Gardening is such a b*tch

Maybe it's because I own P.O.S. equipment, or maybe it's because I don't know what I'm doing, but every time I start a gardening project, the S. hits the fan.

During the Testosterone Festival that is the Labor Day cookout (see previous post), I casually mentioned that I needed to get in the tomato patch, pull up the stakes, and prepare that ground for greens. Evidently, Pop-Pop was listening, for when I came home after work Tuesday afternoon, Pop-Pop's old Ford pickup was parked beside the tomato patch, and one of The Nephews was knee-deep in grass, unhappily wielding a post-puller. The stakes were mostly askew but still standing, held somewhat upright by the cotton ropes that had been the Florida weave for the tomatoes. I parked my Jeep in my driveway and walked across the road, and asked The Nephew, "Who talked you into this?", already knowing the answer.

"Pop-Pop," he grumbled. He wiped his sweaty brow on his shirt sleeve and went back to fiddling with a knotted cord.

"Let me change clothes, and I'll come help you." I came back to the house, changed clothes, put on my gardening apron, and went back to the tomato patch. While I un-did the ropes, The Nephew finished rocking the posts out of the ground and heaved them into the truck bed. When the job was done, he jumped in the truck and left, probably afraid that I'd think of something else for him to do if he stayed longer.

I looked at the rectangle of ground that had been the tomato patch, dreading the work that it would take to get it in shape for greens. The grass, as I said, was knee deep. A garden tiller wouldn't cut the mustard, not even Big Red, in this much grass. It would have to be mowed first.

Saturday morning, I cranked the riding mower, set the blade to the highest setting, and very slowly mowed the grass down. I brought the lawnmower home and told The Husband, "I'm going to Pop-Pop's to see if I can crank the big red tiller, and then I'm going to plow up a spot for the greens." He told me that if I'd wait until later in the afternoon, when it was cooler, he'd help. He didn't have to suggest it twice. I came straight in the house, kicked off my shoes, and plunked down on the couch with a book.

A few hours later, his brother came by and asked for help loading the grill he'd taken to Pop-Pop's for the cookout. They left together. I kept right on reading. A while later, The Husband came home, all hot and sweaty. "How much space do you want for the greens?" he asked.

By this time, I was totally out of the mood to run the tiller, and I told him so.

"But we've put Uncle B.'s disc on the tractor," he said. "We're plowing the ground with that."

I was ecstatic, and ran out to see what was happening. They'd already been plowing. I stepped onto the freshly-turned earth and was immediately disappointed. The disc had barely skinned off the grass. There was hard ground beneath my feet.

"It's not plowed very deep," I said.

"It don't need to be all that deep for greens," Pop-Pop assured me.

"Cool. Tommorow I'll rake up some of the grass clumps, smooth out the soil, and plant the greens."

I went back to the garden about noon today. The more I raked, the more disappointed I became with the disc job. There were wide areas where the grass was still firmly rooted in the ground. No amount of raking would get it up. It needed tilling, dad-gummit.

I walked down Pop-Pop's driveway and took the tarp off the tiller. Miraculously, the thing cranked after a dozen or so pulls. I put it in forward gear and slowly followed it up the driveway to the greens plot. When I lined the tiller up for the first row and engaged the tines, I began to feel hopeful that this would go well. The disc had broken the ground enough that the tiller could grab hold. It pulverized the dirt on the first pass. At the end of the row, I wrestled it around and aimed it for the second pass. That's when I noticed that the left tire wasn't spinning. I thought that perhaps the tire wasn't catching because the ground was unlevel, and I bore down on that side of the tiller. Then I noticed that the wheel was turning, but the tire wasn't. About this time, the tire came loose from the rim.

I said a nasty word or two, then started the torturous trip back to Pop-Pop's with the tiller, with the tire half-off the rim. "The valve stem is gone," Pop-Pop said when he saw it. After some pulling and oiling and hammering, he and I managed to get the wheel off the tiller. We'd hoped the valve stem was inside the tire. It wasn't.

I said another nasty word or two. "What do I need to do?" I asked him.

"Get a new valve stem," he said.

I called The Husband, who was out running errands, and asked him to bring home a valve stem. "Smaller than a car, Pop-Pop says, but bigger than a bike. Get one of everything they have in between those two sizes, and maybe one of them will fit."

Even though I hear him driving up now, we probably won't get the blasted thing fixed before it's too dark to finish tilling.

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Smokin'

Pop-Pop enjoys family-wide renown for his scrumptuous barbeque, and over the past few years has made an effort to pass the torch to the next generation. This past Labor Day weekend, The Husband and The Brother-in-Law got busy practicing what they've learned.

The equipment: two big charcoal grills, one for cooking the meat, the other for supplying a steady stream of hot coals.










The supplies: About 100 pounds of charcoal, and some hickory chunks.



The stars of the show: fresh pork shoulders and a gallon of Pop-Pop's vinegar-y basting sauce (the recipe is so secret that I cannot even show you a picture of the jug).















The process:

After lighting the first batch of coals, the hickory chunks must be soaked in water so that they smoke instead of burning when piled atop the hot coals.







While the coals are heating, the menfolk poke holes in the shoulders (so that the sauce can soak in) and lightly salt them. When the coals are ready, the meat goes onto a foil-lined grill, skin side down. It is doused with basting sauce.



The grill is closed. Smoke should issue forth. Mmmmm...smell that hick'ry!


At this stage, the beverages are served.











The grill temperature should stay between 325 and 350 degrees. Periodically, the meat is mopped with additional basting sauce.

About five hours later, it's time to turn the meat. The skin side will be black and almost charred. The first tasting is generally done at this point. The meat will not be falling-apart tender, but it will be tasty.






What sticks to the foil is feast for the cooks.





Once the meat is turned, indirect heat is best. The cooks add more coals to the smoker when the temp falls below 250 degrees.



With the grill temp lowered and the cooks well-basted, it's time to do stupid sh*t, like letting your babies drive tractors.















Another four or five hours later, the meat comes off the grill. Caution: it will fall apart.






The barbeque then goes inside the house to cool enough that it can be pulled apart for sandwiches. The more adventurous family members like to make bbq nachos, but I prefer the stuff in its pure form, on a bun, just doused with a little more sauce. Either way...YUM!

Pepper Jelly

I love hot pepper jelly. For the past few years, I've made a batch or two every summer. Pepper jelly is a little tricky. Perhaps it has to do with the level of capsaisin in the various peppers I've grown, or the ratio of hot peppers to sweet peppers (I'm never very precise about the hot/sweet ratio), but sometimes the stuff sets into real jelly, and sometimes it stays syrup-y. Most of the time, I don't care if it sets or not; the syrup-y stuff makes a delicious dipping sauce for chicken or smoked sausage. On a couple of occasions, I've left it in the jars for a couple of months, then opened all the jars, dumped the contents into a pan, added more fruit pectin to stiffen it up a bit, and re-canned it.

I made pepper jelly today. Judging by the film of jelly remaining in the pan after I filled the jars, it looks like this batch is going to set perfectly. I'm going to get the recipe down before I forget it.

3 cups of chopped peppers - half sweet peppers and half hot (jalapeno and chili) peppers. (I used both red and green peppers. I removed the seeds and ribs from the sweet peppers and from about half of the hot peppers. The seeds don't bother me one bit.)
3 cups of apple cider vinegar
13 cups of sugar
1 package of powdered fruit pectin
2 pouches of liquid fruit pectin

Mix the chopped peppers, the vinegar, the sugar, and the powdered fruit pectin in a pan over high heat. Stirring almost constantly, bring the mixture to a roiling boil. Add the liquid fruit pectin. Return to a rolling boil, stirring constantly, and boil for 1 minute. Take the pan off the heat. Skim off the foam. Pour into jars. (This batch made 6 half-pint jars and 3 pint jars.) Wipe off the rims, attach the lids, and water bath for 10 minutes.

I do not add green food coloring to my pepper jelly as some folks do. The natural color of the jelly is a beautiful gold color, with flecks of green and red peppers.

If I can remember to buy more supplies tomorrow, I may make another batch, as we go through the stuff like crazy. We brush it on chicken on the grill, or use it as a dipping sauce for chicken nuggets or smoked sausage. Mixed with ketchup, it makes a delicious topping for meat loaf. Though I haven't tried it, I bet it would make a good glaze for baked ham or ribs. And, of course, it's good with cream cheese and crackers.

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Misery loves company

I just read that Martha Stewart lost most of her tomato crop to blight this year.

http://www.themarthablog.com/2009/08/the-tomato-blight-in-my-garden.html?pid=11184#gallery-jump11184

I feel so much better.

Not that I have anything personal against Martha. In fact, I've been her fan for many years. So I'm not happy that blight got her tomatoes. In fact, I commiserate with her for her loss.

The point is that she has a lot of resources at her disposal. (I am particularly envious of her helpers, Shaun and Wilmer). She probably has the healthiest soil money can buy; I bet it's positively bristling with exquisite home-made compost; I bet there's not a weed or a blade of grass anywhere within the confines of the garden plot. And you know Shaun and Wilmer busted their asses picking off diseased leaves and dusting/spraying the vines with organic fungicides the minute the first signs of blight appeared. Shoot, I bet they even slept in the garden. (I mean, come on...how would YOU like to be the one to break the news to Ms. Stewart that her heirloom tomatoes are croaking?) So if her tomatoes can catch blight, the rest of us don't stand a chance.

Martha, if you're reading this, don't save seeds from this year's crop, and throw away those nice bamboo canes and get new ones. And if you figure out how to stop the blight from coming back next year, drop me a line.

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Evaluation

It pains me to admit this, but I have very nearly forsaken the garden, already. I blame it on the rain. We've had a lot of rain lately, and far more than usual rain all summer. Every time I plan to get in the garden after work, it rains before I get home. The low end of the original garden is so wet that it'll suck your shoes right off your feet if you try to walk the bean rows. I last set foot among the beans over a week ago, and had to fight my way between the tangled vines and battle squadrons of hungry mosquitoes to gather a bucket full of beans. Nanny felt up to doing the snapping and shelling. I came home the next day and canned what may have been my last canner-load of jars this season.

The tomato crop is officially shot. The once-lush plants are now bare, tangled sticks. What little fruit remains on the vines is sickly and unappetizing. When I braved the grass and the chiggers last week to gather some peppers, I noticed that some of the tomatoes are blooming again. It may be that we'll have a few more to eat before the season is over but right now even the green tomatoes are cracked and bursting.

Overall, this gardening season has been a huge disappointment. The 100+ tomato plants, though diligently tended, produced about as much usable fruit as last year's 50 plants. The yellow squash drowned right off the bat, and though I planted more seeds, they didn't come up. We've harvested ONE zucchini from our four zucchini plants. (With four plants, we should've been leaving zucchini on the neighbors' doorsteps by now.) Only the okra and - God bless 'em - the eggplants have performed as expected...but who likes eggplants, anyway?

I am tired of the garden. Tired of picking. Tired of canning. Tired of the boxes of jars and lids and canning equipment crowding my dining room table. Tired of finding stray tomato seeds stuck to every surface in my kitchen. Just plain tired. Last week, when Pop-Pop mentioned that he knew someone who would pick the beans for half of the take, I jumped at the offer. Let's see how well they deal with the blood-sucking mosquitoes and the shoe-sucking mud.

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End of July

A quick glance at the tomato patch across the road would make you think that I ought to be over there picking tomatoes, but I am disgusted with them. All summer long, I have thrown away far more tomatoes than I've kept, either because the sun had baked them hard or because blight had made black lesions on them. When I was over there Saturday, looking for some ripe ones to take to my mother's birthday lunch, I could barely find a dozen tomatoes that were decent for slicing. We've had a good bit of rain lately, which has caused most of the ripe tomatoes to swell and burst like water balloons. Turtles and birds have been feasting on the rest.

The butterbeans and green beans are coming in. We've picked butterbeans twice now, but they've needed it more frequently than I've gotten around to it. Many of the beans have dried on the vines. Last weekend, having grown fed up with my tardiness in picking the speckled butterbeans, Pop-Pop pulled up about 1/3 of the plants, tossed them onto a wagon, and towed the wagon underneath a shade tree to pick beans the easy way.

I learned some things (the hard way) about running beans this year. (1) Do not plant three rows of running beans next to one another unless you want to end up with one giant, knotted row of butter-green-butter beans. (2) Running butterbeans are heavy; use sturdy a sturdy staking system unless you want the stakes to topple like dominoes as the beans mature. (3) In the event the first two suggestions go unheeded, get somebody else to do the picking. ;)

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Blasted Squirrels

Sunday evening, my husband and I went down to Nanny's house to fix supper for her and Pop-Pop. When we arrived, Pop-Pop was sitting on the back porch, his chair angled toward the little thicket of woods by the house. There was a shotgun laying across the arms of a nearby chair. Harley, the old black labrador retriever, was snoozing peacefully beside the back door.

"Waiting on the enemy?" I asked as I climbed the porch steps.

"Squirrel huntin'," he replied. "Blasted squirrels have et ever ta-mater on that vine," he said, nodding toward a healthy-looking tomato plant growing in a planter near the shed door. "I done shot four, but there's another'n."

My husband and I went inside the house and started to prepare supper. A few minutes later, my brother-in-law and nephew came in. We set two more places for them, put the food on the table, and called Pop-Pop in to eat. When the meal was finished, Pop-Pop went back to his vigil, taking my nephew with him. After cleaning up the dishes, I went out to join them on the porch.

We were sitting there, having some mundane conversation, when all of a sudden Pop-Pop interrupted: "There he is, Allen!"

I could not believe how very fast the next sequence of events happened. Allen, who had been sitting in the glider with his back to the woods, spitting snuff juice into the mouth of a Mountain Dew bottle, spun out of his seat, set the bottle aside, grabbed the shotgun, aimed, and fired, before I could even spot the squirrel in the trees. The shotgun blast, made from about a foot from me, nearly deafened me. Hearing the shot, Harley bailed off the porch like a young dog and began running, his nose to the ground, in ever-widening circles, probably having no idea what he was looking for.

"Missed him!" Allen hissed.

Then we saw a downward rippling through one of the trees, like something had been dropped from its upper limbs.

"Naw, you got 'im!" Pop-Pop crowed.

Allen went running toward the woods, calling for Harley. Harley disappeared into the thicket, and a few seconds later returned with a squirrel that was a little shy of fatally wounded. Allen grabbed the squirrel by the tail and whacked its head against a tree to finish it off. He held it up by the tail to inspect it. "A fat one!" he said, giving the squirrel back to Harley.

"He's full of ta-maters," Pop-Pop grunted.

Harley laid down in the yard with his trophy. I guess he's full of squirrels.

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