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Tag Archives: harvest


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coleus-rich. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

it was $2.49. it sat in the midst of lots of other tiny coleus plants, on sale. the colors spoke to us and, though we weren’t planning on potting a coleus, we couldn’t resist the sale. this little plant has literally done better than any other plant we have purchased this year, including the two sweet potato vines we have placed on ladders – which usually rock, but have been just too inundated with rain and heat this year.

just goes to show you that something doesn’t have to be really expensive in order for it to be exquisite.

the color patterns on this coleus remind me of things you did as a kid: when you put celery in a tall glass and added water and food coloring. then you watched the food dye climb up the xylem of the stalk. or maybe when you went to summer rec and made cool tie-dye t-shirts (when you weren’t making braided plastic-lacing lanyards).

we spent time on the deck studying our plants and potting stand. the weather has really taken a toll on our herbs and tomatoes. they will likely not last until the bitter end of summer this year, which is too bad in a season when you can’t feel comfortable with store-bought parsley or basil or cilantro or, well, many produce items. or eggs. or bacon. or beef. or granola. or – the big one – lettuce. it all makes one’s head spin…so we are sad to have a garden that is diminishing too soon.

our coleus, however, is apparently going to gleefully hang out for a while. one piece that broke off from strong winds in a thunderstorm is inside in a jar of water. it has rooted and we’ll plant it, hoping to carry the happy coleus into the fall and beyond.

we budgeted and planned for our potting stand and went a bit over, having to replace a few herbs along the way. the extra was fine with us – we can cut back somewhere else – for we find this little garden a joy. and in the middle of the salmonella-e.coli-cyclospora scares, we have been grateful for access to its harvest. though the produce return-on-investment may not be the same as buying bulk produce or herbs at the store, harvesting our own has – once again – inspired us. and this year – in particular – it kept us from buying anything worrisome. maybe next year we will add a few more veggies to our garden. maybe a galvanized raised garden or two.

in the meanwhile – between the time that the potting stand no longer produces and the time we plant again – in fall and winter as we plot a new crop of plants and think about the possibility of a farmstand subscription (CSA), we will glance over at our indoor coleus and remember the riches of this summer – even the ones that were just $2.49.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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make-do-ers. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

i always feel like i have to explain – to people new to our kitchen – that our kitchen is old (like our almost-centenarian house), that the range is at least sixty years old, that – yup – all told, we have some significantly old stuff.

we are make-do-ers. we’ve been make-do-ers all our lives and we will likely be make-do-ers the rest of our lives. it is a mindset. not a bad thing or a good thing, it just is. and neither of us can imagine a different way.

the heat and humidity and rain of the last months have made our basil go crazy. we have two plants and i have cut them back – which actually makes them grow more. we’ve made pesto and tabouli, pizza margherita and tomato soup with fresh basil – it is caprese heaven.

the other day – on one of the days of tornado warnings and severe thunderstorms and torrential rain – i went out and snipped off a whole buncha basil, placing it in water in ball jars and small vases – so that later in the day we could make basil cubes. how lovely to have a harvest so plentiful that we now have both basil cubes and pesto cubes in our freezer for the winter. pretty amazing.

so she was here only for a day – and as we showed her around our house, chatting about the basil cubes we made the night before – i got to see our home through someone else’s eyes.

and for a moment or two, i took in her truly delightful comments about what she saw. for her enthusiastic words about our old kitchen, her laughter about our chunks of concrete and repurposed “furniture”, her “awww’s” when we told stories about rocks or branches or tiny baby shoes or old suitcases – these were so welcome, particularly for two people whose cars have ages that add up to 100 years right now.

we make-do. we are kinda proud of it. some of our best stories are stories about how we made do. we are convinced we would have nothing to talk about if everything were just … you know … perfect.

the suntea is out on the deck steeping now and the mint for it is at hand; the basil is ready for another shearing. we used the tomatoes on some homemade pizza last night and have all the ingredients for jalapeño poppers – both of ann’s recipes. we are soon to make another batch of tabouli and are – rightly (right now) – staying away from (as they say in colloquial wisconsin) “boughten” lettuce and other dangerous parasite-dwelling produce. our range is ancient; we wash all our dishes. we take back roads and turn our shampoo and conditioner upside down for weeks before calling them done. we have a window a/c unit, there are clamps on the edges of our roofing (waiting for the roofing guys), and a zip-tie holds the rocker molding onto littlebabyscion.

but heck. we wouldn’t be interesting any other way.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this NOT-SO-FLAWED WEDNESDAY

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tabouli party. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

in dramatically exciting news, this has been the week of tabouli. with heat indexes off the charts, it’s a refreshing change of pace.

it’s only mid-july and already our little potting stand garden is rocking. we have sooo much mint, a wild burst of chives and some curly parsley (our flat parsley has been the incredible-shrinking parsley – which must be because it’s on the preferred diet choices of our local squirrels.) the first batch of jalapeños are ready to harvest, many of the cherry tomatoes are orange-ing up, the basil is happily basil-ing along.

in an effort to use the herbs of which we have plenty, it brought to mind our quinoa tabouli – which uses the harvest we already have at our fingertips.

in these days of sickly sticky parasites invading the fruits and vegetables of these united states it feels extra good to have just gone a few steps outside to clip off what i needed for this fresh salad. it is a weird world with way too many things to worry about.

pasta with basil, homemade pizza margherita, jalapeño poppers, pesto, mint and lemon suntea that basked on the deck…and soon…more of our own cherry tomatoes for everything under the sun…the recipes line up in wait.

our adirondack chairs adjacent to our little burgeoning herbandveggie garden, we sat outside – after dinner – after sunset – while the fireflies danced through the backyard – and talked. our tiki-type torches lit, dogga conked out on the deck, we reviewed yet another strange set of days – strange in an insane number of ways. we wondered – yet again – what we can do.

we are beyond saddened by the schisms that deepen with every single corrupt thing that is reported (leaving us to truly ponder what is too opaque – too silenced – too hidden – to be reported, even by hardworking alternative media sources.)

and yet we know – even with our intense sadness – that there is no going back. anyone who thinks that all this is acceptable in any way – including what seems too easy to avoid – the new veggiefruit parasites running rampant because of this administration’s gluttonous greed and incompetence – is lost to us. that loss is mindboggling. it is heartwrenching.

and so, i guess we’ll just party on with our tabouli.

*****

WEEPING MAN mixed media 48″ x 36″ (available for purchase)

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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harvest the love. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

in a very, very long-ago life i wrote a song for a youth choir called “harvest the love“. i recently found the arrangement i composed. it is a bubblegum kind of song – full of rhyming idealism. “…we are all one fam’ly under the sun, we are brothers, we are sisters, we are one...”. wowza.

one of my closest friends in high school – marc – used to make fun of me (in the kindest way possible). he’d poke at my embrace of rainbows and sunrises and bubbles and sunsets. i was all-in on that stuff, believing it was absolutely possible to be “all one fam’ly under the sun”. “…for aren’t we really crops in the sun and aren’t we ready for work and for fun, as all one fam’ly under the sun…”. (it’s ok to laugh.)

we had a quiet thanksgiving. it felt good to store away the deck furniture and rugs, to complete prepping the backyard for winter – for (as i write this) we’re due for 6-10 inches of snow over the weekend (which, incidentally, we did get about 10). we wrapped happy lights around the giant tree branch that used to be in our living room, now fastened to our deck. on a timer, we look forward to this tree greeting us as we arrive home in the dark. we neatly tucked everything else away and the snow shovel is in its at-the-ready place by the back door.

we had the good fortune of visiting frank over the holidays. in a rehab facility, exhausted and challenged from a serious health event, he roused to tell us stories accumulated over the nine plus decades of his life. he – most definitely – lived a life ready for both work and for fun, just like my giddy song lyrics.

and then – back home – between sending out thanksgiving greetings and receiving them – we prepared a big stockpot of irish stew for our meal. with george winston playing in the sunroom, we chopped and sautéed and, ultimately, simmered our way to dinner. it was just us, but as we gathered, we talked about the people in our lives who have meant so much to us, about memories of thanksgivings, about our gratitude for our home and each other. two weeks ago our children and their partners gathered around our dining room table and i am still holding fast to how it all felt that day, stretching it out like good taffy.

most of the lyrics of this old song are really indicative of my age (late teens) and where i had come from – you can tell i spent a lot of time sitting in my tree outside my window writing poetry. “…isn’t it time now to harvest the love in your roots and splash in the puddles around you. from dawn of the day and its dew, we bask in the sunshine surrounds us...” yikes.

then there’s: “…dig our holes in fertile soil of living and hope that it will yield us as giving...” that would seem an innocently metaphoric way – full of autumnal reference – of saying we reap what we sow. and…i still agree with that.

and then, after the song – predictably – in late 70s fashion – modulates up a full step to a new key, it ends: “harvest the love within your heart, harvest the love. harvest the love within your heart, harvest the love…(with repeat signs)...”

which is – really – i think – still what i believe. love. harvest the LOVE. gather with those you love. LOVE one another. we ARE all one fam’ly under the sun. we ARE brothers, we ARE sisters.

now if only we could all act like it.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this MERELY-A-THOUGHT MONDAY

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perennials. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

it’s the last two. the very last two jalapeño peppers. today or tomorrow we’ll make ann’s jalapeño poppers recipe and celebrate the crazy-abundant harvest of these two relatively small plants. their season is clearly over; there are no tiny flowers left, there are no miniature peppers. these plants are done producing. but, in a new discovery, i have found that we can overwinter these perennials (more easily sustained in warm climes) – if we bring them indoors before the first frost we can give them a headstart for next year.

last year we only had one plant. its harvest is what convinced us to have two this year. maybe next year it’ll be three. in these last years, we have discovered the equation of this garden – what we get out of this garden is a direct result of what we put into it. it – and the experience of it – remain part of us, for we have paid attention to it.

like artistry – if you follow the imperative – being true to who you are – and who you’ve been and who you are becoming – and not beholden to societal expectations or fiscal returns – its produce potential is crazy-abundant. amorphous, ethereal, it will shape and re-shape, build and break down, condense and stretch – you are feeding it always. in the quiet and in the noisy, in season and out-of-season, overwintering. it’s all fluid, continuous.

i wonder when i will compose again. sometimes i can feel it building – the tension of the imperative. on those days i walk into my studio and touch my piano. it’s just a gesture, an acknowledgement. but it counts. it connects me back and forward, both. it is perennial.

and i can see – they are one and the same – these jalapeños and my music.

“not even the tiniest perennial grows only to die. it comes back again and again when the season and the time is right.” (kate mcgahan)

*****

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read DAVID’s thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

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mighty garden. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

it is a mighty garden.

built from a couple planks of old barn wood and some galvanized pipe, its possibilities were endless. tucked into a corner of the backyard, cozied up between the edge of the deck and the fence, every day this mighty garden called my name.

not so mighty in size, it was wildly enormous in delivering zen. with a pair of clippers in my hand and a watering wand waiting nearby, i spent hours through this summer tending this garden.

and it has rewarded us with jalapeños and cherry tomatoes, basil and mint and rosemary and cilantro and parsley. nothing you can’t purchase at a market, but there is something about growing right outside your kitchen, a few steps across the deck, through a wrought iron gate from the patio.

we continue to harvest from this potting stand. we’ll see it through to the last of the herbs, the last of the peppers and tomatoes, all the while planning a bit more for next year. success begets trying some new things. we planted in previous years – and there was a yield of herbs, a few tomatoes, a handful of peppers – but there was something a bit different about this year.

and this was the year we needed it.

somehow, the universe – in all its energy and light – knew that this was the time. a time for us to invest our own energy and attention into growing things. not just grasses or ferns or peonies or a few other flowers, but things that would nourish us, things that would connect the dots from dirt to our kitchen.

a gift of growing at a time when growth – real, human, throw-out-your-arms-and-hold-all-the-world-close growth – seems to be shunned, devalued, debased.

it has been mighty.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this NOT-SO-FLAWED WEDNESDAY

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herbs and children. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

parsley and rosemary. in what would seem their prime, it was time to harvest, for another frost might damage them and a freeze most certainly would. we covered them – along with the basil and the mint and the lavender – but it’s november and it’s wisconsin, so it was time to make some other choices. because it’s what we do, i researched. and then, with snippers, went out and snipped off stems, laying them gently on a cookie sheet so that i might freeze them and pull them out mid-winter to use: fresh herbs in the winter from our own potting stand will remind me that spring will, yes, arrive again.

and yes, i know it’s simple to run to the grocery store and pick up a fresh bundle of parsley and one of those little plastic containers of rosemary. but there is something to be said for these herbs that we grew, that gave us so much joy to watch as they flourished this summer. we simply bought them at lowe’s, planted them in good soil in good old clay pots, placed them in the sun, watered them as needed. and we celebrated them as they grew. mighty and strong.

it’s a little like children. you try your best to plant them in good soil, in solid but permeable pots, expose them to the sun and nutrients as they need them. and they flourish. and one day you are watching your daughter fly down the biggest mountain run in summit county – one of the highest inbound ski terrains in north america – on a snowboard, her skills generously coaching and instructing others. and another day you are watching your son’s hands fly across the mixer board, spinning electronic dance music, bringing elation – even rapture – to beautiful people expressing the freedom and joy of living. and then another day and another and another…mighty and strong.

it’s good dirt, a good pot, sun, nutrients. celebration.

and a whole lot of love.

maybe next year we’ll also plant sage and thyme – to complete the old folk song that goes through my mind every time i think of parsley and rosemary.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this NOT-SO-FLAWED WEDNESDAY

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TLC. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

so right now we have harvested four tomatoes. i know that four tomatoes does not a stockpot of marinara sauce make. but these four tomatoes count and later today we will place them on a special plate and have them with our lunch, delicious-homegrown-bite by delicious-homegrown-bite.

our basil and flat-leaf oregano and rosemary have gone to town and are a delight to use in recipes. our mint insists on flowering and is kind of spindly. (yes, yes, i know the flowering part sort of causes this, but no amount of cutting back seems to help.) and our tomato plant – well, despite our best efforts at loving this little potting stand garden to fruition, it’s eking out very few tomatoes. that’s ok. we still are in awe of the whole process, and watch, in utter happiness, as our little garden grows.

there’s a guy on youtube who is hiking the colorado trail. more than once we have heard his mantra: what goes around, comes around. he is in the practice of doing good deeds for others, on the trail and off. and he recognizes each time someone does something for him, or the universe tilts in his favor. i’m betting he would love our little garden too. not necessarily for its tomato and herb yield, but because of the tender loving care we are putting into it and the joy it is bringing us.

i’m thinking that’s true of most things you tenderly and lovingly care for.

it’s not the marinara sauce that matters.

*****

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