Hallowed, Fallow Ground

Driving along the gravel, single-lane road, I glance to the right and note the manicured lawn.  Marred only by rain-deprived browned grass, the level area serves as backyard to a fine home.  As I peer closely, I see a rectangular outline of darker green grass and along that border, a stack of wire cages near a pile of compost, remnants of a once-productive, thriving backyard garden.  The gardener died, but the sweat from his brow, his tender care of plants and his eternal gardener's optimism remain, both in memory and soil he worked.  Maybe invisible to our human eyes, but that ground is special and, perhaps in the future, will again produce fruits and vegetables.  

This backyard used to be a productive garden site

I know what it is like to reclaim fallow land for farming.  In 2008, my husband and I visited his family's farm in the Gamewell community of Caldwell County and found weeds, trees, shrubs and a poorly engineered highway runoff area that dumped rainwater into a newly formed swamp.  Fallow for over forty years, this land spoke to us, whispering growth potential.  We imagined future rows of heirloom tomatoes, beans and okra where the untamed property lay.  We planned to drain the swamp and direct runoff water in the direction it needed to flow.  We strolled along the banks of an adjoining creek and saw possibilities for irrigation during droughts.  Maybe we peered through rose colored glasses, but we were ready to accept the physical challenges of organic gardening.

Clearing Brush at Heart & Sole Gardens, February, 2008

Friends and hired workers helped clear the land.  We burned brush, adding nutrients to the soil and opening areas to receive sunlight.  When my parents presented us with heirloom seeds from their freezer, saved by my grandmothers years earlier, we discovered not only was the physical work improving our bodies, but the emotional connection to food was touching our souls.  Each time we turned soil, treasures appeared.  Horse shoes.  The circular covering from a wagon wheel.  Links of rusted chain.  Tangible reminders of farmers who worked the land before our time.  Intrinsic hints about our own mortality.  Promises that time would, perhaps, allow this fertile soil to produce food long after we no longer farm.  

Pottery Shard Revealed by Tiller

In September, recalling my maternal grandmother's garden, a large expanse of property that produced abundant harvests, I decided to pay a visit, in hopes I would find a carefully tended autumn garden.  As I pulled into a street, much shorter than my childhood memory of it, there was no sign to indicate anyone lived at my grandmother's former home or at the one where I lived as a young child, but a neighbor was building a new front porch on his house.  I explained why I was there and the man offered to allow me to walk through his backyard to where the garden used to be, but when I reached the area where huge sunflowers once bloomed, I found tall trees growing among bushy shrubs and weeds so thick, it was impossible to walk through them.  Dismayed, I walked along what used to be a well maintained garden's edge until I came to the end where an apple tree used to stand, its small, tart green apples a taste memory I love.  I held hope the tree might still be living and I could take a small cutting, but there was no sign it ever existed.  As I turned to leave, I noticed a particularly tall weed and when I realized it was pokeweed, I smiled. 

Pokeweed grows in Granny's former garden

Every spring, Granny gathered young leaves from pokeweed to make a cooked salad.  I often accompanied her to help gather the leaves, but do not remember the wild plant growing near her home.  To find this familiar weed, drying in the autumn sunshine, growing where Granny's White Mountain Half Runner beans once thrived, was like receiving a wink from the past. 

As I took my leave, I paused to thank the man who allowed me to stroll across his property and a young girl appeared at his side.  Six years old, the man's daughter shyly smiled as I told her I used to live on the same street when I was her age.  I described my grandmother's garden and how I used to help pull weeds and pick vegetables and fruits.  The girl's brown eyes brightened and as I drove away, I hoped her family would plant a garden in their backyard, only feet away from where Granny's grew.  Perhaps, when spring warms the soil and frost danger is over, I will pay another visit and take some of Granny's heirloom seeds to the young girl.  I think Granny would like that.

Pokeweed Salad
*Note: Pokeweed can be toxic and this recipe should only be prepared with leaves that are very young and tender.  If cooking pokeweed for the first time, it is best to pick leaves with one who is experienced with harvesting.  Pokeweed berries are toxic, but make a beautiful dye for fabric or baskets.  This recipe is a traditional Southern Appalachian preparation. 

Wash about 1 pound fresh, tender young pokeweed leaves, cover with water and bring to a boil in a large pot.  Cook 20 minutes, then drain water and rinse pokeweed with fresh water.  Again, fill the pot with water, bring to a boil with the leaves and cook for another 20 minutes.  Drain pokeweed and again rinse with fresh water.  For a third time, add water to pokeweed and bring to a boil.  Cook for another 20 minutes, then drain water and rinse pokeweed.  Pat leaves dry or use a salad spinner to remove water.
In a large cast iron skillet, heat bacon fat until smoking hot.  Add cooked pokeweed leaves and lower heat.  Stir leaves with hot fat for a few minutes.  Add salt and pepper to taste, along with red pepper flakes or hot sauce, if you like a spicy kick.
Serve pokeweed salad with crumbled bacon and vinegar on the side.