Jam is My Jam

My last post was about raspberries, the ones I grew this season. What happens to all of them, you ask? Each year, I control my urge to eat them immediately and instead, store them until fall when I turn them into jam. Delicious jam. Raspberries and sugar, that's it. As they ripen, I freeze them in batches. Then in November after the growing season is done, I thaw them and cook.  My method is to keep them in the fridge for a few days, and they condense into an intensely fragrant, ruby-colored bowl of fruit. I mash it, boil it, then cook with an almost equal amount of warmed sugar. (Yes, really. That's a thing. You warm the sugar at 200 degrees for about twenty minutes and it dissolves quicker.) I test it to be sure it will gel and then do a hot water bath and can it all in hot jars. Voila!

I perfected this method a few years ago, when I realized that I was growing enough raspberries to do something. It came as a surprise to me. I wanted to be able to do these things -- grow berries, cook jam, and put up jars -- but I was still amazed when I realized that the spot where I had planted raspberry canes -- tiny sticks with thorns on them, looking mostly like a pile of kindling -- actually *produced*. If you aren't a gardener, then you might wonder why I was doubting the process.  The answer is that planting anything, whether it's seeds, seedlings, canes, bulbs or any of the ways that our flora kin reproduce isn't a guarantee. It's a gamble; it's a risk. Like life, of course.

The year after my mother died, I took care of her garden as best I could, considering that it was in New Hampshire and I was in Massachusetts. Two of her aspirational garden projects were pumpkins and raspberries. I say aspirational because they were fruits that she wanted to conquer. She wanted to grow huge pumpkins and she loved raspberries. Some years, she'd get pumpkins that were astonishing. The raspberries, though, were another story. They never flourished and she never got more than a handful of raspberries. I understand now why they didn't, though in my thirties, before I became a home owner, I hadn't gardened enough to understand the nature of planting too close to trees.

When I put the raspberries in my yard a decade ago, I did it, honestly, because I wanted to see if I could. To see what would happen, but mostly? Because it broke my heart that in her time, my mother hadn't succeeded. That's my interpretation, of course, but when you are 39 and your mother is dying of cancer -- lungs, throat, brain and things get excruciating quickly -- these are things you fixate on.

That was the original impetus: sad, broken, feeling unfinished. An echo of things not said? Probably.

But those ugly, prickly sticks soon had tiny green flags unfurling which became leaves. They liked the spot I'd given them and stretched up and out, into the sun. I mulched them and talked to them and told them I wanted them to stick with me. By the third year, miraculous little red gems appeared. I had my raspberry patch.

But then, over time, something shifted. I realized something wonderful: I loved raspberries. On my own, I loved them. It was a realization, too, that my mother and I shared this thing. And that bit of insight was a delight.

So below are pictures of my process. I am grateful for my mother's legacy -- both the good and the bad. As I write this, it is two days before Thanksgiving, so I am particularly aware of the lineage of food and family.

Your encore for today? Find gratitude wherever you can.

That's all and that's enough. It's good for the soul.

 

On Harvesting

It is the time of year which popular culture refers to as "harvest time" though for those of us who grow, the truth is: we harvest continuously. We work that soil as quickly as we can and plant "as soon as danger of frost has passed". The season for spring peas and early lettuce? That was APRIL. Many of us do successive planting and get multiple crops of lettuce, radishes, peas and beans though we know that in July, they fight us by bolting, wanting the slower, less-lit cooler weather. No matter. We harvest what we get and we say thank you.

In one small corner of my property, I have a small raspberry patch. Small but sincere, truly. Probably 64 square feet, total.  It has been a prolific spot and I grow a variety that produces twice per season. The first burst of berries usually arrives right on July 4th every year. It is a short spurt of production and is done by the first of August. Then in early September, another round of berries comes on and goes until frost ends the party. We are in the waning days now. No frost yet but fewer and fewer berries get picked each time. Yesterday I picked about a cup and I think that may have been the last one-cup trip for the season. After this, it will be a measly handful or two.

The thing about picking your own raspberries or anything, is that it gets you to really look at each item as you touch it. You contemplate its ripeness, its shape, its color, so many factors that go into it as it has developed. Look at the curious shape of the stem or branch, after you have picked something. The architecture of it can be astonishing.

I need to address a couple of elephants in the room here: First of all, I am insanely aware that there are thousands of humans -- migrant workers and others - who do this work for little or no money, who don't have the luxury of time or anything else to be able to stop and contemplate any of this. Farm work -- even in the best of circumstances -- is physically hard, hard work.  There is no way that my experience can compare or be anything except one of choice and privilege. I know this and I own it.

But the other piece is that family farmers at their core, do get this. Farmers *do* look at what they grow and are as gob-smacked by the beauty as the rest of us. If you can grow something, anything, even if it's just one pot of basil on your window, do it. And if you can't grow something yourself, there are lots of pick-your-own farms. (Again, this is a privilege - some of these places are really glorified amusement parks) I know that sometimes, it seems like you pay more to do the work of picking something yourself -- apples are one example -- but if you do research, you can find out who stands behind each farm. I know of several family farms that I want to support. They have been on their land for years and sometimes generations. They do integrated pest management, rather than use pesticides so though they may not be legally designated organic, for all purposes, they are. I want to support them and keep them in business. I also believe in voting with my dollars. They care and you can, too.

So my encore for the day? If you can go pick something yourself --apples and pumpkins are still an option now in parts of New England -- go do it. Look at what you are touching. Stop and see the branches, the leaves, the fruit, the flowers. It's a miracle. Every time.

Sabbath

Today, I start with a question: Do you have a Sabbath day?

I am using the word -- Sabbath -- because a couple of weeks ago, a new colleague asked me the question, using that word. Depending on your history and experiences, you may respond in any number of ways, but my hunch is that the majority of you will say: SABBATH? No one SAYS that, any more.

Well, they do, but you have to know where to look though certainly, not as frequently as they used to.

It appears as a commandment, as in: The Ten Commandments. The third of the "ten commandments" is "Honor the Sabbath Day and keep it holy", or words to that effect, depending on your translation. It's a day for rest and worship.

"Worship" is a word that assumes a lot, and rest? What is that?

When my colleague asked me if I kept a Sabbath, it surprised me. I fumbled an answer about how it depended on the day and what my teenage sons were doing. "Sundays are basically for me," I said - though the minute I said it, I questioned its truth.

I should interject here, too, to tell you that the program I using to write this is capitalizing the letter S in the word: Sabbath. It is not my decision to impress significance. Someone, somewhere, made that editorial decision.

Do I worship? Well, those of you who know me know that I am an engaged member of the First Parish Unitarian Universalist Church in Milton MA.

Do I rest? That is an excellent question.

"Sleep is overrated" I said in my twenties. Now, in my fifties, sleep is what it's all about. It always was, though I did a good job pretending it wasn't.

The real question I have both for myself...and for you...is: DO I honor it, "keep it holy", as it were.

I know several millennials who take a "digital Sabbath", which is cool. Because of the ultra-connectedness of all things electronic, to be able to unplug -- literally -- has become their signature at the bottom of their emails. They alert us to the fact that if you are trying to contact them on a given day, generally Saturday or Sunday, you can't expect a reply.

I am offline from sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday, when I observe a 'tech sabbath' 

Offline. Unplugged. Being, just being. 

So I am thinking about all of this and wondering -- what IS a true Sabbath? What does one do or not do? Religious implications aside, what does it mean to take a day -- regularly - to refresh and nourish your body AND your spirit? Not to do it haphazardly, but to fully engage in it. What would it look like? Would one be engaged in quiet activities: reading, walking, meditating -- or more creative outlets: baking, gardening, crafting? 

I am asking the question of myself and I am also asking: YOU.  I am curious to know - do YOU keep a Sabbath? IF so, how do you define it? By what you do... or by what you don't do? Are you solitary in this or do you stay among others?

I don't have an encore for you this week. Usually, I have an idea to share or a realization, but this week, I am in the question stage. Perhaps this encore will come later.

So please, do tell me: DO you keep a Sabbath? What does that mean? I look forward to hearing your thoughts.

Peace

On Tomatoes

I have a friend who calls me the "Eco-Chaplain", which I adore, though it is really she who is truly on the path to eco-chaplaincy. Mine is a part-time gig though it lives in my soul but it is she who is the one who will one day professionally carry the title. Still,  I will gladly accept the name.

Recently, we discussed tomatoes. She has been working with us in the HDS Garden and has been initiating gardens in multiple spaces...as we do. So we talked tomatoes last Thursday. On the day back in March when we began our seedling for the season, she was there,  We set eight -- ONLY eight of the thousands -- of tomato varieties in the seed-starting medium. And now, everywhere in New England, there are TOMATOES.

The tomato - Solanum lycopersicum - is in the nightshade family and native to western South American and Central America. It's history is fascinating -- to some of us -- and I won't go into it here though if this intrigues you,  seriously: look it up. One fascinating detail I read recently, though because it seems to have originated on Wikipedia and then been re-quoted verbatim (which makes it suspect) is that native Pueblo people believed that there was a power in tomato seeds that gave one the power of divination. Don't quote me on it but I think it's an interesting fact, if true.

You surely have heard about lycopene, the good stuff in tomatoes. Cooked tomatoes give you more than raw...because it becomes concentrated.... and yes, that IS awesome but that's not even why I am writing about them.

So here are some tomatoes that were recently harvested. Beautiful, eh?

We are in the thick of GLORIOUS tomato harvesting, these days. Trying to stay ahead of the ever-present tomato blight, we try to cut off the affected plant parts as fast as we can because the mostly-set fruit will ripen and we want to contain the spread. We are in our race to the finish, before frost closes out the season for us. Still, if we are really inspired, we may grab the green ones for fried tomatoes, canning or pies. My mother was good at wrapping the fully-formed green ones in newspaper and keeping them in our cellar in a cardboard box, until they turned red. They are never *quite* as good as fresh, but still a far cry above what you can ever get in a store.

So what IS it about tomatoes? As you might imagine, because I am who I am, I spend a lot of time in gardens, farm stands, farmers market, nurseries....etc... basically anywhere that the connection to growth and life and food connect. 

There are millions of plants and certainly thousands that we grow commercially and personally, but in New England, if there is only one plant that you are going to grow, it will be a tomato. Honestly, I don't know why that is. I could take some guesses based on nutrition and food storage and the need for these to be maximized historically. But today? Honestly, it doesn't even matter. 

Because here is the thing, and this is really what it's all about.  When you grow tomatoes, if all goes well or even moderately okay, there will be a day and hopefully many days, when you can go out into your sunny garden/deck/farm/box/hanger...and pick one dead-ripe beauty and bite into it. Warm. 

Everyone has their own way of enjoying this. Some will talk about salt, some: sugar, olive oil, basil...

But here is what I think: Pick a type you've grown, say: a purple Cherokee, which is one of the varieties we are growing. 

But that bite...that first bite.... it's flavor and beyond flavor.

Purple Cherokee is an heirloom, which speaks to chemistry and history. But with that bite, you connect with the work and the love and the reminder of the cycle of life and death. The flavor is exquisite .... but even more than that. That flavor shows you truth. That tomato slows us down and stops us in our tracks. 

If that isn't a truth, I don't know what is. 

So your encore for today? If you aren't a gardener...and that's okay, because who knows? Perhaps you can join with a friend or others and find a way to connect to this? Your encore is to find someone who has grown tomatoes. Ask them for one. Sit with it and think about this. And then, take that bite. 

There's your truth, your truth in a tomato. 

On Guerrilla Gardening

Anyone who know me knows I love plants and gardens. I talk to all my friends and co-workers and relatives and sometimes complete strangers, so I guess that means that people who don't even know me know this. Then it should probably not come as a surprise then that I need to confess that I have a secret love of guerrilla gardening.

See this picture? Yes, it's me. Shhhhh. It's my shadow, taking a picture of seedlings I planted -- specifically, morning glories -- planted somewhere that people neither knew nor expected morning glories to be. Somewhere where after they bloom, tangles of blue and mauve circles of petals and vines will turn a rather unattractive spot of land into a softer, lovelier rise, rather than the dirt mound that it is currently. Assuming they do thrive and bloom, those bursts of wandering color will surprise those who notice, hopefully offering delight. Many won't notice, but perhaps, those who do will find it magical. Did I ask permission? No, though if it comes to it, I will ask forgiveness. It's totally worth the small risk. And THAT is what guerrilla gardening is.

All over the world, lots of folks do it, lots of them to grow food. Yes, they are doing this in places that they do not have the legal right to. It's a movement based on some radical notions about land use of public space and the desire for beauty AND food justice. Is this beginning to sound like familiar theme? Absolutely.

It's not for everyone. BUT...think about it. Doesn't the idea of throwing seed balls (yes, this is a thing) somewhere sound fun? Think about it. You can drop seeds -- especially seeds like morning glories which honestly, are ridiculously hardy -- and keep checking the space until they sprout...then grow...then bloom. You are the artist and as long as you keep your mouth shut, no one will know WHERE those flowers came from. Did someone from The City/Headquarters/Operations/Groundskeeping put those in? No? Well, then, how did they get there? And you can smile, knowing, that it was that it was *you*.

Your encore for the day? Go spread some magic. Shhhh, it will be our little secret.