Pangs of guilt

There’s something about cutting down – deliberately lopping and sawing to death – a healthy living plant, that doesn’t sit well with me.  I’m sure every gardener on the planet understands the torment that’s born of killing a plant that someone somewhere might value.  But I’m also sure that every gardener on the planet understands the euphoria that comes with making a significant change involving new planting opportunities.

Yesterday I continued what I started two years ago and took out more of the foundation plantings that were here when we bought the place.  It’s quite likely that they’ve been here since the house was built in the late 50′s. These venerable shrubberies include(d) several of some kind of chamaecyparis that had formerly been bubble shape sheared, 2 hollies, a male and female – also formerly sheared, and some token hydrangeas – which are, incidentally, very popular amongst the Azorean population of Bristol.  I kind of love them for that.  Z hates them for bad associations involving digging and saving some for persnickity clients. – Being a carpenter, not gardener, this was regarded as a ridonculous request.  In any case, they are all outie and I, so far, have not tried to dig any up to passalong to someone else.  Part of the reason for that is that the roots of each are now miles beneath a thick layer of rock mulch, shredded landscape cloth and disintegrated bark mulch.  No mulch of which has had the muscle in near years to thwart the bittersweet (and chickweed) which would inevitably be donated along with any good deed.

I object to the foundation plantings on the grounds of … they’re not Me.  When I drive up to the house I want to see my own stuff and make way for changes even if we can’t get to them yet.  We see a porch with a generous stoop on that side of the house and imagine watching the sunset from out there, drinking tea or martinis with our feet up on a bit of rail.  With the shrubberies gone, we’ll have more bare-naked incentive to get a move on.  And meanwhile, there are plenty of giant temporary tender perennials I could plunk in that I’d rather look at than cringe inducing shrubbery.  And it will feel more like Me even if (or maybe especially if) it’s kind of a mess.

I’m trying to justify the wanton killing.  I tried to remember to thank the shubberies for their valiant attempts to hide the concrete and anchor the house to the yard but by the time I got to the first holly I just hacked with abandon.  I’ve still got a ways to go but it already feels so much better – even though it looks like sh*#.  I’m all for making my own mistakes now.

Have you deliberately killed any healthy plants just because they weren’t You? Do the guilty feelings linger?

Garden to Table

-by Zeke-

The ocean breeze whistling through the naked shivering trees with the shrill note of winter, winding and twisting around me, searched out all the chinks in my well worn Carrhart armor. It whispered quietly in my ear with a deafening roar “YOU’VE GROWN SOFT OVER THE SUMMER”.  It is of course correct, but that like the weather will change. The sudden bitter cold makes the simple joy of bustling about the kitchen, next to an intoxicatingly warm stove, all the more delirious. Work boots swapped for the soft caress of slippers, tool apron packed away in favor of its culinary cousin, dish towel slung over my shoulder, I attempt to dirty every dish in the kitchen.

Tonight’s dinner was a wonderful bouquet of home grown rootieness; rutabaga and carrots, beets, and beet greens. These were presented to me in their purest form, barely plucked from the earth’s nurturing embrace and plopped down all greens and roots and dirt spilling and cascading over my cutting board. This was what we had on hand, and me being too lazy to run out to the store, was what we ate.  Perhaps next time I’ll add in a little sauteed chicken with a garlic and wild mushroom pan sauce…

Now what pray tell is a rutabaga, you may well ask.  I did – I mean I know what it is when it’s sitting in front of me – but what is it really? Truth be told, it is a turnip.  A yellow turnip in fact, or Swedish turnip or “Neep” to the Scottish – nothing all that exotic but it’s definitely tasty.  And now that we know what it is let’s cook it.

First up is the carrot and turnip smash.  Peel and chop the turnip (or rutabaga, if you are so lucky) and boil until just starting to soften, then add the chopped carrots. There is something in the taste a home grown carrot that cannot be quantified beyond the nostalgic kick in the rear of running pants-less through my mother’s garden with a carrot, greens still attached, clutched in my paw. It was the 70′s, we were hippies, don’t judge… But I digress.

Once all are nice and soft, drain and smash with a potato masher, add in butter, cream, and salt and pepper to taste. It makes a wonderfully tasty and colorful side. The beets are just as easy. Trim the greens and roots, scrub and rub down with oil, wrap them up individually in foil and pop in the oven at 350° until soft – about an hour, or two martinis, but who’s counting?  When cooked and cooled enough to handle, the skins should slough off easily.  Dice them into random sized chunks and mix with butter and fresh chopped dill, mm-mm.

The beet greens, which are not green at all: Take the nice crisp little ones that Jack Frost has not nipped and cut the stems into one inch chunks and saute in a little oil, then toss in the leaves that have been cut into 1/4 inch ribbons (or chiffonade for you cookie types).  Stir in fresh minced garlic and dried oregano and basil and cook until just wilted.  Serve topped with crumbled blue cheese – I found a tasty cheese from nearby Marion, Mass made with raw milk.  Wine paring: Something red I should think, or another martini.  Hey it’s the weekend, I don’t have to drive, stop looking at me like that. Besides I still have to make an apple pie for tomorrow, but that is a story for another day.    Z-