Tag Archive | harvest

Feral Arugula

Apr4

I’ve been working on a hard post to write, about the costs of war, human, financial, and to the wild world. But I wasn’t able to focus on that today, so instead, by popular demand, I’m sharing some happy eye candy. The first goldfinch of the season and a couple of piñon jays were among Bird Buddy’s captures this past week. It’s time to focus on gardening for birds, with helpful tips from Cornell Lab of Ornithology and also the Audubon Society.

We enjoyed a nice rain shower on Wednesday, which rinsed the dust off the feral heirloom arugula thriving among the flagstones, so I harvested a bowlful.

I’ve been adding it to salads along with the perennial lettuce that’s been creeping toward cutting size since December. How marvelous to be able to gather fresh greens again!

With a big bag of fresh feral arugula in the fridge I’ve been adding it to everything. I made an arugula and green pea frittata with cheddar and mozzarella and topped it with fresh chopped chives from the windowsill pot; and added arugula to a grilled cheese and bacon sandwich the next day.

I woke Thursday morning to a lush green yarden, with the last of the storm clouds crawling east over the mountains, leaving a nice top up of the disastrous snowpack. I knew it would freeze hard that night and didn’t know what would survive, so in the afternoon I cut some tulips, jonquils, forsythia, and the one lilac cluster that was just starting to open, and brought them inside.

The snowfall Thursday night caught me off guard. Wren ran quaking from the bed when we heard heavy rain and a little thunder, but I gathered her in under the covers and held her tight, and very quickly the rain stopped. Or, the sound of the rain stopped, as I realized when I woke disoriented by the view. It took a beat to understand that the rain had quickly turned to snow, and left a welcome couple of inches on the ground. The temperature had also dropped to 20℉ (-6.67℃ for my fortunate international friends). I was glad I’d salvaged some flowers.

By afternoon it had all melted, but the damage was done. There will be no peaches from Mirador this year, few lilacs, and likely no crabapple blossoms at all. I was grateful that I’d cut a few budding twigs, which I arranged in a little Ikebana tray inherited from my mother, so at least I can enjoy a few spectacular pink blooms.

Today, a dear friend reminded me of the joy of Hipstamatic, so I spent a little time diving back into those imaginary films and lenses, and captured this image of the crabapple twigs with my new Impressionist pack. I used a little more of my precious time on this day that will never come again playing with Hipsta outside in the afternoon, but I’ll save those images for another day.

At the End of the Day

Nov4

A tiny delight, the shadow of the little dingo’s head on the page. I balanced my time well today, among work, housework, good works, and some escapist reading, The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue.

Another tiny delight, the little bowl Amy made for me some years ago, left on the desk yesterday after a dark chocolate M&M snack, just a tiny bowlful, and today shimmering in the morning sun, catching my eye while I worked.

And yet one more tiny delight, the grapefruit tree started from seed from fruit Kathleen sent last winter. It grew too big for the grow light stand so I ordered special citrus soil which arrived today to pot it up. Now it lives in the sunroom. Someday, grapefruits!

I split some kindling and chose delight rather than frustration in the challenge of knots, which pinned the splits together several times. No need to force them apart, they’ll kindle just as well pinned.

For lunch, I roasted golden potatoes and spooned some onto the last of the Brie which melted deliciously, and topped with leftover bacon.

I could really see this afternoon how my inner state affects my outer state. It’s a foundation of mindfulness, this awareness that in any moment there are many factors that can determine our outlook and behavior, from physical, emotional and mental comfort or discomfort, to cultural norms or biases, to genetics and family of origin characteristics, to the weather. I received an email that made me very uncomfortable, and I struggled with how or whether to respond.

Would I have felt so irritated if I hadn’t earlier listened to this important conversation between two respected legal experts on the ramifications of the regime’s nearly 100 murders on the high seas over the past 61 days? Why is 61 days important? Why is this unconstitutional behavior by the White House not getting more attention? Because the people being murdered are “not American” or “not like me”? Because they are allegedly running drugs? There’s no evidence for that, just the Commander-in-Thief’s proclamation. This is yet another test: if Americans do nothing, they’ll take it as permission to fire upon any boat, eventually, anywhere. Joyce Vance and Steve Vladek unravel the complexities and urgency of the situation in a fascinating discussion.

I took the little pets for a walk and savored the lovely warm afternoon, the beauty in the woods, I cussed at a patch of small dead Russian thistle that escaped my notice and now has gone to seed, walked some more, and came in to chair an Indivisible zoom meeting. While the walk had somewhat restored my equanimity, the weed patch threw it off again, and I was still ruminating about the email when I sat down to lead the meeting.

I felt cranky, but turned my attention to gratitude to open the meeting, thereby managing to quickly switch gears and celebrate the achievements of my colleagues, who rallied in a matter of days to deliver more than $600 worth of groceries and other staples to one of the local food pantries over the weekend: Because of the starvation policy that the Lie-a-Tollah is holding over Americans to coerce surrender on the government shutdown, while he and his billionaire toadies (no offense to toads) feast ironically.

After the meeting, I continued putting up the potato harvest, roasting some for dinner, some to freeze for quick hash browns in some uncertain future. The potatoes I thought were red are indeed purple! And tasty.

While I would very much like to throw a tantrum sometimes, and cuss out people I know or more commonly those in the current regime, (or to use a more vulgar nickname for he who shall not be named), I’m an adult. I try to live according to virtuous values, and acting like a spoiled brat or a mean girl is not an option. This article in the Atlantic, “A Confederacy of Toddlers,” reminds all of us that the only way to beat this regime is to remain the adults in the room, and we each have to do that one at a time in our personal lives. We need to manage our emotions and befriend (or at least tend) our inner demons so that we don’t set them loose on everyone else. But it’s ok to have a sense of humor.

At the end of the day, which is where I am now and grateful to have made it here, especially knowing that so many people did not, and knowing one person who almost didn’t, all the personal irritations fall away, all the global uncontrollables fall away into the vast emptiness of nondual unconditioned reality… Or they at least get absorbed by watching the joyous extravaganza of the latest episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race España, which is ultimately the same thing.

Joyful Surprises

Nov2

Related to gratitude and grief, joy is an essential quality to cultivate for mental, emotional, and physical wellbeing. Big joy had come for a friend who dropped by the other day, and I shared her excitement experiencing empathetic joy, a felt sense of happiness in her joy. I made sure to notice how my joy for her great happiness felt in my body, and savor the tingles and my big smile, and her big smile: Savoring a good feeling for twenty seconds cultivates neural pathways and stimulates beneficial neurochemicals. That empathetic joy came on top of my pure joy at her surprise visit. We walked to the canyon, which gave Wren joy, and took a dose of forest medicine hugging an ancient juniper.

The view from the tree hug

The next day several more joyful surprises came my way. I dedicated myself to fully experiencing them all, opening my heart and my mind. The first was three volunteers who came from North Fork Senior Connections to help with yarden work for an hour, and we got so much done. All were seniors themselves, and from the larger neighborhood surrounding our small town. The program sent a dozen volunteers out into the community to lend hands to five seniors who had requested assistance. I had actually asked for help more than a year ago when I could barely move, but this was the first time they called and though I’m pretty capable by now, I can still use an extra hand with some chores. I baked a big batch of molasses ginger cookies to thank them.

While they did some of the more physical projects, I bent over and pulled a frost-killed sweet potato vine out of the patio planter and dropped my jaw when two fat little sweet potatoes came out with it. After sharing that surprise with Garden Buddy, who had persuaded me to try rooting and growing one two summers ago just for the beauty of the vine, I dug gently into the planter and discovered a handful more small tubers. Not a huge crop, but enough for a few meals, and a strong motivation to try a whole bed of them next year. Amazingly, the grasshoppers didn’t fancy the leaves.

After the helpers went merrily on up the road to another yard, I dug the last potatoes, the red potatoes I had protected under straw mulch until I could set up to save them in sand. The quantity and size of these tubers was another joyful surprise. The grasshoppers had hammered the foliage to the point that the plants never bloomed, and I was not expecting much when I dug my hands down into the cold dirt. I savored that activity so much I can still feel the cold in my finger bones and the rough dry soil in my cracked fingertips.

I love these wire baskets I bought online which no longer appear to be available. The garden hose made quick work of washing all the tubers outside, in the basket, and then they air dried before I brought them in the house.

While I waited for the potatoes to dry, I cut back the dead dahlias and salvias that had filled some of the garden pots, and was met with this delightful surprise of small orange flowers. The plant had died back in summer heat but emerged again a month ago, and was secretly blooming beneath the big red salvia. A honeybee was sipping from it but fled to a snapdragon when I pulled out my camera.

While the potatoes continued to dry outside I washed myself off and dressed to go to a patio party down the road. A friend invited me as her plus one and came to pick me up. It was at the home of a newish neighbor whom I’d been meaning to take a plate of cookies to for a couple of years but… being a reclusive hermit, I hadn’t gotten to yet. I had saved enough cookies to bring him some, and found I was warmly welcomed. Another gathering of neighbors I mostly didn’t know! I listened, and laughed, shared a few baking tips, and met another knitter. I was grateful the party was outside, the weather was beautiful, and the company easy and engaging. The host had asked that guests bring something for his compost pile, which struck me as both creative and courageous. I took a bucket full of the dead annuals I had trimmed in the morning, so that even if something sprouts from my offering it will be a lovely flower and not a weed.

Once home, I packed the red potatoes in play sand in a cardboard box. I still have two bags of the gold potatoes in the fridge I need to cook and eat or freeze in the next couple of weeks. They are more delicate, and probably wouldn’t keep well, but I’m optimistic about these hardy red potatoes. I spread a layer of sand, covered it with potatoes, poured in another layer of sand… and made a three layer sand and potato lasagna, which I then closed and tucked under a chair in the mudroom where it will stay cold but not freezing (I hope) so I can eat homegrown potatoes through the winter. Maybe when it gets real cold I’ll have to bring the box with whatever’s left into the pantry. We’ll know more later. One potato at a time.

And the last joyful surprise is the fragrant orchid that hadn’t bloomed for a couple of years, for so long I had forgotten it’s fragrant. It’s been in this hanger near my desk for more than a week, I’ve walked past it dozens of times a day, when suddenly one midday an exquisite perfume stopped me mid stride. I inhaled deeply, exhaled completely, and breathed deep again. I savored this intoxicating scent for more than twenty seconds, until my scent buds acclimated and could hold no more. It continues to release its sweet aroma a for an hour or two in the middle of the day, and then goes quiet. Each time I pass during one of those fleeting floral exhalations is another joyful surprise that captivates me for several lingering breaths.

Those Bright Hours

Oct20

Every now and then over the past two days I’ve pressed the pause button and sat down outside to savor the still-blooming patio flowers and the slowly changing colors of the yarden. But in between pauses and work I’ve focused on a fun and labor intensive project: Jelly.

Not just any jelly… not just rosehip jelly, either, though it did require a bowlful of those. These wild rosehips are small and seedy, not much flesh or juice, so I knew it would take a lot of them. And they’re not easy to harvest; even the rosehips themselves have pickers on them, so I took kitchen snippers out to clip them off by ones and twos, invariably snipping plenty of leaves. I picked out the leaves as I dumped the fruits into a bowl of cold water with a splash of vinegar.

Then onto the crabapples! My gorgeous tree produces the tiniest crabapples I’ve ever seen. The rosehips are small, but the crabapples are no bigger than the rosehips! I plucked them from the tree by ones and twos and threes, reaching overhead for most of them and dropping plenty on the ground. It took awhile, but I refilled the bowl, picked out the leaves, and dumped the crabapples into another bowl of cold water and vinegar wash.

It took an hour to rinse the rosehips and pick off blossom ends and residual stems, but at least the prickers had softened during the soak. I put them in a pot, covered them with water, and simmered for well over an hour, mashing them some about halfway through to release even more rosy essence, adding water a couple times to keep them submerged.

When they were sufficiently softened I scooped the mash into the ancestral chinois cone strainer that my sister from another mister gave me a few years ago, which had belonged to her mother. I let it drip for about five hours, squeezing out more pulp a few times with the elegant wooden pestle that you swirl around the edge simply using the palm of your hand on the smooth handle.

Once I’d extracted all the goodness I could from the rosehips, I put the crabapples on to boil, again keeping them just covered with water, and mashing halfway through cooking. They were just as hard to prepare because I had to pull off each stem using small pliers. I cooked them for only around 45 minutes, as I’d read that if you overcook them you ruin the pectin.

This mash strained for a couple hours before bedtime, with a couple of pressings, and then I left that in the strainer overnight, covered with a mesh tent to keep out the one or two pesky houseflies remaining inside.

In the morning I pulled the rosehip juice from the fridge, swirled the two bowls full together, and dumped them into a larger saucepan with an equal volume of sugar.

I brought this to a rolling boil, then reduced the heat and simmered until the jelly had reduced to the proper thickness. Or maybe just a bit longer. I used the “wrinkle test” to determine when to stop cooking: put a couple of small plates in the freezer, and when you think it’s close, pull one out and drop a spoonful of jelly onto the cold plate, let it sit for two minutes, then draw your finger through it. If it wrinkles on top it’s ready; if not, cook a bit longer. Pretty sure I could have called it good after the first test despite not getting the wrinkle but I let it cook another five minutes until the next test wrinkled.

I knew I wouldn’t get much jelly out of all this effort, but volume wasn’t the point. Some kind of crazy satisfaction from the process was the point, and a few mouthfuls of powerful flavor. I optimistically sterilized six 4-ounce jars, and was delighted to fill five of them. While they processed in the hot water bath for twenty minutes, I scraped the saucepan clean and slathered a piece of buttered toast.

I slowly savored every single tart, sweet, slightly flowery mouthful.

Twenty-four hours and uncounted steps later, the labor intensive fun resulted in five tiny jelly jars full. How I wish I had enough to give some to everyone I want to share it with! Oh well. That’s why they say “Mashed potatoes are so everyone can have enough.”

There are still tons of even smaller rosehips on the bush… will I decide to spend another day harvesting and processing another batch? Maybe… but most of the crabapples left are out of reach so it would be purely rosehip jelly if I do it again. Who knows how the wind blows? Who knows where the time goes?

Meanwhile, as I labored away, the lazy little animals just sat around enjoying the gorgeous fall days. Ok, well, I did sit with them some of the time, grateful for the time to sit, and grateful for those bright hours making such extravagant jelly.

A Different Harvest

Aug25
My tragic garlic harvest this year. They seemed to do so well for so long, then at the end they just gave up. You reap what you sow: I wonder if it was because I used bulbs from garlic I grew last year, and they just didn’t have the energy to grow big and strong. Next year, back to Territorial Seeds or a local organic grower. Of course, that’s really this year: the time to plant garlic is next month.

“How many times have you wondered why 44% of the country still supports the president as he directs soldiers to patrol selected cities, orders heavily armed masked men to snatch people off the street, causes prices to rise, gives tax cuts to billionaires, and ends health insurance for millions? That is a complicated question with no short answer, but one of the main reasons is that millions of Americans are hearing lies or don’t know what the president is actually doing … because much of the media has been silenced by or is fearful of Trump.

He knows where his loyal followers get their “news,” and he is making sure those organizations toe the MAGA line.

Trump’s manipulation can be felt from legacy media (see: CBS News and The Washington Post) to local television ownership consolidation to the burgeoning MAGA-mediasphere of podcasts and social media influencers. But it all starts where the press and the president are in each other’s presence on many if not most days.”

Dan Rather, Steady, August 22, 2025

I’ve harvested most of the slicer tomatoes prematurely, because now that the grasshoppers have demolished everything else I didn’t cover, they’re coming for the maters! I put the first haul into a brown paper bag a few days ago and they’re already glowing up with a little warm color.

Our “local” Denver 9 News is on the chopping block. Kyle Clark, the host of the best regional newscast I’ve ever encountered, is making clear to his viewers, objectively, that selling out to Fox isn’t a great idea. Television is inherently dangerous, as Jerry Mander points out in his first book, especially from a political point of view, because“it is the one speaking to the many.” His work was terribly historically informed and prescient, and it’s only gotten more so since this 1991 interview in The Sun Magazine.

“The fantasies of utopian existence promoted by proponents of the technological, industrial mode of life for the last one hundred years are now demonstrably false. That’s not what we got. What we got was alienation, disorientation, destruction of the planet, destruction of natural systems, destruction of diversity, homogenization of cultures and regions, crime, homelessness, disease, environmental breakdown, and tremendous inequality. We have a mess on our hands. This system has not lived up to its advertising; in developing a strategy for telling people what to do next, we first have to make that point. Life really is better when you get off the technological/industrial wheel and conceive of some other way. It makes people happier. It may not make them more money, but getting more money hasn’t worked out. Filling life with commodities doesn’t turn out to be satisfying, and most people know that.”

Jerry Mander, in conversation with Catherine Ingram

One nice harvest surprise was this handful of small russet potatoes, which grew from an organic grocery store potato that sprouted before I could use it. I stuck it in a tub of dirt in the early spring and it grew in the sunroom for a month before it could go outside. Despite predation, against the odds, it came to fruition.

It’s gone from bad to worse and we’ve been prey the whole time, utterly caught in the sticky web of technology and now unable to extricate ourselves. I’m as guilty as anyone, but I’m grateful that mindfulness practice is an antidote that helps me keep some attentional autonomy. As Mander says, television “is most efficient at centralized, top-down usage which imposes imagery and programs people accordingly. The imagery remains in them and then they imitate the imagery. It is a powerful brainwashing and homogenizing machine.”… (and now by extension most of what the internet offers)

Rocky Mountain beeplant is among the most underrated wildflowers, and one of the most spectacular. It’s also a mad bee magnet. I sow the seeds throughout the yarden at the end of summer, and hope for the best. What comes will come.

My voice feels like a cry in the dark. I struggle to nourish hopeful energy because the forecast trajectory is dismal, as laid out in this Bioneers podcast with Thom Hartmann, who “warns of the existential threat of a virulent new oligarchy: the third frontal assault by the ultra-wealthy in American history to use their concentrated economic power to seize maximum political power – and overthrow democracy once and for all.”

Two honeybees of distinctly different colors seem in conflict over a blossom…

Robert Reich names the current president as the culmination of these decades of staggering wealth inequality, explaining that Democrats failed during that time to take actions that could have reined in the power grab. His interpretation adds another nefarious facet to Hartmann’s theory, twisting the script so that the worst of the oligarchs now presents himself as the people’s savior. Reich suggests that it’s not too late, and that if Democrats (and Independents, I might add) would actually unify and undertake specific actions they could regain the reins of the country.

from Robert Reich, Sunday Thought
… but they seem to negotiate an agreement to share the abundant resources, neither taking more than they need and each getting enough.

We reap what we sow. Where we place our attention matters. For forty years Big Money have been sowing seeds that ultimately bloomed into Project 2025 and curried this regime to implement it. While most of the rest of us let our attention wander down the insidiously addictive techno-entertainment wormhole, we failed to notice the rug being slowly pulled out from under our relatively stable democracy. The deceit was intentional and highly effective.

My friend John was a passionate student of history. He knew whereof he spoke when he said, “We lived in the best times” — before the third wave of Oligarchy began to crest. Turns out history is relevant after all. I eschewed its study through all my school years but the more I learn of it now the more this current moment makes sense. When people ask me “How did we get here?” I can now say, “It’s complicated…” instead of throw up my hands in impossible confusion. As my understanding of the history of this country broadens beyond the founding fathers and fourth-grade lessons on Virginia’s conquerors, my despair softens into compassion, and I renew my commitment to mindfulness practice and the skills that continue to strengthen my resilience in this challenging political and social landscape. I’m happy to share.

It’s not all froglets all the time, there are still a few tadpoles left swimming around. But… it’s mostly froglets!

The little froglet in front looks like it’s missing its left eye–and possibly a leg. Amazing how it survives, against the odds, in a supportive, nurturing environment; a community of froglets standing together.
I grabbed the camera to catch these twins knowing I only had a second before they fled. I didn’t notice it was set to manual for moon photography, so the result was a study in whites. I’m grateful for the ready editing technology in the Photos software that enabled me to pull some color and definition out of a careless mistake. I’m grateful for resilience.

Final Harvest (This Year)

Oct21

I’m grateful the grasshoppers chose this year to eat my garden. I couldn’t have done much with a big harvest. The other day I picked the handful of cherry tomatoes that made up my entire tomato crop out of the eight plants I sowed. The same evening I dug the last of the potatoes.

Today, I ate them all. Tomatoes on toast with avocado and mayonnaise, potatoes boiled, buttered and salted, with mustard – herbed chicken. I’m grateful for my tiny, final harvest.

Perspective

Feb11

This wide-angle perspective of Wren shows her complete ownership of me. I love how she seems to experience me as a convenient piece of furniture to give her a higher perspective one moment, and another moment as though I am an extension of her very self, or she of mine.

Wren and I did something today that I haven’t done in a few years: we went to a Super Bowl party. We took a bacon-cheddar-cream cheese dip, topped with avocado and the first two tomatoes of the season! That little vine in a bag that I brought in last fall? Its tomatoes ripened through December, and then it didn’t quit: I gave it one dose of full-spectrum plant food, and a couple weeks later it made a few flowers, and then a few more. I picked the first ripe tomatoes today, and there are half a dozen more green tomatoes on the vine. They’re small, just barely bigger than a cherry tomato, but still! I’m grateful for this pertinacious little plant.

The party was just across the living room in my recliner, and we were the only guests. Topaz stopped by for a few crunchy treats. Our team didn’t win, but we had a good time, and the event gave me plenty to reflect on. I was grateful to swap perspectives with a friend over zoom after a halftime show that NPR called “chaotic.” I’ll say. I couldn’t make a lick of sense out of it after the first few minutes. I kept waiting for Usher to sing a song. But I watched, and I wondered, How is there still racism in this country when so many Americans of all colors and political persuasions celebrate the Super Bowl? It’s not a white sport. At least half its megastars are Black. The halftime show was a celebration of Black artists and cultures. How do some people revere Black football stars or performers, and simultaneously hate their Black neighbors?

The ads, which for some years were actually clever or artistic or surprising, this year struck me as even more materialistic, banal, depressing, and alienating than ever. I don’t even remember seeing a single Clydesdale, but maybe I blinked during that one. I’ve been studying human beings from the moment in college when I learned I could get a diploma in people-watching, and I barely understand them any better than I did when I embarked on my Anthropology degree. What I do understand, though, is that our predominant American culture is tragically alienated from one thing that is essentially real and true, the natural world: soil, water, trees, non-human animals, and the interconnected cycles and systems that regulate this fragile spinning globe we live on. For all we know, “Life is only on Earth… and not for long.” (Justine, in Melancholia.)

On the political front, here’s another hopeful, clarifying, and inspiring perspective, recommended by Jessica Craven, from Mike Lux Media with the headline “The 2024 election will be determined by two things. Neither one is Joe Biden’s age.”

Fall Day

Oct3

I’m grateful for waking up alive on another beautiful fall day, savoring coffee on the patio as potential days to do so decrease.

I’m grateful for two days worth of harvest putting the garden to bed; it could freeze tonight or come too close for comfort for the peppers, so I brought them all in: two types of paprika peppers, Fresnos, jalapeños, and the last little blot pepper.

Where’s Wren?

And grateful after a busy day for a lovely walk up the driveway with Wren and Topaz, in the golden grasses and rabbitbrush, with decorative clouds, and a mountain bluebird hopping fenceposts ahead of us. We heard our first sandhill cranes overhead on the way back downhill.

That Satisfying Pop

Sep11

I’m grateful for a full and beautiful Autumn day. It was gorgeous outside all day, a crisp wet morning from night rain, a clear blue sky with a few puffy white clouds moving along, some distant rainstorms, a little time outside with coffee, kindle, kitty, Wren, and hummingbirds; much good work to do inside, a gift delivery to a friend going into surgery tomorrow (may you walk pain-free now), just one wasp sting, and more fun in the kitchen.

The sourdough I mixed last night was barely risen by morning, it’s so cool at night now, so I put the bowl of dough in the sunroom for a few hours this morning. The bake didn’t happen til after lunch, but I look forward to a cheese and tomato sandwich tomorrow, and I was glad to share the perfect, warm loaf.

Later in the evening I processed a pound of peaches off the counter, making a few jars of peach salsa. I was grateful to have all the spices required except fresh cilantro, so I just used coriander powder. Also one jalapeño, and one Fresno pepper from the garden, and store-bought garlic and onion. Chopped, diced, minced, and cooked, I got three half-pints to can in the water-bath, and a smidge that was too hot to taste tonight but I refrigerated for tomorrow.

I’m grateful for that satisfying pop the jar lids make with a successful vacuum seal. There’s nothing quite like it: You pull the hot jars out of the boiling water, set them on the counter, and wait… I like to wait in silence, because the pop is just so satisfying when it comes. The truth is, you can have a successful seal even without the pop, but it just doesn’t feel finished to me until that *pop* happens when the lid sucks down onto the jar, sealing your summer produce to preserve it for a good six months or longer: A job well done. I’ve got a couple of pounds of peaches left on the counter, and maybe one more on the tree. I look forward to picking the last of the peach harvest tomorrow.

Harvest

Sep10
The apparent total of my pickling cucumber crop… what a small jar of pickles this will make! The vine itself isn’t much longer than the border of the picture. I certainly learned something about insufficient nitrogen in the soil this summer.
Where’s Wren, tomato edition. This basket represents the essential end of tomato harvest this summer. A few green tomatoes remain on some vines, but again, the weird cold spring, even with nutritious soil in these beds, resulted in a scarce harvest.
Ah, but the fruit trees! I’ve baked and frozen and given away, and still have a decent batch of peaches to process tomorrow; perhaps the most delicious way to eat them is simply peeled and sliced in a crystal goblet…

I’m grateful for any kind of harvest, and maybe more grateful this summer for a slow and gentle harvest without any urgency to put up the fruits of the garden. Some years I’ve been grateful for a hectic and abundant harvest of tomatoes, or cucumbers, or peppers, or any combination. This year I’m grateful for a tame and easy harvest.