Three years ago we discovered Rattlesnake beans. Understory Farm was selling them at the Bank. St. Market, their pods all mottled and lumpy, broadcasting their beaniness to anyone who walked by. (They look similar to the Dragon’s Tongue bean which a few people are selling these days.) We got some. We ate them. We never wanted another bean again. Well, almost never. Now, if you only like your green beans smooth, with the bean seeds just tiny little nuggets hidden in the pillow of bean flesh around them (and we still do, just not nearly as much as we used to) Rattlesnakes aren’t the bean for you. You can cook them pretty much any way you’d cook a normal green bean (roasting brings them to perfection), but it’s definitely the seed not the pod that provides the punch. And you have to be ok with pulling a few strings out of your teeth when you eat them. Which we are. Continue reading “Snakebit”
All summer, while waiting for a bunch of work to get done on our house, I’ve had visions of transforming the backyard so as to include a much expanded vegetable garden, along with a bunch of native shrubs and flowers and a bigger medicinal herb garden for my wife. Then on Monday the City of Kalamazoo’s “View from the Curb” waste disposal newsletter came. Usually I look at this only to see when bulk pick-up days are, but I had a couple of minutes to kill and skimmed through it. Towards the end it had a little feature on Japanese Knotweed [pdf], a bamboo-like invasive species that has been spreading due to the usual combination of human ignorance and biological will to power.
Yesterday while beginning my landscaping project, I saw what I thought was some J.K. just on the other side of our neighbor’s fence. I sent pictures to the email given in the “View,” and promptly heard back from city-worker Hannah Hudson, who came by and verified that we have been invaded. Japanese Knotweed, I learned is, the massive fear I now feel for my backyard and property value aside, a pretty amazing plant. Nearly anything you do to try to kill it will only make it stronger. A fingernail-sized clipping can root and become a new plant, so you don’t want to cut it. A severed root will send up shoots, so you don’t want to dig it up or even dig near it. Round-up makes it grow faster. There are, apparently, some herbicides that have some effect, but they’re really nasty and stay in the soil for some time. Hannah did say you can eat the shoots like asparagus, however, and one of the few effective ways of containment seems to be cutting shoots as they come up in the spring, so, until I learn more, that’s what we’ll be doing (cutting, anyway; we’ll see about the eating). But now I can’t dig anywhere I was planning to, so knotweed is about the only edible I’m going to be growing until someone figures out the silver bullet that will kill this stuff.
UPDATE: There is hope! Anna K. of the Kalamazoo Nature Center recommends trying careful physical removal of plants and roots at this stage, followed by careful monitoring for new growth and chemical treatment only if absolutely necessary. So a garden may yet be in my future! (If the neighbors understand the need for eradication — right now it’s only on their property, but it will soon be on ours.)
In early July we spent a little over a week at my parents’ house near Pittsburgh, where I grew up. My dad, now 77, still has a 3500 sq. ft. or so garden, which was lush and green thanks to an excess of rain: 3.5” in the 10 days we were there. (This made the small creek in front of the house great fun for my six year old son.) The garden used to be even bigger, about 5000 sq. ft., and when I was a little kid it was accompanied by two other smaller gardens, which, if memory serves, were spring gardens for lettuce and green onions. The garden now has a fence all around it that’s high enough to discourage deer, but my memories are of rows of vegetables rising out of the yard and of being able to walk right in to them from any direction — as long as you were careful to stay on the approved paths! My parents canned and froze quite a bit of produce from the gardens back then. Now they freeze a lot of green beans, fresh shell beans, and corn, and they put onions and potatoes into storage, but not a lot else. It’s a treat every year to go back and see how much good stuff comes from this patch of ground. And to think that many of my own molecules were made from this same earth.
We were back again for a few days just before Labor Day. There had been maybe an inch and a half of rain total in the several weeks since our last visit, and it showed. The creek was narrow enough to jump across at points, the grass in the yard was nearly crispy, and the weeds at the edge of the woods were wilted and worn. But thanks to use of a heavy hay mulch and the blessings of the water table in the valley bottom where they live, my dad hadn’t had to irrigate his garden (in fact I’ve never known him to do so). Not all of the plants were happy about this, naturally, but the tomatoes, at least, were thriving. My dad grows two varieties: a hybrid slicer called Big Beef and an heirloom called Caspian Pink. I get a few of his leftover starts every year, and they always turn out good fruit, but this year my plants were pretty dismal and so my expectations were low when I went to visit. The baskets on the counter were overflowing, however, and the Caspian Pinks were without a doubt the best tomatoes I’ve ever eaten. They are usually a little sweeter than the Big Beef, which are themselves nothing to sneer at, but with a rich tomato-y flavor that rivals Brandywine and other famous heirlooms. This year, though, they had lost only a little of their sweetness but had added a nice layer of acidity, all of which was concentrated into flesh made denser than usual because of the lack of water. I’ve read that a dry, hot, stressful stretch is good for the flavor of a tomato (not unlike for wine grapes), and these fruit certainly bore that out. I managed to eat at least four or five every day, but I could easily have managed twice that. Along with the last corn of the season, fresh beans, and my mom’s somewhat overwhelming selection of meat (including her once-a-year fried chicken, made with some perfectly sized fryers I got specially for her from Blackberry Pines farm before we came), it was truly memorable eating. Making it even more special was the presence of a 94 year old cousin, who had babysat my dad when he was an infant, and her two daughters. Shelling beans while hearing about the recipes her mom had learned to cook for her Lebanese dad was even better than eating those perfect tomatoes.
Each year, as knees bend less easily and the August heat gets more draining, my dad talks about a smaller garden to come, and I know one of these years before too long I’ll be eating my last Caspian Pink from a plant he grew from seed. For now I gorge on them, turning as much of that Pennsylvania earth into me as I can.
At the People’s Food Co-op the other day, a sign proclaimed that they’d sold $540,000 worth of local products in 2014. The bulk of that (I assume) was produce and meat from local farmers, so you can begin to see why Aaron Molter said, as I quoted at the end of the last post, that “the Co-op really, I mean it changed how we do everything.” How? Well, one of the challenges Aaron and Kari talked about was how to “right size with the market,” in other words, how to figure out how much demand there is for different kinds of produce they grow or can grow and how to get their production in line with that demand. This isn’t easy, in no small part because you have to decide what and how much to grow before you know whether people actually want it, or how much of it they’ll want. As a grower, then, you have to find the right “balance of risk and demand” as Aaron says. The Co-op helps with this because they provide a venue that allows growers to figure out what’s working. “It’s a direct link,” Kari says. “I can call in and [ask] ‘how does this look? how did that move? how was the packaging?’” This means they can get “immediate feedback,” unlike with the bigger chain stores they sell to. “And,” she adds, “it’s nice that it’s local,” because that means they “can go into the store and look at it” and so see for themselves how it’s doing. The Co-op makes this possible for many growers besides them, and Aaron is generous with his praise: “the Co-op has done a great job of … developing growers to fit into what they’re doing … and given them an opportunity at least to figure it out for themselves how to sell to other people… I think what they’ve done is so rare.” Continue reading “Molter Family Orchards, Part II”
I leave around 9 a.m. from South Bend, where I’d spent the night, stopping for coffee and a breakfast bagel at the Union Coffee House in Buchanan, then find my way over to M140 which takes me most of the way to my destination: Molter Family Orchards. On the way on this unusually cool August morning I cruise past corn fields, the edges undulating in a shimmery wave from the steady wind that’s coming from the west. After the rains of the night before the air is so clear that you realize most days you only think it is. Clouds slide across an unseen ceiling low enough to make you think twice about driving under them but high enough to make the vastness of the land felt a little, more like what you get out in the far plains and much different than what you get in Kalamazoo, where there are just enough hills to create small, homier spaces. Despite the waving cornfields, this is clearly orchard country. Apples, plums, and cherries all grow in abundance here, roadside stands advertising whatever’s in season, but right now it’s the middle of that short stretch of summer when the peach reigns queen (though as I write this, I digest the sad news that we’ve gotten the last peaches of the summer from our Molter CSA). It’s in the middle of all this that you’ll find Molter’s farm. Their address says Benton Harbor, but they’re right out here under the clouds, surrounded by other farms. Continue reading “Molter Family Orchards, Part I”