Wife, writer, tinkerer, grower of food. I'm happiest outside our rambling farmhouse with a basket looped on my arm, picking dinner from the garden. That's joy right there. Please follow along; I'm so glad you're here!
I am not someone who goes into denial about the end of summer. I forget what the topic was, but the other night I found myself in a vivid, pleasant fall dream, and woke in the early morning thinking about sweater tights and canning applesauce and making soup. It was lovely. Fall is like the Olympic podium for gardeners-- if all goes well-- and you stand and wave, and maybe someone gives you a bouquet of flowers for pulling out the Gold Medal in Kale, when the odds were against you and you'd sprained your wrist in training three weeks ago.
I almost always win the Gold Medal in Kale.
This summer, I am also close to medalling (meddling?) in basil, beans, garlic, parsnips, and, thrillingly, tomatoes. Some of those plants of mine are absolutely loaded, and the string support system I'm using is working great.
But anyway, fall. This is time of year I start thinking about fall. I've sowed rows of fall carrots and beets and more parsnips, and chard and mustard and broccoli raab (experiment!) too. Last year's winter garden did so well, I'm trying everything again, and then some. This morning the air is cool and dry, the high is only 70 degrees, and I forget every year how just the air makes such a difference in my attitude for the day. Cool and dry = get out there and sweat.
I pulled our garlic the other night, my first-ever homegrown, and it was stupendous. I'm not sure if there will be enough to plant for next year and enough for us to eat all winter long, but time will tell.
I planted a metric ton of beans this year. I have two small plantings of bush beans (Provider) to eat as green beans, staggered by about three weeks (which is great). I also have about 60 linear feet of these, above, a variety called Maine Yellow Eye, which are supposed to be grown and dried on the vine and shelled out for soup beans. I'm not sure if it's overly optimistic or just pure fantasy to think Patrick and I might sit around the fire in January shelling out beans and drinking wine... mmm... well, we'll see.