By Barbara Ganley, July 28, 2011 - 9:10pm
Beyond the windows the potatoes lie waiting, fat in their beds; the cilantro shakes its coriander seed-heads in the sullen breeze; the zinnias and nasturtiums shoot their neon pinks, reds and yellows through the garden; the chamomile needs picking…again. The hot peppers redden; the tomatillos set fruit; the peaches swell. The zucchini, cucumber, and tomato plants grow to gargantuan proportions as though transported from a folktale. The bean tendrils snake up their poles and along their fences, adding a good foot or more every day, it seems. Colors and sizes are intense, immense, the garden responding to our hot, hotter summers.
I get up at dawn to work outside or at the stove until surrendering to cooler pursuits. This week I’ve cleared out the spent peas and favas, the bolted early lettuces but have left the oregano and arugula flowers for the bees. Thank goodness I planted the tenderest greens in a cool, half-shady spot or they’d turn bitter and fierce-tasting in this stretch of heat. I’ve harvested the last of the first crops of beets and fennel. The 120 heads of garlic are pulled and washed and now hang from the rafters, curing, sending their sweet scent into the warm air. Chamomile, lemon verbena, mint, thyme, za’atar and calendula keep the de-hydrator buzzing in the basement. This year’s berry and currant jams as well as the cassis and currant shrub fill their jars lining the shelves of the cool room. Blueberries and raspberries and cherries, pestos and broths are snug in the freezer. A half-summer’s work done. Next winter’s taste of now.
Yes, everything points to fall. The baby rabbit who lives under the potato leaves is not such a baby anymore. The swallows have left the nesting boxes to line the telephone wires down by the road. Any day now they will fly off and won’t return until spring. My friend Bryan writes about eyeing his potatoes and corn for winter storage, carefully doling out what can be eaten fresh, what needs to be saved for January (see his post at Open View Gardens). Kate is making pesto. I need to do more of the same. Much more of the same. I walk the gardens and orchard each dawn to plan the morning’s harvest, the evening’s canning, freezing, drying, storing.
But planning for fall also means planting for fall. The garden is in constant motion, a restless mosaic of the stages of plant life. In this heat wave it seems absurd to plant anything much less peas and favas, cilantro and lettuces, carrots and beets and fennel. But plant I do, careful to sow fast-growers like lettuce and basil and cilantro under the half-shade of the cherry tree so they do not bolt. Peas and favas go near sunflowers and tall tomatoes that will shade them from any intense heat of August but then will gather and hold the warmth remaining in September. Soon I’ll plant spinach and arugula, rapini and radishes under cooling shade cloth that I can replace with warming tunnel covers, the way it's done in Montreal’s Botanical Gardens, so that they’ll germinate and grow without burning up now and then keep producing through the first frosts. We’ll have fresh vegetables deep into fall.
But as I keep an eye on fall’s approach and winter’s needs, I’ll revel in summer. Even in this heat. And that means eating raspberries and tomatoes the way kids do-- as we pick them, warm and perfect. That means serving fresh potatoes and plump uncured garlic and squash blossoms nearly every day. That means making cool cucumber soups and zucchini purees that not only keep up with the astonishing output, but that delight the palate and make me glad that we’re right here, right now, at the end of July.