Shiny Cooking

Spring has sprung, and flora are stretching, budding, opening for their sun. This is a forsythia’s flower. Forsythia are wild bushes. Lanky as a teenage basketball player, they lengthen and sprawl, and reward our patience with their disorganized antics by bursting into yellow blooms in spring, spring only.

It may be Easter, but for some there’s still work to be done before dinner, because tomorrow it might rain.

It might always rain tomorrow. Read more on easter, and spring, and budding growing things…

Hell yeah. Time to inaugurate the “tomato” tag.

I’d go on about heirlooms and brandywines and tell cute little stories involving one of my grandmas, or, if it were of special import requiring massive genetic support, both grandmas. Read more on first tomato of the season…

Warning: massive photo post ahead. Like, 30 photos. All of my garden. Yeah, real exciting.

Inspired by the lovely Diana and her garden porn.

First, let’s try and get an idea of the scope of this garden. It’s roughly triangular.

Sheesh, it’s so big you can’t pick anything out.

At least now we can pick some stuff out. Looks like some big ass tomatoes.

Wow. Taking pictures at midday was so not a good idea. But see, we’re getting some perspective. There’s those tomatoes again, with a rogue muskmelon (we think) growing between the first two, oregano, rosemary, and peppers in view.

of cages and flowerpots

Parsley and basil, both nice and gigantic. I should make some pesto, shouldn’t I? The basil keeps sending up flower stalks and I keep having to pinch them off.

I fear the basil is in some sort of willful reproductive battle with me.

See that flowerpot? I used it to cover the basil after it was transplanted, when we got some low-temperature nights in early June. It was once that small.

Here’s an opalka plum heirloom tomato. I tried these and Amish paste last year, and the opalkas won by a mile. They taste great and they’re pure flesh — nearly no seeds and little juice. They’re great for sauces and supposedly paste too, but I’m not anal enough to make my own tomato paste.

I just might be anal enough to make my own ketchup this year, though. But seriously, if you’re going to try a plum/paste tomato, forget the overrated Amish, get an opalka.

The tomato cages? About five feet high. The tomatoes are kind of short this year due to the cool season we’re having.

aww, those poor beets

Don’t laugh at my poor beets. Please. The carrots are nice and fluffy though. Check out the dying peas to the right and their pathetic fence.

Many of the beets are showing this weird blight. I have no idea what it is, but it doesn’t seem to bother them. My gardening philosophy is, if it doesn’t destroy the part I eat, let it slide. However, if you know what it is, let me know!

broccoli gives good head

Ha, the broccoli leaves are getting chewed up too. Wait til you see the chard. But the plants are making damn nice heads. Which is a surprise, since they got chewed down to nubs by baby bunnies right after transplanting. They recovered. Obviously.

To the right you see a few of the 4 brazillion rogue tomatoes that came up. We saved a few because I have a soft spot for plants tenacious enough to come back. Even after I beat them down repeatedly. Read more on how does your garden grow? 8-11-09…

Previously: How does your garden grow? 8-11-09 edition

What follows is a chronicle of a giant, weed-infested, blight-ridden, cool-summer-stricken garden. It seemed like overnight there were 3-foot weeds in there. And that annoying fungus had killed the cukes and melons near dead.

I guess if the frost holds off til November, we might have tomatoes. That’s a joke, because it usually frosts here by the end of September. Sigh.

Let’s take a tour of the post-apocalyptic mess that is my garden, shall we? What you see above is one of the very few plants that looks normal or, nay, even healthy. Herbs are tough little guys. Including parsley.

The long view. Long garden is long. Yes, it’s a triangle. Those tall things in the back? Tomatoes. For reference, those yellow and orange spots in front of them are 3-foot-tall marigolds. Read more on how does your garden grow? oh s*** edition…

In terms of making new beginnings and forging new paths, New Year’s takes a distant third on my internal clock. New Year’s is the new beginning of the earth’s rotation, marking the end of the year’s shortest day and looking forward to lengthening ones.

New Year’s is a quiet time, as far as heralds go. Party revelry aside, it’s marked by a sunrise a wee minute earlier than the day before, sunset a wee minute later. We are inspired to set plans in motion, but the still-long darknesses encourage long nights under the covers and slow-cooker meals. Read more on time to blossom…