Eating

All of a sudden there is food to eat in the garden. As Toni at Backyard Feast wrote recently, we wait and we wait and then all of a sudden there's a glut and we're wondering what to do with it all. In our case, yesterday, it was the shelling peas.

After last year's pea debacle (mice eating the newly sown peas, mice moving around the re-sown peas, peas collapsing in a chaotic tangle, Miriam unable to tell snow/snap/shelling peas apart because the mice mixed them all up) I was determined to get it right this year. I was never a drill-sergeant kind of teacher, but man, did I keep those peas in order this year.

The snap peas (Sugar Ann) have been delicious, as usual. The snow peas (Dwarf Sugar Grey) were a mysterious no-show: they just didn't germinate, even after resowing. And the two or three that did manage to sprout were spindly, feeble, non-producers. But what I was really waiting for were the shelling peas (Strike). Last year, in all the pea confusion, I picked them too soon, got them mixed up with the other types, and then gave up. This year I have been watching them like a hawk, gently squeezing the fat pods, trying to gauge the size of the peas inside. I was determined to get it right. And then, all of a sudden, when I checked them yesterday they were ready. All of them.

So I picked and picked. Three and a half pounds worth. And then I did something I've always wanted to do: I sat in the swing on the verandah with a bowl of peas in my lap and shucked. I looked out at the garden and shucked. I listened to the birds and shucked. I thought about my life and shucked. It was marvellous. Tonight they're going to have a starring role in some risotto. Yum.

That's not the only food-first this year. We also managed to beat the birds to our cherries. We have three cherry trees in the orchard, two of which are old enough to produce more than a token smattering of fruit. The first spring we were here the cherries all fell off because we weren't careful enough about watering. Last spring we tended the trees faithfully but lost all the fruit to birds, waiting for the darn things to get ripe. This year we finally clued into the fact they are not the same cherries we both grew up eating - deep, ruby red in colour. They're Rainier cherries, which are a rosy blush colour when ripe. So now I look back on last year and imagine the cherries being ripe, but us too stupid to know it, and the birds all sitting around waiting politely for us to harvest our crop, then finally giving up and saying "Well, if they're not going to eat them . . ."

Not this year. This year we have a ladder permanently stationed by the cherry trees so we can nab those babies as soon as they're ripe. The other day Kim picked a whole lovely bowl full, and I would show them to you, but this is all that's left.

And remember that purple broccoli that had me confused? Well, I checked my records and it turns out I actually did order purple broccoli seeds (Santee is the variety). And it's sprouting broccoli, so it doesn't form big heads - it's more like broccoli rabe. And it is purple - definitely purple. And tasty, did I mention that? And best of all, it stays purple when it's cooked, unlike purple beans which turn the most unappetizing grey-green.

Maybe I just haven't been at this gardening business long enough, but it still amazes me that I can plant some little seeds and then a few months later have a garden that is full of food. Tasty, fresh, nutritious food. It fills me with glee.

Anyone have any good recipes to use what's ripe in the garden, that don't also call for a lot of other ingredients that aren't seasonal at all? Share, please!

Horsetail patrol

This is horsetail. We have a lot of it here at Mucky Boots, in all the damp areas around the pond and the aquifer at the back of the property. It's a prehistoric, primitive plant, and there's a reason it has survived so well: it's indestructible. It is impossible to get rid of horsetail - it even grows through cement.

But we have a secret weapon: our chickens. They have decided that the tender horsetail fronds are a delicacy, and have been decimating the horsetail forest around the pond like there's no tomorrow.

We think the chickens started hanging out in the horsetail forest as a way of sheltering from the heat and the eagles overhead, but in no time the forest began to look like this.

I'm sure this will just put a momentary dent in the forest, and the horsetail will regrow quickly. But in the meantime the chickens are happy!

Garlic harvest

Our hard-necked garlic harvest has happened just in time - we're down to a few small heads from last year's crop. To me this counts as a modest but proud success: we are self-sufficient when it comes to garlic. It was the first crop we planted at Mucky Boots, and it's one of our favourites. Even to someone with almost no sense of smell, there's a huge difference between fresh home-grown garlic and the shriveled, mummified stuff from China we used to buy at the grocery store.

Who needs a bouquet of flowers? This'll do for me.

Septic adventure

[Now aren't those words to strike fear into the heart of every homeowner? Don't worry - this story has a happy ending.]

Today was an exciting day at Mucky Boots. Today was the day we had our septic tank pumped. Are you excited? We were.

The excitement lasted about half an hour, once Robb from A-1 Septic Service (motto: "we leave you smelling like a rose") arrived, at which point he called me over with the words nobody wants to hear when their septic covers are off: "We have a problem."

Problem? What problem? We hadn't been experiencing any problems, at least in the septic department. But according to Robb our pump wasn't working, and as far as he could tell, it hadn't been working for quite some time.

If any of you out there are Septic Novices, this is how a septic system works. Water (and other stuff) from toilets, showers, washing machines and faucets leaves the house and is deposited into a tank. Liquid eventually makes its way into a pump chamber where the pump moves it out to the septic field to be absorbed by the earth. The solids stay behind in the tank, breaking down slowly and eventually moving along, but sooner or later the tank will fill up and need to be pumped.

So what happens when your pump doesn't work? The tank fills up. The pump chamber fills up. And then things start backing up into the house. But that never happened for us, so what the heck happened to all that liquid? According to Robb, it was probably leaching out into the surrounding ground. (Fortunately there aren't any neighbours or vegetables in the immediate vicinity...)

What to do? Clearly we needed a new pump. But who could do that for us on the spot? Super Plumber, of course (their motto: "to the rescue!"). Brody happened to be finishing up a job nearby, came right over and did a lot to calm down two slightly freaked out women. New pump: no problem. But maybe, he suggested, we should think about replacing the covers to the two tank chambers and the pump chamber. The existing wooden ones had absorbed an awful lot of - ahem - septic liquid, and in any case, like any wood underfoot they were a slippery hazard in the rainy winter.

So while Kim and I played lumberjack in the woods (we're in the middle of clearing out small trees and brush), Brody dug out the old covers and replaced them with brand-spanking new ones.

They're not as picturesque as the old ones, and the pump chamber needs a lid, but they're very practical. And best of all, under one of them is a shiny new (well, maybe not shiny anymore...) beautifully pumping pump.

And that was our septic adventure.

Garden update

Miracles happen all the time here at Mucky Boots. A pullet lays her first egg. A crocus pushes through a crust of snow. I catch up on my weeding. Frankie goes for an entire afternoon without barking.

Here's another one: after a cool, wet, cloudy spring that went on and on and on, somehow it's summer, the sun has reappeared, and the vegetable garden has hit its stride.

What's making me happy? The winter squash, which took forever to germinate, but is now doing better than in past years. Good thing, because after reading Carol Deppe's The Resilient Gardener, I devoted a whole lot of garden space to winter squash this year.

In previous years I have started squash early in the greenhouse, thinking that winter squash needs a long enough growing season for the fruit to properly ripen. But squash don't like being transplanted - the seedlings go into shock and take forever to recover. Last year I didn't have enough seedlings and direct seeded some additional squash at transplanting time, and those plants quickly caught up and did better than their transplanted kin. So this year I swallowed hard and waited. And waited. Then seeded, and waited some more. But the seeds finally germinated and now they're going gangbusters.

The peas took forever to get going, too, but we're now stuffing our faces with sugar snap peas fresh off the vine every time we go to water the vegetable beds. And the peas are still flowering, so there are many more pea snacks in our future. Hot on the heels of the sugar snap peas will be the shelling peas, but the snow peas have been a no-show. After seeding, then seeding again, I have only 3 or 4 plants straggling their way up the trellis. Go figure.

I worried about the beans. I knew I was pushing the temperature envelope when I planted them, given the cool spring, but all the varieties I planted germinated beautifully. These are French filet pole beans planted at the north end of the bed that also has yellow bush beans and two varieties of dried beans.

Quinoa is one of the new crops I'm trying this year. It's just an experiment, and I figure it will end up being a lot of work for a little amount of quinoa, but between this and the dried beans, I'm trying to see how much protein I can get out of the garden.

Sharing a bed with the quinoa are garbanzos, in the same quest for protein from the garden. I was so surprised when these started to grow - I expected something like a bean plant, but these look more like vetch. They have just started to flower, and they're lovely.

Ground cherries, or cape gooseberries, are another of the experimental crops this year. You've probably had some as a garnish on a dessert plate: they're orange, and come in a papery husk. I have four plants growing in the greenhouse along with the tomatoes and basil. Nothing serious here - they're being grown just for fun.

I have grown fennel every year we've been here, and it has been a successful crop for me. It has even bulbed nicely, which doesn't always happen. My biggest problem is actually eating it, which I've written about before - it's expensive to buy at the grocery store, so I think of it as a special occasion treat, which means I tend to save it in the garden until it's past its prime. This year I have been determined to eat it at its peak. My favourite: apple and fennel salad, with slivered green onions and grated carrot, dressed with a light vinaigrette. Yum.

Unlike everyone else around here, the brassicas have loved the cool, wet spring. The cabbages have somehow avoided whatever bug was eating them last year, and are forming beautiful heads. I'm also growing broccoli for the first time, and it has me a little confused. It's purple. Does broccoli even come in purple? I don't remember ordering it that way.

Jelly mystery

I have had a love/hate relationship with our gooseberries. At first it was hate, because of this.

Try weeding around those thorns. Ouch.

Then it was love, because of this.

Golden jelly, a soft and silky lavender infused gooseberry jelly that I made last year with a recipe from here. It was spectacular, on buttered toast or with cheddar cheese. The only problem was, by the time I grudgingly thought of doing something with the gooseberries, the birds had eaten most of them, and all I could harvest was 3/4 of a pound.

This year I have been watching those gooseberries with an eagle eye, just waiting for the day I could pick them and make a much bigger batch of Golden Jelly. That day came last week, and after an afternoon of picking I had 11 pounds of berries. Visions of jelly danced in my head. But before those visions could become reality, every single one of those gooseberries needed to be topped and tailed. Sigh.

But the job got done, and the jelly got made, and Kim and I looked proudly at the 9 jars of pink gold jelly.

Jelly?

Syrup. It didn't set.

This is a mystery to me. I did the proper tests while it was cooking: I dropped a small spoonful on an ice-cold plate from the freezer, waited for a minute, then ran my finger through it. The jelly wrinkled, just like it was supposed to. But after processing - syrup. Tasty syrup, but syrup all the same.

So I opened all the jars, poured the syrup back into the pot, added some liquid pectin, following the directions for failed jelling, and tried all over again.

Jelly?

Syrup. Sigh.

I left the jars, hoping they might transform into syrup as they cooled. No such luck. Then I had a brainwave. Syrup can be good. Syrup can be a cordial. So we poured a bit of the syrup into a couple of glasses, topped with bubbly water and voila - a refreshing, fragrant summer drink.

We were so excited that the next day we brought along a jar of syrup and a couple of bottles of San Pellegrino when we went to see friends for dinner. We lined up the glasses, cracked open the bubbly water, then opened up the jar of syrup.

Syrup?

Jelly. What?! Soft jelly, to be sure, but definitely jelly.

So when we got home we checked all the jars that the day before were syrup. They were jelly.

It's a mystery.

Found

We've had a great weekend. The weather has been wonderful, we've spent time with good friends, and best of all, I have had two consecutive joint-pain-free days. Woo hoo!

To commemorate this important event, Kim and I spent the afternoon turning the 25 foot long compost pile behind the workshop. Boy, do we know how to celebrate.

About halfway through we found another reason to be happy. Look what we found.

Yes, this is one of the dozen or so pairs of pruners I have managed to mislay during our two years here at Mucky Boots. A bit worse for wear, but I'm pleased all the same. Somehow it makes me feel just a bit less hopeless in the tool department.

He's back

Yes, this is our little psycho bird, a Western Tanager, back for another day of doing his best to get into our house. He's an early riser, and this morning it's our dining room windows he's trying to get through.

He hovers in front of them almost like a hummingbird, then either bumps into the window or flies away. I have turned the lights in the room on, and off, trying to determine if it's his own reflection he's after, but it doesn't seem to make any difference. The window can't be acting like much of a mirror because he sees me as soon as I move into the room and flies away, which made getting these photos an exercise in patience.

What do you want, little guy?

Under siege

Like the looks of this little guy? Think he looks cute and harmless? Think again. This bird is psycho.

Well, maybe not the actual fellow in the photo (which isn't mine - it comes from here). But one of his relatives, who lives in our neck of the woods, spent the day dive-bombing our house, bashing into windows, going from deck to bedroom window to living room window, all around the house, doing his very best to somehow make it through one of those pieces of glass.

It started about 6:30 this morning. Petunia started to make her bird hunting noises as she prowled the window ledges in the living room where I was eating my breakfast, then I began to get glimpses of brightly coloured flashes in my peripheral vision, and then the first thump on the window got me out of my chair to have a look.

I'd never seen a bird like this before, and its colouring made me think it must be a finch or some sort of exotic bird. We're used to mostly plain-Jane brown birds around here - anything this brightly coloured must come from a pet store, I thought. But when I did a quick Internet search I discovered it is a Western Tanager. Huh. Who knew.

But back to the siege. This determined little bird flew around the house all day, from window to window, hovering and flapping and thumping into the glass. Why?

I thought maybe it was trying to fight its own reflection in the window, thinking it was seeing a rival. But that didn't make sense with the sun direction, and in any case most of the windows were shaded.

Until I discovered it was a normally occurring bird species, I thought it might be a household pet that had escaped and was trying to get back home, any home.

Maybe it just likes our taste in home furnishings. In any case, we're waiting with some anticipation for the morning, to see if it comes back.

Here are two interesting tidbits about Western Tanagers I found out today. (1) The red colour on their heads is not built-in. It's a result of the insects they eat. And (2) if you are stocking a bird feeder in hopes of attracting a Western Tanager, they respond well to cut fruit, nectar and baked goods.

Baked goods.

Does that mean freshly baked croissants, or would day-olds do?

Summer

Summer arrived today, with temperatures warm enough and sun bright enough to send us scrambling for straw hats and sandals.

We mowed. We trimmed. We weeded. The orchard is finally looking respectable, and the perennial beds around the house got a good, long drink. And then, because Kim's still fighting bronchitis and my joints are still aching, we hauled out the garden furniture and put our feet up with a cool drink and a good book. Feet up: that's not a sight you see very often at Mucky Boots.

Petunia is the Lounging Queen, clever cat. She has a thing or two about setting good priorities to teach us.

Lurching along

Summer may have arrived, but at Mucky Boots we're still stuck at Spring on the weather dial. Yesterday we finally had some heat and today promises more of the same, but the weeks of cool, cloudy weather have put the vegetable garden behind even last year's delayed schedule. We just picked the first barely ripe strawberries yesterday, and the pea blossoms are only starting to transform themselves into pods. The winter squash seeds decided to sprout after all, but unless we have an unusually long, warm fall there may not be enough time for the squash to ripen.

On the bright side, the brassicas and salad greens have been in heaven, doing all they can to make up for their thinner-blooded friends in the vegetable garden.

And on another, very bright side, every blooming perennial has decided that this is the year to put on a show. Could it be my expert, tender care? Probably not. Maybe it's Mother Nature trying to console us for Kim's stubborn case of bronchitis and my seasonal arthritis flare-up.

What ever the reason, anything in the front half of the property that blooms has gone to town: peonies, cranesbill geraniums, columbines, iris, lilies, wisteria, wigelia.

No wonder they call this a snowball viburnum - not only do its flowers look like snowballs, the fallen petals sprinkled on the path below look like a dusting of snow.

And the poppies! We knew we were in for a banner year in the poppy department, but for the last two weeks we have been blasted by the poppy equivalent of a double-orchestra symphony. Plants that last year bore three or four flowers are carrying eight or ten this year, and new clusters seem to have sprouted anywhere the conditions are even remotely suitable.

As usual, with a mind full of jobs wanting to be done and a body that isn't cooperating at the moment, I am wrestling with the lessons the garden is trying to teach me about patience, and acceptance, and living in the moment. So the lurching isn't just the weather, or my own progress down the garden path with sore joints - it's my blossoming into the person my garden wants me to be.

I wish I was a better student.

Hector junior

We'd like to introduce you to the newest charmer in the chicken yard: Hector Junior. Yes, this eight-week cockerel is the love child of either Gertie or Alice. We're not sure. But there's no doubt about his papa: this young fellow is the spitting image of Hector, right down to his sweet, gregarious charm.

He's a big fella, this boy. Tall and long-legged, just like his dad. But because he's hanging out with his peers he's not the bottom of the chicken-status totem pole, like Hector was when he joined us. Instead, he's the biggest, handsomest, fastest boy of the bunch. Just look at that red comb and those wattles - and he's only eight weeks old!

But, just like his papa, he hasn't let his good looks and big size go to his head. He's a curious, calm, sweet boy, with chicken mannerisms that are so like Hector's we are agog, daily.

After losing Gertie so suddenly, it feels wonderful to welcome the next generation to the barnyard.

Goodbye Gertie

We lost Gertie yesterday. She was killed in the orchard, horribly, sometime yesterday morning. She leaves behind Alice, her inseparable twin, and Hector, the sweet little runt who grew up and became her protector.

We're not sure what got her. It was during the day, so it probably wasn't a raccoon. More likely it was an eagle or even a raven, but the kinds of injuries she had don't quite fit. We have been lucky so far with predators, but this week has been rough: first we lost an 8-week old pullet who disappeared without a trace from the chicken yard (probably nabbed from overhead, despite all the reflective tape and fishing line streamers criss-crossing overhead), and then yesterday, Gertie.

Poor Gertie. And poor Hector, and poor Alice, who were with her when it happened.

This is Gertie and Alice when they first arrived at Mucky Boots. They were so beautiful: soft and fluffy and so black, even their feet. They went everywhere together, and talked to each other in their special chicken language.

Gertie as a young pullet in the vegetable garden. She was a good forager, and laid beautiful creamy rose-brown eggs.

Gertie with Alice and Hector.

Goodbye Gertie.

Emergency preparedness

I have been working the last while to update our emergency kit. We live in an earthquake zone, in a rural area that loses its power with some regularity, in a part of the country that deals with fire emergencies every summer. It just makes sense to be prepared. So we have a big garbage bin filled with emergency radios and cell phone chargers, a ceramic water filter, camping equipment, first aid supplies and a crossword puzzle book to keep us occupied.

And in the workshop we have the bulk of our food storage. I'm aiming for a 3 month supply, but we're not quite there yet.

I know some people think I'm a little crazy (which doesn't matter, because I'd rather be prepared and not need to be, than not prepared and wishing I was). But today - well, today my emergency preparations came through for me when I most needed them.

Did we have an earthquake? No.

Did we have a power outage? Well, no . . .

Was there a flood? Er, not really . . .

What exactly, then was the state of the emergency?

A bad day. A really bad day. A long and tiring and really bad day.

And how did the emergency kit help with that, you might ask? It wasn't the first aid kit that I desperately needed and was so grateful for, or the sleeping bag, or the wind-up radio.

No, it was the chocolate covered almonds I had squirreled away. Boy oh boy, when I remembered they were there and went to fetch them and they were right where I had put them, my day instantly improved by a factor of about a million.

So don't let anyone ever tell you emergency preparations are a waste of time. They saved my day.

And, yes, I will replace the ones I ate, which by bed time will probably be the entire bag.