Jenmenke

Road Warrior

planting

My Potato Patch: A Retrospect

I know it’s been a while.

I know.

Let’s put that behind us and move on to greener pastures.

Or dead ones.

The potato patch, to be specific.

Potatoes are a cash crop and worth the effort.

[No, not really.]

Potatoes grown in the garden are amazingly different from their supermarket counterparts and worth the effort.

[No, not really.]

Potatoes are so easy to grow and rarely fall victim to pests or blight and are worth the effort.

[No, not really.]

Like corn, it seems, every year, I grow potatoes, regardless of what my notes from the previous year tell me to do. I think the main reason is that I always have an empty planting box and withered, sprouting potatoes from the year before in the lower garage. It just seems silly not to plant potatoes.

So I do.

And then I listen to my dad bellyache about it for the next several months since I often guilt him in to digging them for me. He’s probably only really done it two, maybe three, times. But you’d think I had him out there slaving away every year since 1995 the way he goes on about it.

“Potatoes? Potatoes! Why’d the Hell you plant potatoes? I’ll buy you potatoes. I’ll pay you not to dig them. They don’t taste any different from the store. Geez”

…and on and on and on.

So it was this year as well. And I really had no intention of having him dig the potatoes. Really, I didn’t. But a series of events forced me to ask.

First, he was going to paint the barn. Then, when that didn’t pan out, he offered to paint the lattice on the screen porch. When we needed to use the parking spot where the lattice was laying, we farmed that project out as well.

Clearly he was in my debt.

And yet, still I refrained from assigning him potato duty. Not that I didn’t tease, and threaten. Sure I did. But I had no plans to go through with it.

Until that fateful Saturday in November.

He had willingly offered to accompany Charlie to his second annual Robotics tournament. Charlie had to be there at 8 am. It was a 45 minute drive, which meant they would have to leave at 7:15 am. No easy task for Gramps. He’s not a morning guy. I totally get that and it was one of the reasons I was delighted he wanted to go. –I take after him; I’m not a morning guy either.

The other reason was that last year’s tournament went all day.

All day. A robotics tournament, all day.

To be fair, I did want to make sure he didn’t feel like he had to do it. I even said, “You don’t have to do it, dad. I was planning to dig potatoes tomorrow, so if you don’t want to go, maybe you can dig the potatoes?” heh heh.

No, no, no, no. My plan worked! He was going. I was thrilled. My dad is the best!

Unfortunately, at 7:15 am the next morning, the loft was pitch black.

Pitch black.

So I threw the covers off, threw some jeans on, whipped my way-too-long-hair-for-a-46-year-old into a ponytail, screamed some things like, “WHAT ARE THOSE CLOTHES IN THE BATHROOM? WHY ISN’T YOUR BED MADE? ARE YOU READY? DO YOU HAVE YOUR STUFF?”

I threw the car into reverse and…

…nearly backed over my mother.

Who had run down the driveway in a panic wearing her gigantic fur coat that she keeps at the loft to tell me, “He’s up! He can take him. It’s fine!”

Which I knew was not true. He might be up, sure. But was he ready to go? Was he in the car? Why was my mother in the driveway, freezing her butt off? Or not freezing her butt off since she was wearing a big bear fur, or coyote. Or something.

“No, no. It’s fine. Just tell him he can either come relieve me at noon or dig the potatoes.”

And then I left her in the dust.

Ironically, it was also to be the first snow storm of the year. Which started around 11am and made it silly for him to drive all the way in to town to relieve me, and even more important for me to get the potatoes dug. And so began a day long email exchange:

The first, from my dad:

 

In between these two emails he called me and we decided he shouldn’t drive in. And he grudgingly said he’d dig the potatoes.

By this time, I was starting to suspect he was just messing with me. –That he had dug the potatoes hours before and was simply having fun at my expense. I went along with it, acting enraged.

 

 

 

 

He called me again, to ask me where the garden fork was. He was really hamming it up. I mean for crying out loud. I continued to go along with it. “DAD! It’s in the garden! If it’s not in the garden it’s in the barn hanging up! Where have you looked?!”

KJDJDSHSHST…YOU ARE BREAKING UP…. silence.

And he was gone.

*******

The sloth really didn’t dig the potatoes. He laid on the couch, watching the snow and reading a book all day. Morgan and my mom both tattled on him, so I know it’s true.

And, after the snow melted a few days later, I went out to the garden to see this:

The garden fork, in the potato bed.

So he’s a liar, too.

 

 

 

Garlic Harvest!

Remember my Garlic, up and growing about a month early this year? This picture was taken on 5/13, almost a month ahead of ‘normal’ — if there is such a thing in Minnesota:

It didn’t seem to matter how ahead it was, I harvested it during the same week I harvested it last year, when I thought it was “so late!” Here is the progression. Hover over picture for the date it was taken:

(you may disregard last photo. Couldn’t help myself)

Crazy how that works.

All the rain this year really threw me for a loop when trying to decide the right time to dig it up. As a result, I think I waited a bit long for the softneck variety. I was waiting and waiting for the soil to dry out. When it finally did, I said to myself, “I will dig this garlic tomorrow. Yes. Tomorrow.”

And then it rained 3″ that night. And the cycle repeated itself a few times until this past Saturday when I said to myself, “The Hell with it, I will dig this wet garlic today. Yes. Today.”

And I did.

I let it dry during the day. And then — get this — I actually remembered to bring it in overnight in case of rain. Of course it did not rain, but only because I brought it in. (I firmly believe in the truth of this last statement.)

Even though softneck garlic tends to store better and longer than hardneck, I will probably try to eat the softneck first because I let it go so long in the ground. The pointy tips on some of them seem a bit soft — a bad sign for storage. They will live in our dark lower garage — a far cry from a root cellar, but the best I can do. And it seems to work alright.

I love garlic. It is probably one of my favorite things to grow. I have lost track of the varieties I grow, but I did add a new one to my repertoire called “Music.” I planted the first bulbs last fall. It looks exactly like the other hardneck, so even though I kept it separate during planting and harvesting (to see if I can tell the difference in taste), I inadvertently shuffled them all together in the drying rack. So all my meticulous planning and labeling was pointless.

Just like it always is.

I just hope that makes someone out there feel better.

It’s Never Too Late To Start A Garden

Take it from one who knows.

Due to a serious lack of character, I never got around to planting my squash, melons and pumpkins in their dedicated patch. You may remember part of the reason why from the pictures I posted when writing about Strawberries back on June 4th. For your convenience, here is what the patch looked like on planting day:

Before

So, it goes without saying that it got stuck on the back burner for a while. As soon as Charlie was out of school and bored (his sister was not yet out), we went to town weeding:

During

It looked marvy.

After

Well, maybe not marvy, but then we got all that old fabric off of there (the best we could, read below) and took apart my old cold frame and then it looked marvy:

But then the rains started.

It rained all June. Buckets and buckets.

That square patch turned into a slimy, gooey, clay-ish, nightmare. While I waited for it to dry out a bit, I started the seeds in pots to get a “head start”.

I was also battling with Dave, who insisted I put down more landscape fabric to keep down the weeds. He had bought some, which — I admit — was really nice and thoughtful of him. (Have I told you that he has started being nice and thoughtful lately and it is really starting to worry me?)

But here’s the thing:

I am not convinced at all that landscape fabric keeps the weeds down in my pumpkin patch. I’ve had that patch for about 10 years now and I always have weeds. Here are my observations of fabric/plastic mulch:

  • It flaps around in the wind and rips. Because nothing is placed on top of the fabric and it takes a long time for the plants to grow big, wind (we have a lot of wind) catches the seams and rips it. Weeds take over where there are rips. So I have tried burying the seams with soil. Weeds grow there, too.
  • It disintegrates over time. I have tried both cheap and expensive fabrics and plastics. Given that they are exposed to the sunlight, they all fall apart after a while. The plastic rips to shreds and the fabric becomes a disconcerting mass of fibers that can’t be extracted from the soil underneath it. It’s like it’s part of the soil. It freaks me out.
  • I wonder about the contents of the fabrics and plastics and what they might be transferring to the soil, plants and ultimately, our food. Now, I know that sounds a little insane and over the top, but there are days that black surface gets hot enough to fry an egg on. We’ve all heard about BPA’s and the bad stuff in our food plastics. I can only imagine what is in the stuff that isn’t food grade? And how much of it is melting into the “organic” soil of my garden?

I tell all this to Dave, who just shakes his head in dismay. (I truly drive him crazy.) I will roll over to Dave if he pushes it, but we run out of time on that particular day and the topic is shelved for the following weekend. –Which passes in a blur of a pool day on Saturday with a friend and Charlie’s birthday the next.

So, as luck would have it, I finally planted the anemic and sad, waterlogged plants last Monday while I was alone and abandoned; Dave had taken the kids and some friends to the brand new outdoor Twins Stadium — with Champions Club tickets, no less (fodder for another post). For those of you keeping track, that was June 28th. In an area with only about 150 growing days in the best of times. And when you plant pumpkins and melons later than other plants, because they only tolerate warm soil (subtract 30 days), that usually puts me at a planting date of June 1 for those plants.

Nope. I’m almost 30 days past that. And pumpkins and squash take at least 100 days to reach maturity. I’m cutting it close. Oh well.

It looks pretty weird to have this gigantor area of dirt that isn’t all black and crumbly and beautiful. I guess that just shows what my dirt looks like after being covered up with landscape fabric for years, Dave!

Actually, it’s because we have clay soil and this area hasn’t been amended like the regular garden has. I don’t have enough compost to put over the entire patch, plus, it really was mostly covered by fabric for years. I usually only amend the individual planting holes. Which is what I did this year:

And, hopefully after being in some real dirt, instead of a rain-soggy pot, these sad yellow plants will perk up and take off.

It’s Never too late, I tell you. You’ll see.

My Favorite Way to Plant Potatoes

…With a bulb planter

While I like to pretend to know what I’m talking about, in this case, you must take my preachings with a grain of salt.

Or maybe even less.

As I’ve said before, I tend to cut corners on tasks that I don’t care for.

And one of those tasks is planting potatoes.

Truth be told, now that I’m writing about the third consecutive task that I don’t care for in the garden, I am starting to wonder if I really like gardening at all? Could it be possible that I’m only out there to escape questions like “Mom? Mom?… Mom?… ”   To which I yell, WHAT? Only to hear: “Where is Morgan?”

How the Hell would I know where Morgan is?

Yes, the garden beckons…

I love the garden…

And when people say “But it’s so much work. Where do you find the time?”

I just laugh.

[But I still hate planting potatoes.]

So this is the epiphany I had a couple years ago.

Use a bulb planter! Seems to work great. Why dig a whole row when you only need to get the one spud down deep?

Oh, and also? Buy enough potatoes so that you don’t have to cut them up. It’s a pain. And I’ve heard that cut potatoes are more susceptible to rot. So why bother? Seed potatoes (from the grocery store) cost practically nothing. Just buy enough whole ones and pick out the smallest ones you can find.

Soooooo. Much. Easier.

Have I written about my red potatoes? The ones I planted from last year? Good grief. I can’t remember… OK, I just checked. And I didn’t. I think I’m losing it….

Anyway, remember the crazy red potatoes I joked about using for Meatless Monday Eight? No, I didn’t actually cook them, but I did plant them! In Mid-March, no less, due to our ridiculously early Spring here in Minnesota.

Never before have I been able to keep potatoes full circle–from planting to storage to planting again– so I am very excited. I’m a bit worried about how soft they were and how long the sprouts were, but I figure if they don’t produce, I will still have time to replace them.

And, once again, I will be able to proclaim that I made something out of garbage from the garden! You see, I rescued these withered beauties from the compost bucket, where Dave unceremoniously dumped them a few weeks ago.

I will keep you updated on their progress.

Provided I remember to do so…

My Favorite Way to Plant Onions

…is not to start them from seed.

Let’s just say I’ve been at this vegetable garden thing for quite some time now. Characteristically, when I started out, I wanted to everything to be over-the-top-perfect-best-way-to-do-things-ever. And I researched and planned. Started everything from seed. Obsessed. Etc. Etc.

Which is odd.

Because reading that, you’d think I’m a perfectionist.

But I’m not.

Not even close. Suggest to Dave that I’m a perfectionist and he is likely to snort beer out his nose. I am not a perfectionist.

I can’t really explain it, except to maybe speculate that it’s because I’m competitive. As in: if I was going to garden, then dammit, I was going to have the best and be the best gardener ever. And in my neophyte gardening mind, that meant exotic varieties, all started from seed…

So what changed my mind?

What made me the quazi-lazy gardener I am today?

It was a lot of things, but if I were forced to pick just one thing. I would say it was the onions.

Yes. The onions.

Everyone has tasks in their life that they hate. Dread. Loathe. Drag their feet to complete.

For me, it was the onions. [That was before my asparagus had taken on such massive proportions.] Starting onions from seed is… INSANE. But start them from seed I did. Every damn year. Because you can only get gourmet onion varieties in seed form. Onions like Red Torpedo, Ailsa Craig and Borrettana Cipollini. Now those are compelling reasons to start onions from seed!

Or, one would think they were…

But here’s the thing. Just like you weigh the benefits of making traditional ciabatta bread versus my quick recipe, you weigh the benefits of Ailsa Craig against “Yellow Onion” sets available in my local grocery store. And, truth be told, to me it is pretty safe to say a yellow onion is a yellow onion.

Maybe it’s the soil. Or maybe I just hate planting onion seedlings to such a point that I can’t see beyond the agony and I’m rationalizing…

Very possible.

But until you, too, have transplanted itsy, bitsy, hair-like onion seedlings with ridiculously long root systems, spread out nicely on a shallow mound, ever-so-delicately handling the babes so as not to damage their fragile preciousness, then I don’t think you get to vote as to whether I’m rationalizing or not. [oh, how I wish I had pictures of this process from years ago]

It is the most abhorrent task imaginable. And in the end?

You get a yellow onion. No one but me ever knew the sublime, supposedly sweeter difference.

So, much as it pains me to admit it, I rolled over to buying onion sets from the grocery store in the following exotic varieties: Yellow Onion. White Onion. Red Onion. Thrilling, no?

I don’t know if my technique is anything ground breaking, but I buy a whole bunch and plant them only about an inch apart. That way, I get to eat my thinnings. First as green onions or scallions, then as ‘spring onions’ like you see at the farmer’s markets, and finally as my storage and freezing onions.

I like to think it’s brilliant. Or more to the point: I’m brilliant.