An added benefit is that many of the ornamentals provide food and habitat for our native birds most of the year.

It's my contribution toward being responsible to our growing population and shrinking resources. Water in Texas (and most elsewhere) is finite, and we all need to work together to make sure we conserve. Having a brown lawn should be a badge of pride - brown should be the new green!

Farmstastic Working Farm at California State Fair Cal Expo Grounds

I was lucky to spend my vacation with my best friend, Jess, who happens to be on the The California Exposition and State Fair Board. We grew up in 4-H and FFA, then went on to teach Vocational Agriculture, so going to fairs is a nerdy pleasure. For me it was especially nice to get out of the heat and humidity of Austin and enjoy dry days and cool nights in Sacramento, California.

The fair, as always, was a hoot and I am happy to announce I did real damage to the food booths. I also got to chat up the livestock exhibitors and discover all the people we have in common. Several hogs, goats, sheep, cattle, and even a sturgeon were petted and cooed over.

But the real highlight for me was The Farm.

Squash

CalExpo has a working demonstration farm right on the grounds. And while I've seen other similar treatments, most notably the Children's Garden at the San Antonio Botanical Garden, this is a real working plot of land to showcase California agriculture.

Corn

Eggplant on other side of corn

Japanese Eggplant

There are 3 1/2 acres where about 70 different crops are grown. It also features an outdoor kitchen, greenhouse, insect pavilion, blacksmith, and Farmer's market. Master Gardener volunteers are on hand to answer questions or you can stroll on your own to learn about drip irrigation, the crops featured, and other interpretive information on pollinators, water conservation, and soils.

 

Kaiser Permanente is the main sponsor but others, like Save Mart Supermarkets, also contribute and participate. The Farm regularly hosts tours and has special programs for K-6 graders.


What's cool about this is that it's all in raised beds using concrete landscaping blocks. This lifts the garden so it's easier to see but more importantly, allows them to install the farm right on the expo grounds. It also brings the flexibility to move things around as needed.
 I was captivated by the Barn Owl box they have installed. Since the neighbors cut down their tree that hawks nested in, I've been overrun with squirrels and rabbits in my fruit and vegetable garden. I'm thinking a nice Barn or Great Horned owl family is the just the ticket.

Armenian Cucumber

While I was there the garden was well visited and I went to a couple of cooking demonstrations at "the grill" by Keith Breedlove and learned some great new tips. Always a good day when I can combine cooking, gardening, farming, and eating! And it was all done safely due to the many, many, hand-washing stations. Jess and I had to wonder how we've escaped death given that we were raised around livestock, and while exhibiting at fairs shared meals and napped with our hogs (and steers and sheep and cows.) All that exposure must have given us ironclad immune systems.

Tomatoes on Trellis

Both Jess and I are gardeners so it's always fun to see what's growing. However, for many urban dwellers the idea of picking something from a tree or seeing a live squash is a thing of wonder.

Okay, maybe not the squash but those flowers are beautiful and made me hungry for my favorite Squash Blossoms Stuffed With Ricotta recipe (I skip the tomatoes and add in feta.)

Was also fun to see the wine grapes growing (and even more fun drinking the wine slushies that were featured in the SaveMart Wine Garden.) 

Oranges (not quite ripe!)

My kiwis that I grew in Oregon didn't look half as good as the vines they had.

Kiwi Vine and Fruit

Apples

The other tree fruit were all properly espaliered to show off the ripening produce. Very hard not to just pick it all - but the fruits of this labor go to the local food bank.

Apples

Apricots

Cantaloupe

Strawberries

Watermelon

Spaghetti squash

And just in case you are worrying, I did spend time elsewhere. There was live music sprinkled throughout and time looking at quilts, photography, painting, and other fine arts. I took two classes: one in wine tasting and the other in extra virgin olive oil. Watched jam and chocolate dessert judging and sampled some incredible local cheese. Also very moved by their new exhibit celebrating professional farm workers. The Chavez family was there and it reminded me of my own family's history as California migrant farm workers in the Great Depression. It is America's story - people who work the fields (or factories, or mines, or woods) in order to provide their families with a better life, then proudly send their children to college. I am very grateful that I got to be there for the ribbon cutting.  Poetry - celebrating the growers, harvest, and the harvesters all at once. As it should be.

A special thanks to the amazing staff and board members at CalExpo who made me feel welcome and allowed me to tag along with Jess. It was very cool to see the behind the scenes work of pulling off an event like this (which runs three weeks: July 14 to July 30.) Let's just say it was easy to sleep on the plane when I returned home.

Now, how DID they make that bacon wrapped ear of corn and how much wine to add into the ice cream machine to produce a slushie? 

Yeast of Eden

Whenever I see programs or read books about getting back to nature, going back in time, or giving it all up to run a goat farm, the prevailing image is people kneading bread.

What is it about bread making that seems so ancient, so authentic, so nostalgic? It's just bread and it's not like you can live on bread and water alone. Why don't other forms of food preparation seem as romantic? I mean, no one tears up wistfully watching someone make a pot of soup, even though it's packed with a lot more flavor and nutrients. The closest thing we have is making spaghetti sauce and tasting it from a big wooden spoon. Ah, the good old days, we think, before sauce came from a jar.

I'm just as bad. When I think of living off the grid I imagine all the bread I'll bake in my wood burning oven. After all I'd need the carbs to live that kind of life. But our not so distant ancestors didn't survive on grain alone, in fact it was more about fat than anything else.  Gathering nuts, rendering lard, making soap, cooking in grease, cooking over a sizzling spit, and making thick gravies is way more primeval and true to surviving away from modern civilization (although if you watch presidential politics you have to wonder whether we've evolved at all into a civilization.)

So what is it that drove me, other than Michael Pollan, to think that baking bread would soothe my troubled soul. I think maybe it's the process - the mixing, the kneading, the rising, the baking - that inspires. It's alchemy of the highest form, this metamorphosis of grass seed into fluffy loaf, all controlled by our own actions. There's no curtain to hide behind, no wires, no distracting puffs of smoke (well, hopefully,) just some hard work, a little yeast, and an oven.

True to form I am not satisfied with making bread the "normal" way with those little packets of yeast. purchased at the grocer. I am determined to capture yeast out of thin air and force it to do my bidding inside a mass of dough. How hard could it be?

And, once agin, my arrogance punishes me for thinking I can have any sort of control over the natural process. I should know better. I am, after all, the compost-making queen, and have had more than my share of failures with sauerkraut and that unfortunate incident when I tried to can fish. Thankfully nothing has ever exploded like the beer bomb that erupted in my neighbors house. Microbes are the true secret to the universe and they cannot be willed into order. Like everything else in the natural world, they can only be coaxed.

So these past weeks I have coaxed, pleaded, thought of cheating as I baked brick after brick of bread. My dear friend Carrie took pity on me and shared some of her starter, convinced that her South Austin rascally yeast would do the trick. It didn't. What was I doing wrong? I followed the directions to the letter every time.

And so the lesson begins. It's not about directions. It's not about procedure. My grandma used to keep all her flour in a big drawer in the kitchen cabinet. I still get goosebumps remembering her pulling that drawer open, cracking eggs and pouring buttermilk into the well she made.  She'd mix it right there in the drawer and then remove it to a bowl or the counter where she would finish it up. Talk about alchemy, and mastery, and oh my goodness those cinnamon rolls!

It has to feel right. The sensation of the elastic bands of dough right against our skin. The smoothness, the way it collapses right into your palm and then springs back after every touch. The patience to let things happen without stirring, rushing along, or just throwing it in the oven to just get it over with. It's the same with making compost, preparing a seed bed, or determining if fruit is ripe.

I post the photo of my success to Facebook so everyone I've been complaining to can see that I have finally done it. I sit here now and reflect on the newest loaf that is quietly baking in the oven. There is no such thing as control, no such thing as a standard practice or procedure, there is no order. There is just that precise moment in time where all the ingredients mix in a flour drawer and emerge later as a bit of air between flour particles. It's the beginning and the end and it poises of the edge of forever. So do I stay here? Or do I do something that throws me out of the moment so that I can recreate it time and time again? I'll take my chances.

I Can Take It

Pont du Gard near Avignon

My Dad passed away recently and it has really knocked the air out of me. He suffered from cancer so his escape from all that pain was a gift - but he fought it hard. Fought, fought, fought and lived almost three years longer than the Doctors told him. He never accepted his fate, and although he was a realist, there was always the little thought that he would beat it. What was my Dad made of to charge into it so bravely? Or was it just fear that kept him going?

Earlier this year I traveled to Europe and spent quite a bit of time in Italy and the south of France. We began our trip in Rome, made our way up Italy and then back down to cross into France at Menton, staying for a few days in Avignon and Arles (among other places.) As an avid history buff, it became apparent to me that we were following the Romans and their conquest of Gaul.

And not just the Romans, all kinds of castles and battlements dotted the landscape during our entire journey. It was breathtaking.

And then something slammed into me in Arles.

Arles was a Roman fortified city. What is very interesting is that the Romans just lifted and copied a basic blueprint to every place they settled. Always a forum, a colosseum, a theater, and a huge wall. Unlike the city of Rome, Arles' colosseum is completely intact and still functions as an entertainment venue.


The architecture is impressive, and, as our guide pointed out, the technology behind it no longer exists. Modern engineers, concerned with public safety, have tried to "fix" areas that are sagging. Others are busy restoring ruins back to their broken, but original, state. Attempts to replicate the Roman engineering have failed and they have had to fall back on modern iron clamping systems.



The locals didn't love the Romans, but when Rome fell and they started to pull out of the provenances in the 5th century, what came after was much worse. The populace of Arles moved their homes into the colosseum, fortified the walls and built four towers to fire on the marauders. The village remained there until the late 18th century. By that time the buildings built on top of buildings completely obscured everything but the outer wall. It was this pile of humans that ultimately preserved the site by building on top of, instead of dismantling, this structure with the lovely square blocks.

I stood outside of that wall with my heart pounding. Can you imagine what it was like for those people who grouped inside for protection? What kind of world was it where everything completely fell apart and evil rampaged through the countryside? The Romans were the height of civilization yet what came after was worse than what the Romans were at the beginning of their empire building. Why would people do that? Why wouldn't they be glad to be rid of the soldiers, band together, and keep going? Arles was a very important cultural center, why did the people destroy that?

I only have to look at our recent Presidential election to know the answer. Humans destroy what they can't have and go on the rampage against anyone they think has a better life. It's much easier to vent and rage instead of discuss and build. The villagers of Arles knew this and protected themselves for almost two thousand years.

Two thousand years! What does that do to a community? To each descendent? To live in that kind of fear all that time. How do you move forward, hope for your children, build any kind of life when all around you the world has gone to hell?

I became so overwhelmed and completely humbled by their struggle.

All my life I have had a sense of place, an anchor, that defines who I am. I grew up on the family homestead - people who came across a sea of grass, over a mountain, and through a desert to start from nothing except their own ingenuity. My grandmother was a second generation French immigrant whose grandfather boarded a ship to travel into the unknown, hoping for a better life. She and my grandfather's family lived just like the characters in "The Grapes of Wrath" when they had to abandon their farm in Arkansas and head to California to be migrant workers during the depression. I am so proud of all of them.

In Arles, the realization crept over my skin like thousands of prickling needles and the breath left my body. Yes, my immediate family were tough, but they were descended from people like the citizens from Arles.

THESE WERE MY PEOPLE.

They are the reason the subsequent generations fought, and scrabbled, and refused to give up.

They kept their homes, their families, their culture alive believing that things would get better and took whatever baby steps were needed in that direction. They kept at it, no matter how long, or how many wars, or how many other evil empires were to be endured.

My dad. My grandfather. Both fought against the ultimate enemy - cancer. Never, ever, giving up. Always thinking about their family and even at the very end, trying to protect us from ugliness.

He-who-can-not-be-named Trump, your buddy Putin, middle eastern radicals, American-born gun-toting terrorists, KKK, neo-nazi's, Kim Jong despots, Texas Patrick-loving-Republicans and anyone else who tries to stamp out others for their own gain.

You have no idea who you are dealing with.

In a bit of a squeeze

I can't believe that it's been seven years since I moved from Oregon to Austin, Texas. The time has vanished, and as I look out over my yard it feels like I just got started. Of course I haven't. The front and back lawn with just a few yuccas are gone. In their place is native plants, fruit and vegetables.

What an adventure that was to make the decision to move, pack everything up, then start over fresh in a state and climate that was totally foreign. I immediately dove into the nurseries, web sites, and local blogs that could teach me what to do. I was so excited that I could grow citrus in the ground, maybe avocados, miles of sweet potatoes, okra, black eyed peas, and a favorite flower - winecup, that hated the cool Oregon summers.

In this yard, I was determined more than ever to dedicate a larger percent of space to food production. Austin, I discovered, does not have much agriculture surrounding it. Most things at the grocer are trucked from California, Florida, or the Rio Grande valley. And the farmers market?  Tiny! The first time I went I thought I went to the wrong place.  Where was the two-block market that I was used to? Back in Oregon apparently.

But I have survived, thrived even, in this bit of earth being scorched by the death star. My friends here are some of the closest I've ever had, and I've had jobs and bosses that I absolutely love - all which have let me run full tilt into any challenge I wish.

However. I've had to give up some things (besides being able to sleep with the window open in the summer.) The hardest has been apples.

The combination of low chill hours and my stinginess with water has rendered the apples and pear completely barren. They won't even flower. I've cut two of them down and will probably take out the remaining two this winter. It's a shame because I've spent a lot of time training and pruning them, but I don't need ornamental trees, I want fruit! Most disappointing of all is that I don't have a crop of apples to make cider from.

A month before I lost my job in Oregon, I purchased a Correll cider press. They are absolutely top of the line and beautifully made by a gentlemen very near where I lived. My trees were poised to produce enough apples for me to press, plus there were a few abandoned trees in the fields near my home where I could glean even more. Undaunted, I packed that press and put it on the truck for Texas.  I knew it would take 5 to 7 years before I produced my own apples again, but I could wait.

And then my apples didn't grow.

The press has been living on the deck and then later in the house ever since. It really is gorgeous and a conversation starter for people who've never seen one.  However, it was never going to see an apple here in Austin. Reluctantly I put it on Craig's list.

Funny enough, no one here in the south is looking for a cider press. The apples are at least a thousand miles away and they'd be withered and juiceless by the time they arrived in Austin. I got only one inquiry and that was someone from Washington state.

Okay. Now what? Due to the mild winter, I've had a huge crop of fruit this year. Apples? Nope. Oranges and pomegranates. Wait for it - I can use my cider press!

So that's what I did. I hauled the press back onto the deck and on a warm afternoon I made orange juice. It was perfect. Unlike apples I had to peel the oranges. They are so fresh that the orange oil drips off them. I didn't want all that oil in the juice so took the time to relieve them of their rinds. For good measure I also threw in the pomegranates that were also ready.

And it worked!  I got almost a gallon of juice and was able to marvel at how well the press worked. It's slanted perfectly, the press fits into the basket easily, and with not much effort the crank lowers the press onto the fruit. Beautiful juice streamed out of the basket and into the waiting receptacle. The remaining pulp was devoid of juice and went into the compost. Finally!

What's that saying? When life gives you lemons...??

I am happy to report that the press is back in the living room in it's place of honor, cleaned up and smelling slightly of oranges. The listing on craigslist has expired and I don't intend to repost. Now I'm scheming about juicing loquats and figs - with the resulting pulp being used in some sort of chutney or quick bread.

Hey!  Keep your hands off my press! Get your own!

Dreaming of Hidcote in the South of France

While on my recent trip to France we had the opportunity to visit Jardin Serre de la Madone in Menton.

The garden was created in 1924-1939 by Lawrence Johnston, the same gentlemen who created Hidcote Manor Garden in 1907. Mr. Johnston "retired" and created the Jardin Serre de la Madone on his own property in the Gorbio Valley.

The garden occupies a former terraced hillside Olive grove and farmhouse that Johnston remodeled. One of the reasons he selected the site is that it offered a subtropical microclimate for his plant collection. Over the years he expanded the garden all the way down the hillside.  After his death the garden fell into disrepair. In 1999 the property was purchased by the non-profit Conservatoire du Littoral, who began restoring it to Johnson's design.

I've never been to Hidcote but have seen it in photos. What was cool about Serre de la Madone is that this is the garden he puttered around in after his retirement. You can see elements of Hidcote, like the hedges and water features, but it has its own personality.

What was of particular interest to me (and the Conservatoire) is the way the garden is designed to retain rainwater. French and Italian farmers have mastered the art of terracing and storing water in the soil. Here it is taken literally to the next level. He created rainwater capture systems that store the water in the ponds and fountains all the way down the hillside. As a result, it requires zero supplemental irrigation.

The property has several structures on it, my favorite being the "cool" greenhouse. It's a stone structure perched on the terrace and served as a sort of lath house for some of the tropicals.

It was fun to see Sotol in big pots flanking one of the many staircases. Big clumps of Bird of Paradise beckoned you to explore a fountain hidden in a leafy bower.

The moorish garden once had an aviary in the courtyard. Now it's main feature is the mirror pond.

Another happy discovery was the Angel's Staircase and garden.


This variegated Alstroemeria lit up one shady spot while tree leaves caught the sun in another.
 We were shown around the garden by the head of horticulture (so sorry that I didn't write down his name!) He gave us a history and pointed out some of the water conservation features. Of course being a group of gardeners he was peppered with "what's this plant?"  Finally, clearly exacerbated, he proclaimed "Mon ami, we have over 6,000 plants, I can't possibly know them all!"

Fair enough. Left to wander on our own I captured photos of plants I found interesting. Every terrace revealed new structures, water features, both tiny and large discoveries.

The Belvedere

Potato vine

Eucalyptus

This garden was meant to be explored and I could have spent days there. I imagined Mr. Johnston tucking a plant here and a seating area there as he expanded the garden down the hillside. It was highly designed yet still rough and tumble enough to get lost on a wandering path. When I think of it now it's hard for me to call it a single garden since there were so many individual features - a theme common among plant collectors (and my own jungle.)  This would be a place I'd love to work or volunteer at. Perhaps something for my retirement? Need to start learning French!!