Cookbook to Come

There has been a pronounced trend of late whereby famous chefs write gardening books and famous gardeners put out cookbooks. Although the connection is not a new one, this repeated treatment of produce=food as a startling, profound, and radical insight would have you believe that prior to the last ten years or so no gardener had ever deigned to cook a potato and no chef had ever planted a carrot.

To be sure, until I recently dug into some great books and articles, I would never have thought the summer harvest had a place in the kitchen. To think, I've spent my whole life crippled by the belief that garden produce must be consumed on the spot wherever it is plucked from the earth. Not that I didn't enjoy gnawing on raw collard greens and rutabagas, but I was moved to the point of tears that the great minds of our time had finally figured out a way to apply fire and flavor to home-grown vegetables.

No longer must my oven be reserved for frozen pizzas and chicken nuggets; no longer does water boil for tea and noodles alone; no longer shall salt be set aside in case of frozen sidewalks. The kitchen welcomes you, cauliflower; you as well, green beans; squash: let's see what you can do in a microwave. The possibilities are endless!

My own cookbook should hit the shelves soon, but for now, here's a teaser from the first recipe I've painstakingly developed. I call it: Put Some Vegetables In the Oven.

Put Some Vegetables in the Oven. Step 1.) Put some vegetables in the oven. Step 2.) You'll just have to buy my cookbook!

I'm still experimenting, of course, but additional recipes will likely include such brilliant culinary oeuvres as: Broccoli Suspended over Boiling Water; Kale-in-a-Pan; and Not-Raw Potatoes. Oh! but I've revealed too much ...

Eruption

One of the primary squash flows off of Mt. Sod.

I'm sorry—this will have to be brief, we don't have much time before—oh God! It's right outside the window!

We have to evacuate—Baby, just leave the seed catalogs, we can't save everything!—but first, I have to get word out that Mount Sod, the long-dormant compost heap towering over Fencebroke North, has erupted. Seemingly overnight, the peaceful mixed bed over which it presided has been buried beneath a moving wall of squashes, melons, and other cucurbits. So far, the ejecta has been far more gourds than magma or ash, but the destruction is nothing less than complete all the same.

If we don't make it out before the—NOO! Anything but the plum tree! It was so young! Maybe I can dig it up before—aagh! A Japanese cucumber wrapped around my arm! Cut it off! Which one … ? The cucumber, the arm, I don't care, just get me out of here!

Get out of the way, Globe Thistle! Save yourself!

Whew, that was close … next time I might not be so lucky. Anyway, if we don't make it out before all escape routes are snarled in climbing Italian summer squash, please contact FEMA and have them evacuate the neighborhood.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to at least try to save the tomatoes. Wish me luck.

Baby, hurry! … Bring me my Felcos!

Fencebroke Promontory Waterpark

That's right, in the true spirit of Summer, everyone's favorite promontory is diversifying its revenue stream once again!

Wading pools! Sprinklers! Drip irrigation! Watering Cans! Why not come on down and see what all the hubbub is about?

Well I pretty much just told you what it's all about … but, you know, um, still come on down, otherwise our revenue stream won't diversify all that much. As it is, most of the outflow of said stream has been redirected straight out of the garden hose in an attempt to keep the most critical of Fencebroke's crops from wilty mutiny in what has been an extended and premature dry spell for the Northwest.

So as long as we've got the hose turned on, why not pay us money to join in the fun!

Run through the sprinkler as we struggle to keep alive a doomed patch of spring-seeded lawn! Take turns watering veggie seedlings—don't stop, or they'll die! See how many watering cans you can carry to that one bed the hose can't quite reach! Whoa, don't give up yet, see if you can beat your own record! Dip your feet in one of our two—that's right TWO! luxurious kiddy pools. Or dip one foot in each pool because … well, the pools aren't really that big. Or take a trip down the water slide! I mean, it's a water slide if you put water on it! As it is, it's just a slide. OK, it's Daisy's slide, and usually she's on it, but I'm sure if you ask nicely she'll … well, it's Daisy's slide, I won't speak for her.

Let's see, what else is there? Oh—hoses! There's no more refreshing way to cool off than trying to move a dripping soaker-hose from the berry bed to the fruit trees! Whoops, looks like you've got a few kinks there. Yep—and there … don't worry, it's all part of the fun!

What a great way to spend a hot summer day. If you're looking for a bargain, swing by for our early bird special pre-dawn watering. It happens every day before I go to work! Bring coffee and don't talk to me. For an even more immersive experience, come for the early bird watering and then tag along as I go to work and spend another several hours watering there! Be entertained as I hilariously attempt to justify this exorbitant water use by taking shorter showers myself. Ha! Then stick around and place your bets as I … reveal the monthly water bill!

How high will it go?

You'll have to come on down and see!

Rutabaga Debate-a

I'm sure you've all been here before, but it's a new one for me.

At long last, having plucked that most elusive specimen—The Perfect Rutabaga—from the garden, after too many seasons of hand-wringing, worm-ridden failure, egged on by the halcyon aftertaste of sweet earthy flesh on the tongue years before and the coy promise of more to come, I am torn by indecision.

Do I eat it or save it?

Preservation concerns aside—I'm sure there are any number of readily available cryogenic/taxidermic/embalming options out there for the root enthusiast—I am faced with a narrow window in which to make the prudent decision. I mean, this rutabaga is beautiful, is it not? (A more manly man than myself might deny the tear in his eye when beholding its lumpy perfection, but not your humble narrator.)

Like staring into the face of God.

So do I add it to Fencebroke's trophy case, to hold court for posterity alongside other such priceless horticultural treasures as The Spiral-Carrot, The Two-Headed Raspberry, The Tom Waits Potato and The The One Squash That Didn't Get Powdery Mildew—or do I subject its purple splendor to the torment of slicing, cooking, mashing and all the other disgraces of being food, just so I can taste what my eyes know to be true, that this is indeed The Perfect Rutabaga?

Plenty of painful deliberation to come.

Also, does anyone know how do cook this thing?

Sanctioned

A local franchisee hard at work.

This notice is hereby issued to inform the proprietor/s of the following garden, orchard, or small suburban farm: FENCEBROKE PROMONTORY GARDENS that this horticultural operation has been officially sanctioned by local representatives of the National Bumble-Bee Pollination Guild. Furthermore, for reasons necessarily secretive but assuredly whimsical, the aforementioned Guild has seen fit to establish a new franchise on the premises from which to base local bumblings including, but not limited to: pollination, nest building, mating, buzzing about in a lazy, cartoon-like fashion and encouraging local toddlers to try out those funny “B” sounds.

Proprietor/s of this garden should use their newly sanctioned status to immediately plant way too many tomato plants and boast about their recognition by the NBBPG to anyone who will listen. In the course of such boasting, please avoid direct contact with your local franchisees, as they are still bees and will defend themselves from undue harassment. Any such provocation will be considered grounds for immediate and permanent revocation of NBBPG “Sanctioned” status.

It has come to our attention that a resident toddler has already attempted to “pet” the local franchisees; please note any additional tactile apian affection of this sort will result in probationary status for FENCEBROKE PROMONTORY GARDENS.

ThankYou.

If You Love a Potato ...

... Let it go. If it comes back to you, it is yours to eat.

Oh man, am I going to eat some potatoes.

You see, prior to our evacuating Fencebroke Promontory on the crest of the Great Washing-Machine Flood of 2015, I had tearfully released several seed potatoes into the wild.

“Go! Be free,” I said. “This backyard life will soon chafe your russet skin. Go see the world; visit Idaho. Get out there and make something of yourself.” And then I shut the door and wept.

I've always wanted to grow potatoes.

With time I came to terms with my loss. I told myself every morning that those fingerlings and reds would be happier, better tubers out there on their own than if they set root in my humble garden. I never fully believed this, but with repetition it took on the soothing cadence of a mantra, and I was able to move on.

However, just in case my prodigal spuds ever returned, I built a home for them: a potato house. This would be a place to call their own, apart from the sunup-sundown brawl of the vegetable garden, where they could stretch towards the sun and have soil heaped upon them, the better to start a family of tender new potatoes.

Even as I cut the cedar boards, I knew this was just a dream. The potato house would be nothing but a sad memorial for the starchy little ones I let go. But I couldn't stop, and soon the house was complete and soon after that we were forced to abandon Fencebroke.

Weeks passed. And then, some untold time and countless omelets later, when we got the “all-clear” to return, and when I had almost forgotten ever slapping together that ridiculous, hopeless shrine in the first place, I came home and saw this:

And once more, I wept.

The potatoes, they came back!

Fencebroke Promontory Suites

The whole gardening thing was getting tiresome. So was the whole washing machine and the inch of water with which it decided to flood the entire floor of our house. To remedy both ennuis, we decided it'd be fun to pack up and stay in a hotel for a few days. And by “we” I mean the insurance company. And by “fun” I mean necessary. And by “pack up” I mean evacuate. And by “a few days” I mean indefinitely. Come to think of it, that original sentence was pretty misleading.

So it is that Fencebroke Promontory has temporarily set up shop in a nearby hotel, where we have been familiarizing ourselves with the omelet bar and trying, unsuccessfully, to blend in with the dour business travelers. Mostly, we've been riding the glass-walled elevator up and down with our awe-struck and very confused Daisy, who now considers this ritual to be as indispensable to daily life as Curious George. “Elevator” is pronounced “Alligator”, by the way.

The hotel is, actually, pretty nice. I confess more than a bit of surprise and gratitude for the quality of our accommodations (is it possible that Nationwide really is on your side?) The one aspect of mitigation and compensation that homeowner's insurance cannot seem to help with, however, is that related to the most innocent and utterly helpless victim in all this: the gardens of Fencebroke proper.

Early Spring is not a good time to be an absentee gardener. The lawn needs mowing; the crops thinning; the beds weeding. I myself need the therapeutic touch of cool dirt between my fingers; I have tried plunging my hands into the old potting soil of the houseplants in the lobby, but any relief thus provided is minimal, fleeting, and soured by stern looks from hotel custodial staff.

This is not the only difficulty I have encountered in redirecting my gardening urges towards activities more becoming of hotel guests. In the gardening year, April in particular is ruled by the urge to sow. And while so far, no one has seemed to mind the handful of broccoli starts I snuck into the landscaped parking lot beds, I fear it is only a matter of time before I am deductively linked to the large squash mounds which popped up overnight in the manicured front lawn. But what else am I to do? It's the only spot on the property that gets full sun.

Now, if you'll excuse me, the omelet bar closes in 10 minutes and Miguel the cook will be worried if I'm not there for my ham and pepper fix.