What's a storybook-loving gardener to do when the neighborhood Peter Rabbit invades her vegetable garden?

July 22, 2015

I have read “Peter Rabbit” many times to each of my three grandchildren and always looked forward to the story's dramatic high point: Just when naughty Peter seems destined for Farmer McGregor's stew pot, the little rabbit – imagine a gleeful three-year-old boy's voice reciting with me here – JUMPS out the potting shed window and escapes under the garden gate. Now my younger grandson is heading for first grade this fall and his older brother is a man-of-the-neighborhood at age eight. Their little sister, 2 ½, is the major Peter fan, although I notice her brothers happen to wander over to the couch whenever the story's climax nears. The childhood classics never grow stale, even for boys who can read their own books.

None of the three has much interest in Peter Rabbit's three sisters, Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail, probably because they “were good little bunnies” and, therefore, boring. (Kate, my granddaughter, did seem quite taken with the girl bunny's pink dress, but I'm happy to report she switched her focus as soon as she realized which rabbit was having all the adventures.)

So, because of my own fondness for Beatrix Potter's mischievous bunny, and the cuteness factor of the real, wild rabbit in our neighborhood, my options are limited as I deal with the vandalism in my own vegetable garden. Strawberry plants: berries nibbled away, with tell-tale tooth marks as evidence. Broccoli rows:Tooth marks on only the leaves leaves at first – until the broccoli actually brocks into tasty heads, each of which disappears as soon as it reaches edible size. I was really proud of those broccoli plants: grew them from a new seed, called “aspa-broc,” which promised a delicate, interesting flavor that combined asparagus and broccoli. I'll just have to take the seed packet's words as truth, of course – because there is no aspabroc left to sample. Who knew our adorable brown and gray neighborhood rabbit was a gourmet?

The furry little critter's with the refined palate has apparently twitched his nose at my zucchini bed – even though I planted an heirloom Italian variety,“romanesco,” with a nutty flavor and pale greenish gray stripes. I can tell you a lot about those zucchini, because I have been eating them for two months, and the three plants (three! Why did I plant three?) are still pumping out zukes the size of my Subaru. While my husband (who cannot embrace the squishy, bland essence of the Z) dines on variations of marinated beef ribs and roasted herbed potatoes, my main course is, invariably, baked zucchini rounds with herbs and parmesano cheese. And does my little bunny pal have the courtesy to help bail me out on the glut of squash in my garden, by adding a side dish of zucchini to his entree of broccoli, with strawberries for dessert? Mais non.

Even as my angst builds every time I pass the broccoli bed, I know I have done as much to de-rabbit my garden as I'm willing to do. Early on,I put up short, cute decorative wire fencing around all the vegetable beds. Now I see that the wire designs are wide enough for even the chubbiest hopper to squeeze through – and the height of the fence seems perfect for the bunny to steady himself as ihe nibbles on broccoli leaves. Pathetic. I know this. But it's Peter Rabbit. Who's going to take down my grandchildren's storybook hero? Not this grandma.

One of my raised beds is still untouched. In the middle of the bed, I've planted rows of Italian shell beans. Along the bed's edges, three varieties of carrots are showing their lacy green tops. I expect a superb carrot crop to peak in early September. A big honker of a carrot crop – plus one little bunny with a gluttonous appetite– or maybe a rabbit family reunion in the Rozen garden. I will be lucky to salvage enough carrots for one batch of homemade soup. (Or a pitiful relish tray.)

Some of this matchmaker's “blind dates” in the garden just aren't good fits

July 14, 2015

 

I love the surprise and small miracle of windfallen seeds that sprout in unexpected places in my gardens. Even if I have designated another plant for that spot, I'm usually willing to be a matchmaker and hope the two species will live together happily. So when I checked my future tomato bed this spring and found a few volunteer sunflower plants already setting down roots, I only smiled. The sunflowers would grow directly in front of the south-facing, low cement wall and behind the tomato plants. Everybody would get the sunshine and, at worst, the taller sunflowers could block the tomato vines from the harshest heat of high summer. This would be a match made in the Garden Goddess's heaven.

What is wrong with me? I have grown sunflowers for decades – and always buy the seeds that will produce the big honkers – the tall, branching plants with multiple flower heads – so the birds can enjoy healthy autumn snacks. I make sure to plant the sunflowers in the bed directly below my writing room window, so I can watch the finches perch on the stalks while they eat their seeds. And, after the first killing frost, I dig up the dead plants and have to yank hard to wrestle the thick stems and roots out of the soil. Tomato plants are easy to dig up; their stems are more slender and their vines more fragile than the sturdy sunflowers.

So how difficult could it have been to make a small, rational leap of logic? I should have known that the taller, heavier sunflowers could zap all the soil's nutrients and much of the water into their own selfish roots Meanwhile, the tomatoes could fail to thrive, turning paler and paler green as these mismatched couples stumbled through the summer together. Of course, this is exactly what's happening. The sunflowers already are flaunting deep golden flowers and showing off further by turning their smug faces to the sun. My poor, puny tomatoes – victims of an accidentally arranged marriage – have barely set any blossoms, and my bright hopes for August BLTs have gone the way of the dodo bird.

I walk through my neighborhood nearly every day and can't help but notice that the tomato plants in other gardens are heavy with green fruit – some even turning red. Nobody else is growing sunflowers in the tomato beds, either – and now I'm also starting to worry about my broccoli. I grew twelve plants of broccoli from seed this spring and, with great pride, transplanted them into a raised bed in our side yard in mid-May. A couple of sunflowers had just begun to grow there, too – probably victims of a crow that couldn't carry his entire haul from the bird feeder and scuttled some seeds during his flight. I let those seeds remain in the broccoli bed, too.

For the first month, the two species seemed an equal match. The sunflowers (which had fallen and were growing at the north side of the bed) respected their boundaries and gave the broccoli plenty of space and sunlight. My little homegrown brocs were doing me proud. They soon reached my knees [Full disclosure: I top out at a fraction of an inch over five feet two, so we're not talking about The Attack of the Giant Broc Mutants here] and offered every sign that their stalks would soon thicken and start branching into multiple heads.

Then the sunflowers hit their growth spurt. These plants weren't as tall as the backyard variety, because I think they migrated from the bird feeder, instead of from my garden. But although they are shorter, they are branched and mighty. They're acting like sloppy dates, draping themselves over the brocs' shoulders, ignoring personal space, and hogging the food. This is not behavior an accidental matchmaker condones.

At least I'm not worried about the one deliberate pairing I planted this spring: Around the edges of the bean bed, I sprinkled carrot seeds, and so far, everybody is having a blast in there. If the carrots try to pull off a late-season takeover attempt, our neighborhood bunny will deal with it.

Finding joy in home-grown vegetables and hand-watering my garden

Mid-July 2012

 

[Note to readers, since this column was originally published, we have set up a drip watering system for the vegetable beds -- but I still water my front-yard flower gardens by hand.]

 

Our daughter and I enjoyed the first artichokes from my vegetable garden at dinner this week. As I trimmed the prickly tops of the leaves before seasoning and steaming the artichokes, I felt like a genuine gardener. I had grown these plants, which resemble sprawling, good-natured cacti, had watered them and weeded their beds. Now I would serve the first harvest (two artichokes – but it’s a harvest to me,) ready for praise and dipping sauces.

I had been surprised when a veteran gardener told me that artichokes are grown as annuals here in northern Idaho. Years ago, I had grown them in the Seattle area as perennials, wintering them over and welcoming them back in the spring. Within a few years of planting, my artichokes were ringers for the hefty, thick-leafed ones at the grocery store.

The artichokes I’m growing here in Moscow are more delicate, with thinner leaves and a “greener,” less nutty flavor. I confess that I prefer the more mature ones, and will still buy them at the store this fall, when my own plants have gone to compost heaven after the first killing frost. But home-grown vegetables add an extra contentment to dinner time.

We’re also eating a variety of home-grown lettuce in our salads and learning the need to share with our neighbors. In the case of my lettuce patch, the neighbor apparently most in need of garden greens has long, floppy ears and a brown cottontail.

When I checked the lettuce recently, I noticed that the newly mature heads looked ragged. At first I laid the blame on unknown insects who had probably laid siege from under the soil. But the plants weren’t fully destroyed, and their cores looked healthy. Instead, the lettuce looked chewed; when I looked more closely, I could see teeth marks on some of the leaves.

A few weeks ago, I noticed the neighborhood rabbit in the neighbors’ yard. Its cheeks were so full of cherries that it might have had mumps. But a bunny cannot live by cherries alone, so it probably wriggled under the fence and found my lettuce patch. (Note to rabbits: the carrots won’t be ready for another month.)

Most impetuous gardeners don’t need to produce perfect crops or magazine-cover bouquets to find joy in what we do. When we're outdoors, on our knees in the Church of Dirt and Flowers, we can lose ourselves in the small, simple acts of pulling a weed or guiding the flow of water onto our plants. We can set our imaginations free to picture the jack-o-lanterns our children or grandchildren will carve from our pumpkin patches. If the pumpkins turn out to be puny, lumpy or lop-sided, no one will care too much. We can accept our tendency to plant too much zucchini, and take delight from giving some of it away. (And we will identify with stories from mid-West friends, who say they never leave their car windows rolled down in August, for fear of surprise gifts of the long green squash, tossed onto their front seats.)

I understand my late father-in-laws preference for hand-watering his huge vegetable garden, even though he knew a drip- or sprinkler system would be easier and quicker. “I have time, Sydney,” he would say, smiling. “And if not, I’ll make time.”

A sprinkler would be easier for my own eight raised vegetable beds, too. I wouldn’t have to lug the long length of hose out to the side yard, or attach the water wand, or spend part of a morning or evening in the sunshine, taking care of the plants I’m growing. I wouldn’t be out there to notice the latest missile-size zucchini that have popped up overnight. Or to note the subtle color changes on the tomatoes and the pumpkins every day. Or to daydream about whether to accept the challenge of growing watermelons next summer.

If I used a sprinkler on my flower gardens, I could be inside doing laundry. Or ironing. Instead, I wander among the flowers with my water wand, noting which roses need dead-heading, which plants the hummingbirds favor, and whether the bird bath needs more water. I can pause to find joy in the red, purple and yellow waves of color in the perennial bed, and to wonder if I’d be rushing the season by adding autumn-toned bronze and russet chrysanthemums.

For gardeners, there is always another season. So I have time to hand-water my gardens. And, if not, I’ll make time.

Five-tiered bed is height of style for this acrophobic gardener

Nearly always, in any garden adventure that involves building something, I am the impetuous dreamer and my husband is the guy who makes things happen. Whenever I walk out to our side yard, I appreciate the raised beds Lee built for me several years ago. Eight of the beds are identical, 8-by-4-foot rectangles, excellent for housing the asparagus, three varieties of Italian beans, zucchini, sugar snap peas, salad greens, broccoli and carrots I planted earlier this summer.

The ninth bed is my husband’s masterpiece and reveals his own, inner impetuous streak.

When he had finished building the row of eight raised bed, Lee asked if I wanted one more, huge square planting bed. Then he paused. “Or…I could build you something different.” He showed me a drawing he had made on graph paper, depicting a five-tiered box, with an 8-foot-square base. Each of the other four tiers was a successively smaller square, set on a diagonal, to create a tiered star effect. Within each of the tiers were planting areas.

“You could build this?” I asked, not because I doubted my husband’s ability, but because my own spatial sense is closer to extreme modern art than realism. A few years ago, I had successfully used an Allen wrench and a screwdriver to put together a small wooden cabinet and six dining-room chairs. I felt as if I had done a solo job of constructing Versailles.

When Lee assured me that he could certainly build a five-tiered garden box near the raised beds, I encouraged him to go for it, and insisted that he position it within view of the sidewalk and street in front of our house. I knew it would be too fabulous to be hidden at the back of the garden. So Lee bought more wood, and he and our son-in-law built the different levels of the box in our garage, and then lugged them outside. They filled a wire cylinder in the center of the structure with rocks, for stability, and its planting areas with topsoil.

Soon after Lee finished filling all the levels with soil, I asked him to take some pictures of his masterpiece. I knew I would want to write about it in my weekly newspaper column, because some other impetuous gardeners would want one, too.

Lee photographed the tiered beds (I believe my Main coon cat and publicity hound, Benjamin BadKitten, positioned himself at the center of each of those shots,) and then he asked me to pose on the top tier. Eagerly, I climbed to the top, so proud of the new beds and their builder. I imagined a victory photo, armed outstretched, smiling, and encouraging other gardeners to think outside the (standard rectangular) box, too.

I reached the top tier, looked down at the ground, felt myself sway – and screamed. “Lee, Lee, LEE, help me! Right now!” My patient husband put down his camera, let me fall into his arms, and suggested I try the big climb again, but this time with my feet planted farther apart when I reached the top. So I got up there again. New stance. Same sense of falling forward. Same scream.

When I was safely on terra firma once more, I looked up at the top tier of the garden box. How high up had I been? Lee hesitated. No, really, I wanted to know. I have always been afraid of heights, but I had never actually screamed for help until I’d made this ascent.

"Two and a half feet,” my husband answered, as he tried very hard not to let all that pent-up laughter escape. “You were two and a half feet from the ground, sweetheart.” Hmmmppphhfff. That was the highest two and a half feet in the history of acrophobia.

The tiered bed has been a summertime and autumn centerpiece for several years. I plant all its many small areas with colorful flowers, strawberries, and trailing vines, and passersby often stop to comment about the cool planting bed and its versatility. I just hope anyone who plans to plans to replicate this bed understands the risk of climbing to the top of its dizzying height.

I’ll be glad to squash you onto my list of friends

July 2012

On a recent sunny morning, I took a slow walk around the raised beds in our yard, checking on the progress of the vegetables I am growing. I began at the corn patch, the jewel (so far) of my garden. In April, I planted corn seeds in tiny peat pots on my dining room table, and then transplanted them into the raised bed when the weather warmed (briefly, as it turned out) in May. They held on through the June rains, and, exactly on schedule, were knee-high by the 4^th of July. It’s true that I’m only 5’2”, so I guess this knee-high triumph is relative. But, still, I’m growing corn, and by now the stalks are as tall as I am and even have tassels!

One patch of sugar snap peas was nearly ready for picking, but the second planting had newly empty spots in the rows, and some of the remaining pea stems looked chewed-on. For once, I did not blame this minor horticultural bungle either on myself or on my garden staff member, Benjamin BadKitten. The ragged pea patch was probably the combined work of a caterpillar-like critter and my arch-nemeses, the four crows who hang out in our trees and in the garden.

I moved on to the pumpkin patch and smiled. Tiny, pale yellow balls were forming on the vines. By October, I hope, my two little grandsons will be able to choose their favorites for jack-o-lanterns. In the next bed, small artichokes rose from the centers of the four spiny plants I set there in May. To an Italian cook and an artichoke lover, this is beyond cool.

The asparagus bed was a testament to two uncharacteristic traits of impetuous gardeners: preparation and patience. Before putting the asparagus roots into the soil two months ago, I read every word of their planting instructions. Later, most of the roots grew and sent up fern-like growth. A few of the roots, though, turned into tall, slender, unmistakable asparagus stalks. I did my “Wow! I can grow asparagus!” happy dance, of course – but did not give in to the temptation to harvest my crop of four beautiful, perfect stalks. “Vegetable Gardening for Dummies” makes clear that we asparagus farmers must be patient and allow the entire first-year crop to become ferns. This will give the roots a better, stronger start and produce a harvest next year that’s big enough to make an entire pot of asparagus soup (maybe.)

So I felt proud as I continued my tour to the next bed – where I immediately realized that I need more friends – right away. The only requirement to enter my social circle is a willingness to accept frequent gifts of zucchini from me. Accept no substitutes. In April, curbing my typical nature, I decided to plant only three zucchini seeds. The trio all grew well in their peat pots and then thrived when I transplanted them into their roomy new raised bed. They looked so innocent on transplant day, so small in that big expanse of topsoil. I remember regretting that I hadn’t planted more zucchini seeds. That bed, after all, had room for at least six more plants. If I had planted nine zucchini seeds, instead of three, we would have had to buy a herd of cows. Cows, I have been told, love zucchini.

My three plants are so prolific that I can check the sizes of the current crop, go into the house for a quick lunch, and then return to find they’ve doubled in size. How much squash can one woman eat? It is possible to shake one’s head and continue swallowing forkful after forkful of sautéed, lightly breaded zucchini rounds, seasoned with oregano, garlic and lemon. What was I thinking? I am the only person in our household who enthusiastically eats zucchini – and, believe me, after dining on this stuff every evening, my enthusiasm has gone the way of the manual typewriter.

Even my neighbor, the kindest of souls, sighed when she saw my three plants. “I stopped growing zucchini,” she said. “People leave them on your porch and then run away.” Dude. Now if she finds a gift on her doorstep, she’ll know where to return it. Other friends have suggested sneaking zucchini into meat loaf, spaghetti sauce, and casseroles, or, of course, baking it into the ubiquitous Z bread. But, really, do you know anyone who flashes you a big, joyous grin when you offer a loaf of your famous zucchini bread?

I’m getting so desperate that I have resorted to writing truly wretched doggerel:

A Gardener’s Plea

Shred some into fettucini,

Dress it up in a bikini,

Name it Zelda or Zaninni,

Drop one into your martini,

Serve with mustard and a wienie,

Top it with a jaunty beanie,

Pick it quick when it turns greeny.

Just, please, – take some of my zucchini!