Good Friday, Good Planting

My grandmother's lunar calendar was displayed prominently in her home.  Before planting any crop in her large garden, she consulted the "signs" to determine which days were most favorable for that plant.  As a child, I did not understand her references to necks, legs and heads and although I still have much to learn about following the signs, each gardening season makes me appreciate the wealth of information and astute advice I find in my farmer's almanac.  Although there are several worthy publications, I prefer Blum's Farmer's and Planter's Almanac, published in Winston-Salem, NC, for its clarity and ease of use. 

Most gardeners acknowledge Good Friday as an optimum time to plant.  Perhaps it is a way to celebrate the religious holiday's new life, a welcome for the arrival of Spring, or maybe we just enjoy getting our hands in a bit of soil after the long Winter, but for whatever reason, a number of gardeners make a point of putting something in the ground on that day.  Even though April 18, 2014, was not an ideal planting day, according to the farmer's almanac, Bill and Linda Clay planted beans, beets and a variety of other vegetables in their Gamewell garden.  Willard Greene also planted several seed varieties in his pristine Caldwell County garden space.  With overcast skies and a forty-eight degree temperature at Heart & Sole Gardens, I decided to ignore the very real threat of imminent freezing temperatures and plant a few small crops, just to celebrate the traditional day of planting.

Before I planted, I walked each potato row, hoping to see healthy plants, but almost every plant was brown and withered, the result of recent cold temperatures.  Disheartened, I hoped the root crop would recover and, as I strode through the rows, I saw evidence of another creature who had taken my same path.  Deer tracks made clear prints in the soft earth and I knew that eating machine was making plans to return when my tender plants begin to grow. 

Deer tracks between potato rows

 

Potato plant shows frost damage

After inspecting the potatoes, I gathered a basket and a sharp knife, hoping to harvest some asparagus, but discovered almost all the tender spears were wilted and soft.  As I cut the frozen shoots, I held hope the plants will still produce good yield, but it was disappointing to see pounds of lost vegetables. 

Asparagus spear, frozen and wilted

With typical gardener's optimism, I turned from my damaged crops, gathered seeds and began to plant.  Evidence of harsh weather's influence was at my back, but I planted a short row of my grandmother's beans, White Mountain Half Runners, seeds that have been in my family for at least seven generations.  As I dropped each seed, I prayed for its germination, for good growing conditions and for abundant yield.  Next, I planted two short rows of Hopi blue corn, using seed I saved from last year's crop.  This corn was delicious and I saved enough seed to gamble on having an early harvest or losing the plants entirely.  I finished my Good Friday planting with a variety of herb seeds and several types of radishes. 

Pinwheels placed in corn rows discourage crows from eating the tender shoots

As I loaded my tools and prepared to leave the farm, I noticed beautiful pea shoots emerging in another row.  I crossed my fingers and hoped I would be able to enjoy some of that crop.  With groundhogs, deer and other pests eager to eat the garden's bounty, we should all be grateful for local produce that makes it to our plates!

The Purple Martins supervise Good Friday planting

Artichokes: Definition of Insanity?

According to popular belief, the definition of insanity is "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."  I am not sure if the person who first said this (the quote is sometimes mistakenly attributed to Albert Einstein) ever attempted to grow artichokes in western North Carolina, but I am afraid I may be a bit insane when it comes to my efforts to grow that vegetable.  Technically, the edible part of the artichoke plant is a flower bud, but after attempting to grow artichokes for the past four years, none of my plants has ever reached a mature state, let alone developed a bud.

One of two artichoke varieties I attempted this year

In 2011, I ordered heirloom artichoke seeds and started them indoors in early January.  After a few weeks, the first fat sprouts emerged and I eagerly looked forward to steaming their offspring, perhaps enjoying them with some butter, lemon juice and capers.  After the danger of frost passed, I transplanted the seedlings to the herb bed at my home, where I could keep an eye on their progress.  By late spring, all the plants were dead.  With typical gardener's spirit, I thought, There's always next year!

A tray of artichoke seedlings

I read everything I could find about growing artichokes.  For 2012, I prepared a soil mix with a good bit of sand and compost and transplanted my seedlings to the farm.  Nestled at the top of a small creek bank, I mulched them and placed wire cages around the small plants to protect them from marauding groundhogs, eating machines that will eat everything in sight, if not discouraged from doing so.  Although that summer's growing season was ideal for many crops and I picked more tomatoes than most humans can imagine, by mid-June, the artichokes were gone.  No stalks, no buds, their season was a bust.  

I redoubled my efforts for 2013.  Again, the seeds germinated well and I transplanted seedlings to larger containers, giving them more time to develop before moving them to their (hopefully) permanent home.  After all, artichokes are supposed to be perennial plants, if properly mulched in the fall and protected from harsh winter climates.  I guess you have heard the popular definition of "perennial," also, right?  "A plant that, had it lived, would have bloomed for several years."  When I lost every artichoke plant in 2013, probably due to that summer's overabundance of rain, I still did not despair.

On January 14, 2014, I placed thirty-six artichoke seeds, from two varieties, in small greenhouse trays.  On February 20th, I transplanted twenty-six, seemingly healthy, seedlings into larger pots.  For a time, all plants seemed to grow bigger and more leaves developed.  Inwardly, I cheered.  To encourage them to produce the first year, I placed them outside during cool, but not freezing nights.  This process, called "vernalization," is supposed to "trick" the artichoke into thinking it has gone through a winter so it will produce buds when temperatures warm.  One by one, even with the right amount of water, sunlight, temperatures and even kind, encouraging words, the plants began to wither and die.  Today, a single artichoke plant is living and although I am hopeful it will be THE ONE that lives, I am not confident.  Last week, I stuck a few seeds directly into the ground, in hopes they might germinate and choose to thrive where they are planted. 

The last remaining seedling of 2014

My friend, Cindy, who grew up surrounded by artichokes in her California home, told me about a man who lived in the Charlotte area a few years ago.  Apparently, this man was able to grow mature artichokes and had even saved seeds that had adapted to our climate.  What a hero of a gardener!  If anyone knows this person or anyone else who can successfully grow artichokes in North Carolina, please contact me.  I would love to know what I am doing wrong.

Meanwhile, if encouraging words can keep the last artichoke alive, this one just might live.  Otherwise, I am afraid I will have to face the fact that I just might be a bit insane . . .


 

Ready for Radishes

Fictional Southern Belle heroine Scarlett O'Hara might not agree, but radishes are a delicious spring crop. Easy to grow organically and with edible sprouts, leaves and blossoms, this root vegetable is versatile and matures much more quickly than most garden plants.  For gardeners who live in confined spaces, as long as the soil is loose, radishes are an excellent choice for container plantings.  

A few of many radish varieties I enjoy growing

Although supermarket shoppers are trained to expect radishes to be red and round, radish varieties come in a rainbow of colors and textures.  I enjoy serving radishes in the French tradition, scrubbed clean, sliced and served on a plate with butter or cream cheese and a bit of coarse sea salt. 

Fresh radishes, cream cheese and salt make a simple and delicious app

Impatient gardeners should try a variety like Saxa II, a tiny red heirloom that matures in about three weeks.  For color and interesting flavor, grow several radish varieties and sow seeds successively, a week or two apart, during spring and fall, in order to have a ready supply.  Some of my favorite heirloom radishes are French Breakfast, Pink Beauty, Purple Plum, White Hailstone and Helios, a beautiful yellow radish.  Chinese Red Meat looks like a ripe, red watermelon when it is sliced, making it as much a topic of conversation as a tasty addition to your dinner party. 

In organic gardens, radishes are also great for companion plantings, controlling some insect pests and protecting other crops.  Icicle radishes, long white tubers, protect squash and cucumber plants.  For every three or four squash or cukes, plant two or three radish seeds.  Allow the radishes to mature and bloom, but do not harvest.  I recently heard icicle radishes also protect beans from flea beetles and I plan to sow radishes with my beans this year.  Since flea beetles regularly attack my young eggplants, I also plan to try the same tactic with that crop.  Even though they are tiny creatures, flea beetles can be destructive insects in an organic garden. 

Flea Beetles: Tiny, but Destructive

Always plant a few extra radishes and allow them to bloom.  Snip the beautiful, orchid-like blossoms and use them to garnish any dish.  If you grow heirloom radishes, leave the plants in your garden after they bloom.  Seed pods will form and when they brown and become dry, harvest them from the plant and remove the seeds.  Store completely dry seeds in an envelope or small container and use them for future plantings.  One radish should produce hundreds of seeds. 

Radish tops are slightly prickly, but when they are cooked, they become silky smooth and you may mix them with other fresh cooked greens to add interesting flavor.  My family loves this radish top soup and when I make it, there is seldom any left over.  Use thinly sliced radishes and fresh blossoms to garnish the soup and serve with crusty bread or hot cornbread.  I doubt even Scarlett would reject this dish!

Radish Top Soup

2 tablespoons butter

1 medium onion, diced

1 clove garlic, minced

1 large potato, scrubbed and sliced into about 1/4 inch slices

2 sprigs fresh thyme, leaves stripped from stems, discard stems

4 cups fresh radish greens (if you have carrot tops, add about 1/2 cup of those, for flavor depth)

4 cups chicken stock (may substitute vegetable stock or chicken broth)

1/2 cup heavy cream

Salt and pepper (black or red) to taste

In a large stockpot, melt butter over medium heat, add onions and garlic and saute until soft and translucent, but not brown.  Add thyme leaves and stir.

Add potato slices and greens and stir to coat all ingredients with the butter.

Add broth or stock and bring to a boil over medium high heat.  Lower heat and simmer for 30 minutes.

Remove pot from heat and allow soup to cool slightly.

Use an immersion blender to blend all ingredients until smooth or, working in batches, use a blender to puree soup.

Return mixture to pot and add cream, stirring to combine.  Season with salt, freshly ground black pepper or a dash of red pepper flakes, if you like heat.

Heat soup over low heat until hot, but not boiling.

 

What's the buzz about honey bees?

It is an unseasonably warm day at my Western NC farm and I stroll among fields of blooming henbit, a weed that supports orchid-like purple blossoms.  Last year when the henbit bloomed, it supplied food for thousands of foraging honey bees and I carefully placed my feet, in order to avoid smashing those hardworking creatures.  Today, I walk, heedless of where my boots tread, my mind filled with the day's beautiful hush, but cognizant of the portentous title of author Rachel Carson's Silent Spring, which echoes my unease.  My pollinators, my coworkers and my pets are absent and I brush away tears as I survey the blooming expanse that goes to waste.  Such is the plight of many US beekeepers and, like the canaries employed by coal miners to alert workers to the presence of lethal gases, I see the absence of my farm's honey bees as an alarm for humanity.

Fields of Blooming Henbit

Recently, I had the pleasure of attending a lecture by Gunther Hauk, biodynamic gardener and beekeeper.  Although it was a chilly evening in Boone, NC, Gunther's beautiful slideshow of his wife's photographs of bees and blossoms from their Spikenard Farm Honeybee Sanctuary, in Floyd, Virginia, warmed the crowd of interested attendees.  My husband, Richard and I mourned the loss of honey bees that died during this past Winter, but Gunther's fascinating presentation encouraged us to move past our sadness and look forward to keeping new hives that will, hopefully, arrive at Heart & Sole Gardens in the near future.

Richard checks beehives in 2013

Although I know no one who does not enjoy eating honey, I often encounter people who look askance at me when I say our farm honey bees are our pets.  Just as we interact with the Purple Martin birds at our farm, our visits there usually include checking the beehives and observing these hardworking "girls" as they pollinate our crops.  All "worker bees" are female (you are not surprised?) and without these tiny armies, many of our favorite foods would disappear from our diet.  California almond growers are so dependent upon honey bee pollination, they hire thousands of hives to travel long distances to work the orchards during blossom season.  Richard and I believe this practice is a sort of slavery and we are committed to providing a variety of forage for our bees, allowing them to live and work as naturally as possible and we share in their bounty only when there is an abundance of honey.

Our homemade strainer fills jars of honey

When I read last year's farm journal, it was just about this time we began to lose hives.  In March of 2013, we had eight thriving beehives.  Heart & Sole housed four of those and a friend allowed us to place four hives on his property.  All hives were healthy in early April, but about two weeks after commercial farmers began to prepare nearby fields for planting, three of the hives at our friend's property were gone and a third was extremely weak.  We moved the last hive to the farm and hoped it would survive, but soon after the move, it died.  Many theories exist about why beehives suddenly die or disappear, a situation known as Colony Collapse Disorder, but I believe commercial farmers' practice of treating fields with chemicals probably contributes to their demise. 

In early Winter, our remaining hives seemed to have plenty of stored honey and on warm days, we would often see bees entering and leaving their hives; however, after several days of frigid temperatures, we noticed there was no movement from the hives.  We checked the boxes, removing the lids and peering inside and saw clusters of dead bees in the center of each hive.  There were no survivors.  After speaking with many other beekeepers, we believe our honey bees froze during the exceptionally cold Winter. 

We depend upon our honey bees to pollinate our crops and increase yield, but Richard and I also think of their honey as medicine and we seldom skip a day without adding a spoonful to our morning coffee or tea.  We are convinced this practice relieves us of nagging seasonal allergy symptoms we used to experience.  For those who wish to add honey to a daily health practice, only local honey should be used and, ideally, purchased from the beekeeper.

Honey bees "hanging out" from a summer hive

As we mourn our losses, Richard and I look forward to hosting new hives at our farm and we hope we will prove to be better stewards of these necessary, fascinating creatures.  We have no magic solutions to honey bee problems and there is no standard guide for beekeepers to follow, but we are passionate about coexisting with the "girls" and  will do all in our power to keep our next hives healthy and strong.

Lemon Balm Tea With Honey

Lemon balm is a delightful herb, easy to grow in almost any climate or soil condition.  A member of the mint family, lemon balm is easier to contain than most mints and produces large, fragrant leaves early in the Spring.  Regularly snip the leaves to keep the plant from blooming too early.  Lemon balm reseeds and will appear in unexpected places in subsequent years, but is easily transplanted.  Purchase lemon balm at farmer's markets, farm supply stores or accept as a gift from a friend who is willing to share.  For a delicious porch sipper, try this recipe.

Lemon Balm Tea, Garnished with Meyer Lemon and fresh lemon balm

1 quart water

1 large handful fresh lemon balm

2-3 tablespoons local honey

Place lemon balm leaves into a large glass bowl or pitcher.  Boil water and pour over the leaves.  Steep for 10-15 minutes.  Strain leaves through a coffee filter into another pitcher.  Add honey while tea is warm and stir to dissolve.  Enjoy warm tea or chill to serve with ice.