Matzah, horseradish and joy

Fresh parsley and horseradish root for Passover

The more I grow food, the more interested I become in other people’s efforts to grow food. So I was happy to see this article – posted by my cousin Caroline on FaceBook – about two farmers in Vermont who have begun growing wheat and emmer (an ancient grain) to make handmade, wood-fire-baked matzah (marketed under the name Vermatzah) for Passover. The farmers, Doug Freilich and Julie Sperling, of Naga Bakehouse, said they wanted to show what was possible and help keep the land in their area in a productive state. Working with the Heritage Wheat Conservancy and University of Vermont Extension, they are reintroducing wheat varieties once grown in New England but now forgotten. They are also re-connecting traditions.

Such efforts to re-localize food production emphasize the “re-“, reminding people that the recent interest in “local food systems” is anything but recent. It brought to mind an article written by Anna Bender, a distant cousin of my great-grandmother Hannah (Anna) Kaplan Gabrielovich. Anna wrote:

In early March 1900, in the village of Chomsk, on the Polish-Russian border, a group of happy, excited relatives and friends gathered in the kitchen of one of their number whose oven was the largest and best of all the others. I was eight years old at the time, bursting with pride that I was to be a real part of the matzoth baking for the Passover holiday. It would be my task to sift and measure the flour, which had been reaped and ground from specially sown seed for this occasion. My badge of honor, when it was over, was to be covered from head to foot with a fine coating of that holiday flour … [T]he flour [was] taken from me to be mixed and rolled, shaped and baked. Since it was hand-made matzoth the shaping was imperfect, but the love that went into it can never be equaled by the perfectly measured product turned out by factories. ....

When the matzoh were ready they were taken from the oven and distributed equally. A new barrel that had never before been used was lined by Grandfather with straw made of new-mown hay and our family’s share of the matzoth was layered. When the careful packing was done, the barrel was covered with a handwoven, linen cloth. Then it was strapped to Grandfather’s back and he climbed the wooden ladder to the open attic where the matzoth were to be stored until the happy night a month away when the story of our liberation … would be celebrated. The hastily baked, unleavened bread which the Israelites took with them when they fled is called “the bread of our affliction,” but I know it only as the bread of my joy. … (Christian Science Monitor, Feb. 6, 1979.)

Fresh horseradish root

We don’t grow wheat (at least not yet), and we have no choice but to eat the “perfectly measured” factory product. But we do grow, grate and preserve our own horseradish. I started my horseradish plot with a piece of root from Caroline’s father Norman’s garden in western Massachusetts. (A “piece of root” is all you need to grow a sizeable crop of this rather aggressive plant.) Put it in an out-of-the way spot, and dig it up when you need some – especially early spring and late fall. We put some in our vegetable garden proper, knowing better, but we don’t much mind cutting back the large leaves when they threaten to overwhelm nearby plants and digging almost all of it out each year, knowing that the many “bits” of root left behind will grow again the next year. And I suspect that it acts as a deterrent to some soil-dwelling “pests.”

Making horseradish relish

Preparing horseradish relish is easy. Wash and peel the root. Grate (a food processor works fine). Salt if you wish. Scoop into small jars. Add enough white vinegar to saturate the mixture. The grated root will absorb some of the vinegar, so check back and add more if needed. The relish stores well in the frig for months, but it’s fieriest when it’s fresh.

Last night, we brought our homemade horseradish relish to my synagogue’s community sedar. The fiery, pungent mixture – along with surprised gasping, reddened faces, and lots of laughter – was a hit among the friends at our table, as we repeatedly downed “Hillel sandwiches” (sweet haroset and hot horseradish between two pieces of matzah.) The commercial variety provided in small bowls couldn’t compare. One couple at our table was moving into a new home this summer; we promised them a “piece of root” once they got settled.

As Anna Bender knew, there is both pride and joy in the preparing, as well as the eating and sharing, of special foods. Especially when family and friends are involved. I’m glad to see that tradition continue.

Horseradish photos, Nov. 2009.

Spring equinox salad

Having so many greens growing in the yard has lulled me into a false sense of time. Yesterday’s thirty degree high and last night’s low in the teens reminded me that it is not yet the end of March. In the past, I would only be thinking about my spring garden at this point, with planting still at least six weeks away. Frosts are likely here through mid-May, with the possibility of frost extending through Memorial Day.

Mid-morning today, there was still ice on the water collecting in low spots in the yard.

So I was glad to curl up last night with some books Richard brought home from the Cornell libraries. I have been wanting to read Helen and Scott Nearings’ now classic Living the Good Life, describing their half century of homesteading in Vermont and Maine from the late 1920s though the 1970s. While looking for it, Richard also found another of their books, Building And Using Our Sun-Heated Greenhouse: Grow Vegetables All Year-Round (1977). In it, the Nearings describe how they achieved near self-sufficiency in growing vegetables, even in New England, where winters reach 40 degrees below zero. They cite other farmers, writing in the 1930s, who knew how to do the same thing. The “trick” is to select near-hardy greens (they focused on kale, chard, lettuce, escarole, parsley, celery, and leek) and then give them minimal protection.

Turnip greens. Protected by a low tunnel, they have been growing many tender new leaves.

The result is a spring equinox salad that rivals salads I used to be proud to harvest in June. With the spurt of new growth appearing in the overwintered plants in the low tunnels, I harvested a pound of greens this week. Mache and claytonia still make up the bulk of the salad. But there is now enough Tuscan kale, Asian savoy, fresh turnip leaves, spinach, red beet leaves, and mustard to add variety.

Baby tuscan ("dinosaur") kale leaves are great in salad.

Two viola plants (Johnny Jump-Ups) wound up near some straw this winter and have greeted the sporadic warm days with a profusion of purple blooms.

Semi-hardy violas (Johnny Jump-Ups) are one of the earliest of the edible flowers.

Nearby, I found some arugala that overwintered as well. Some greens are sufficiently hard -- think kale and arugula -- that they will overwinter without any protection beyond a blanket of snow, resuming growth as soon as temperatures climb above freezing.

Spicy arugula can survive winter with no more than a blanket of snow for protection from the cold.

Last weekend, we dug some wild onions Richard had planted near the stream. And today, the first edible primrose flowers opened.

Edible primrose flowers

I knew – before reading the Nearings’ work – that the knowledge of year-round vegetable production in temperate climates has been around even longer than the past half century. Maine farmer-researcher Elliot Coleman, whose experiments, example, and writings about four-season harvests builds upon the Nearings’ work – and have inspired our own efforts – has translated 18^th and 19^th century French texts that describe how Parisian market gardeners practiced intensive year-round gardening in greenhouses heated only by decomposing manure. They took their vegetables to market daily, filled their empty carts with horse manure from the city’s stables, and returned home. Farming 6% of the land area of Paris, they provided the city’s inhabitants with vegetables year-round in a latitude similar to our own.

Still, I found myself astounded and appalled at the extent to which direct evidence that vegetables could be grown year-round in the northeast U.S. had been marginalized, ignored, and even denied. For most people, it has long been common “knowledge” that the growing season here extends from Memorial Day to Labor Day. But perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, this kind of growing is suitable for home gardeners and small farmers, not agribusiness. There have not been large profits to be made in promoting it.

Low tunnel spinach

And yet, the salad greens I have been growing require minimal labor and few costs. I tossed some seeds in the ground in September. Richard cut some wire hoops. We threw some plastic on top and weighted it down with stones. There has been almost no weeding and, once the weather turned seriously cold, no watering. Also no pests. Cold fingers while picking greens has been a small trade-off for the absence of cabin fever. After all, when green plants are growing – and ready to harvest – in February and March, winter starts to feel like spring.

The honeybees arrive

The landscape changes so quickly this time of year. Ten days ago, eighteen inches of snow covered the ground. Today, the snow is gone, except for a few isolated patches in the woods, and neighborhood honeybees have discovered the crocuses and winter aconites that seem to appear almost overnight.

In the tunnels, the overwintered spinach, kale and chard is growing rapidly. Next year, I think I’ll plant an entire bed of spinach late in the fall. These went in after the squash and beans succumbed to the first killing frost, too late to grow enough leaves for a fall or winter crop, but apparently perfect timing for establishing enough of a root system to be ready for an early spring growth spurt.

Spinach, wild onion and baby leek

The hardy greens – planted in the warm frame just under two weeks ago – are also doing well. The combination of the warmth from the composting manure, the heat from the driveway stones surrounding the box, and the fresh soil is paying off. The seedlings are are up more than a week ahead of those planted in one of the low tunnels at the same time.

Asian savoy, senposi, and arugula seedlings in "warm frame"

These longer days offer time for a walk after I get home from work. Yesterday, I tossed some rice into the rice cooker and went out to wander the woods and see what I could find. Not surprisingly, the stream is running full with melted snow.

The wild onions that Richard’s dad dug for us from his land a couple years ago are to dig. Richard planted several clumps on the rise above the stream bed. They have already begun to spread, and eventually they will likely form a large colony. Wild onions, along with their cousin, wild leek (or ramps), are in the small, but valuable, category of vegetables that grow in the shade. Wild onions come up in the damp deciduous forests they favor in early spring, taking advantage of the access to sunlight that exists before the trees and shrubs leaf out, shading the forest floor. These will make a delicious addition to a Sunday omelet or early spring salad.

Back in the garden, I found the rhubarb poking its magenta head above ground, the garlic beginning to grow, and the buds on all sorts of early flowering trees filling out.

I picked a small bowl of leaves from the overwintered kale and Asian greens to toss in the fried rice, along with one of the remaining bags of frozen snap peas from last spring. Dinner was on the table in short order, not hindered by my wandering at all.

Planting Time!

No, this isn’t an early April Fool’s joke. It is, however, a sign of my compulsiveness. Day-light sensitive, winter hardy greens begin to regrow as soon as days are long enough, around mid-February. And I take seriously the directions on the seed packages that say “as soon as the ground can be worked.” Or maybe it’s just as Richard says, “the sun comes out for a few minutes and Margo thinks it’s spring!”

Our wonderful neighbors had plowed the driveway and shoveled out the path to the front door before we got home from North Carolina. And my Fedco seed order had arrived while we were gone. The anticipation was too much. So last Saturday, I decided to dig out one of the low tunnels. Richard helped.

Digging ...

Over the next few days, he dug out several more tunnels. As he asked, who’s the craziest, the one who leads, or the one who follows!

Digging ...

Dug! Next year, we'll definitely use PVC pipe instead of wire for hoops. Who knew this would really work?

Under the hoops, the greens were still doing fine, and the soil was warm. Some of the greens (like the claytonia, mâche and beet leaves) didn't look at all fazed by the cold.

Claytonia (miner's lettuce) barely looks stressed (March 6)

A salad of claytonia, mâche, beet leaves and radishes (March 6)

Others, like the overwintered kale, spinach, chard and Asian greens were already starting to grow new leaves. There were also still some radishes (which were still crispy) and turnips (which we haven’t eaten yet).

Overwintered under a hoop, the kale already shows significant new growth after only a few days on sun (March 13)

Asian savoy is growing well, too (March 13)

I also put together the cold frames in the old driveway. More snow to dig out to make a place! A phone call confirmed that our neighbors at Angel Tree Alpaca Farm had 7 buckets of manure sitting in the barn. I wish I had a picture of us hauling the buckets from the barn to the road with a plastic sled – 2 buckets at a time!

Warm frames: Manure composting on the bottom, planting mix on top. Once the seeds are in, old storm windows, free from a local re-use center, will go on top.

On Sunday, I planted a number of salad and cooking greens – spinach, a spicy mustard mix, pac choi, Asian savoy, senposi, mispoona, and more mâche – as well as scallions in the bare spots of the tunnels and in one of the cold frames.

Wednesday, before heading to work, it was the sugar snap and snow peas. Friday, beet and radish seeds went in. Today it’s rainy and chilly, so the second warm frame plantings are postponed until tomorrow.

Tasting newly uncovered arugula

Of course, the sensible way to do all this would have been to wait until this weekend, when most of the snow has now melted of its own accord. But I’m not very patient! And I love the challenge of seeing how far I can extend the growing season – pushing the ends both earlier and later until they almost meet. This year, the first seeds were planted a week earlier than last year and two weeks earlier than the year before. And the harvest, although minimal, continues. Fortunately, we still have a few jars of zucchini and pumpkin soups, several containers of berries, and more than a few bags of snow peas and beans left in the freezer.

Finding Spring II

There's something very hopeful about a newly dug garden -- all that promise in your mind's eye of what's to come. Perhaps that is why spring is such a favored season. No weeds yet to pull. No insect damage to problem-solve. Just hope and promise. For me, it's especially fun to help someone dig a brand new garden. Each patch that's dug seems to inspire someone else to grap a shovel and start digging too. That's how change begins.

Yesterday was another sunny day, in the mid-50s. Rain and cooler temperatures were predicted for today (correctly as it turns out), with warmer temperatures returning by the weekend. Perfect planting weather. So we worked to finish the rabbit-proof fence ....

... and to get the seeds and cabbage and broccoli transplants in.

Early sugar snap peas will climb the outer garden fence (left). The center beds hold the Brassica tranplants, along with shallots, radishes, beets, and greens (arugula, mustard, turnip greens, and a mesclun mix). The carrots and lettuce will be planted in a couple of weeks.

While Richard and Ellen were hanging the gate, they agreed to let me dig one more bed, along the right fence-line, for summer squash and bush beans. As I said, each patch that's dug inspires another. Before that, though, they stopped for one last photo op.

Finding Spring

Most years, I wait impatiently for spring to come to me. This year, I went and found spring instead. In North Carolina. Richard’s parents are here, and his youngest sister and her family. Southern North Carolina in late February has temperatures in the 50s, more or less. Some days in the 40s; others in the 60s. We saw a few flakes from the storm that dumped a foot of snow on Ithaca this week. But mostly, it's sunny here.

Last Sunday was one of those sunny days in the 60s. Ellen had been talking about wanting a small vegetable garden. I was eager to get my hands into soil. So I pulled out a spade and began to dig. She joined me. Very soon, we had a garden bed.

For gardeners from central New York, with our heavy clay soils and glacial-deposited rocks, digging in North Carolina is an unexpected treat. The soil here is mostly sand. We found two stones. In the entire plot.

One of the two stones

Monday, it rained. Tuesday, we drove around to Clicks Nursery to pick up 4 bags of composted cow manure and a bag of limestone, and dug that into the bed.

Wherever I am, I love visiting locally owned enterprises. You get to share stories, like laughing with the nursery owner about the differences between digging in North Carolina's sandy soil and the rocky, clay soils in our home in Ithaca, his hometown in southern Illinois, and his wife's hometown in Glen Falls, N.Y. (several hours east of us). You get helpful advice, like his recommendation to add limestone to counter the acidity of NC's sandy soils. And you're likely to find locally made products from other local businesses. In this case, that was Daddy Pete's Organic Cow Manure. They come with their own stories: Daddy Pete's, in Stony Point, N.C., is a family-owned farm and organic compost product business named for the Smith family's great-granddad, who began the farm over a 100 years ago. It is has been in continuous operation by the Smith family ever since. But buying local is about more than stories and human connections. It's about community security -- in this case, of part of our food system, and of our economy overall. Here's how: Earlier this week, we went into downtown Fayetteville to find a shoemaker. (That's another story: we found a small shop owned by a Vietnamese couple who left Saigon in the 1970s when the U.S. pulled out. They came to Fayetteville because of their relationship with an Army officer whose family lived here. Their son, now grown, repairs the shoes; his mother writes up the orders. We spent more time talking with her about families than about shoes.) On the way back to the car, we stumbled upon another locally-owned business, a lovely little coffee shop with the wonderful name, "Rude Awakenings." We got a cup of Fair Trade coffee (for Richard) and fresh blueberry muffins (for Ellen and me), and picked up a card describing the 3/50 Project.

Founded by Cinda Baxter, the project is simple: Pick three independently owned business you would miss if they disappeared. Stop in. Say hello. Buy something. It's implications, however, are profound: According to the U.S. Dept. of Labor, every $100 spent in locally owned, independent stores, $68 returns to the community through taxes, payroll and other expenditures. When that same $100 is spent in national chains, only $43 returns to the community. When it is spent online, nothing returns. If half the employed people in this country spent $50/month in locally-owned independent businesses, it would generate more than $42.6 billion dollars in revenue. Hence 3/50. Pick three stores. Spend $50/month among them.

The choices we make -- whether to turn some (or all!) of our lawns into productive landscapes or to support the businesses owned and operated by our neighbors -- affect the futures we will have, individually and communally.

Today, Richard and Ellen are erecting a fence to keep the rabbits out of the garden. Planting cool weather seeds -- mustards, mesclun, arugula, radishes, and peas -- comes next.

In N.C., spring has arrived. Back home, I'll dig the hoop houses from under the snow, experiment with planting some cold hardy, day-light sensitive greens if the soil is workable, and wait for spring to arrive again.

February contradictions

Grapevines

February is a month of contradictions. The world is turning toward spring: the days have lengthened noticeably. The sun, when it appears, is climbing higher in the sky. It is time to prune the fruit trees and vines this weekend, before they break dormancy. Under the plastic hoops, once again under snow, the daylight-sensitive hardy greens are readying to re-grow.

Inside, my seed order is almost complete. Last week, I spent a pleasant hour rummaging through the “seed exchange” drawers at the county cooperative extension office, then returning again with my friend, Jemila, who is just beginning to grow food. I was especially excited by the number of less common varieties of heirloom seeds and those from the Seed Savers Exchange. The names are wonderful: Winged Pea (a low-growing legume, not related to peas, that most likely originated in northwest Africa), Purple Vienna kohlrabi, whitloof chicory, Black Beauty summer squash, Wong Bok (Chinese cabbage), , Ruby Red swiss chard, Rapini broccoli raab, Sandwich Island salsify, Green Curled Ruffed endive.

February morning (Buckthorns outside living room windows)

And yet, when you look out the window, the most immediate appearance is still deep winter. Temperatures remain in the 20s during the day, and the low teens, or lower, at night. The freezer has gaping spaces between the remaining jars of zucchini and pumpkin soups and tubs of berries. Kat still prefers to spend most of her time in the mud room, venturing outside only when required, the rest of the time positioning herself by the inner door to the house so as to make a rapid dash past unsuspecting feet into the warm, forbidden territory.

Kat (photo by Beth Bannister)

This morning, I woke to the sound of the snow plow and a new dusting of powdery white.

Embrace (Buckthorns II)

Buckthorns are a weedy tree, but their relatively small size makes them useful at the wood's edge bordering the southern end of our gardens. These two are outside our living room windows. I love the way the two trunks have grown up around each other.

Waiting

View from the living room couch.