Guest Story: Love and Death in the Garden of the Heart, by Dan Rubin

I'm delighted to present this short piece by my friend, Dan Rubin.

Love and Death in the Garden of the Heart

by Dan Rubin

I love my garden.  Everything I have ever cared about is right here.  I know they call me "crazy old cat lady" but that is not the whole story.

This was the family home.  We moved here in 1932 when I was very young.  Papa worked for the railroad. This house was just a short walk from the yards, and it had everything we needed.  This swing, well he made it for me, and even though I have replaced the ropes at least four times over the years, it is still the one he built and hung here from the branches of the old maple.

One reason I love my garden is that everything comes to rest here.  It accepts whatever we can give it.  This rich, dark soil is proof of that, fed by generations, fed by blood and bone you might say. 

Soil is not dirt.  I keep telling people that, when they visit, though many do not come by any more.  They are all gone.  But nature is generous with her gifts, returning everything to the soil in the end.

Where was I?  Oh yes, you see that bed over there?  That was dug by my first husband, Leroy.  Heart shaped, he said, because it stood for his love for me.  Well that was all fine, you see.  Love is fine, if it is kind and gentle.  But he snored!  And when he was in his cups he grew mean.  It took weeks for the bruises to heal.  In the end, I had had enough.   Dig it deep, I told him, and made sure he did, knowing the piles of soil would come in handy when he finally had his, well, his little accident with the shovel.   As I said, the garden accepts what we give it.

It was Danny who laid out the paths.  He arrived at exactly the right time, needed a place to stay, so I took him in.  Nothing straight, I told him, everything must curve.  Edges and borders, planted to nasturtium and hostas, to fill in the shaded parts.  It came together very well.   But after the night I caught him pilfering the silverware, I knew what I had to do.   Everything feeds the soil.

And then there were the cats, so many generations of cats.  Sometimes the little ones lived, but when there were too many in a litter, one has a simple choice: to find homes for them (my neighbours soon grew tired of being offered yet another kitten) or, in the end, return them to the earth.  These lovely sunflowers, well every one of them is, in a sense, a kitten.

My second husband seemed to understand all that.  He helped me finish the borders, planting lilacs and the hedge of blackberries that screens out the road, grown busier and busier through the years, though not so busy now that the railroad is gone, the tracks torn up and replaced by a four lane road.  He was a good worker, while he lasted.  But once his work was done, the garden more or less complete, there was another choice to make.   The fruit trees, I thought, they need feeding..   He was perfect for that simple task.

Yes, there is so much richness, there are so many memories here.  In the end, I am resigned to my own place in it.  I am not shy about that.   Not any more.  "Like the lowly chambermaid we all must come to dust."  As Yeats said, or Shakespeare or whoever it was.   Dust to dust.   All part of our journey.

But for now I sit, watch cats lounge in the bright morning sun, and sip my tea.   That is enough.  Yes, I do love my garden.   Everything I care about is right here.

(c) 2021 by Dan Rubin. Used by permission

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Dan Rubin is an award-winning author of fiction, non-fiction, poetry and journalism who grew up in California but now makes his home on the Atlantic Coast of Canada.   He lives in a small town north of St. John's, Newfoundland where he works as an arts administrator and garden educator.   Over the past forty years, his short fiction has won regional awards, been published, anthologized and produced for broadcast twice on CBC radio.   

He is the author of four diverse books: the biography Salt on the Wind: The Sailing Life of Allen and Sharie Farrell  (published by Horsdal and Schubart, 1996); a music collection, Tanglecove: 30 New Canadian Fiddle Tunes (Tanglecove, 2014); a community history, Pouch Cove: Our Home by the Sea (Pouch Cove Heritage Society, 2015) which won the provincial Manning Award for heritage preservation, and his first novel, a futuristic adventure story, A Fire on the Sea which was shortlisted in the Amazon first novel competition and published by First Person Press (2017).   He continues to develop new works, and currently has four novels, a screenplay and three non-fiction books in development.  Details of his writing and his music (he is also a songwriter and composer with twelve albums of original music released to date) can be found at www.danrubin.ca.

The painting is by Claude Monet, The Artist's Garden at Vétheuil, 1881.

Late Summer Garden

This year our garden has been less successful than usual, in no small part due to skyrocketing inroads made by critters (squirrels for sure, maybe wood rats, too). They've managed to nibble the tender shoots and flowers of all our squash plants, so we aren't expecting any. Interestingly, they've left the cucumbers alone (too prickly?). The asparagus patch is about exhausted, the crowns having a limited life span. We're planning on eventually digging up those that are left, evaluating, and moving them to another location. Meanwhile, here's what I gathered the other day:

Rubarb: second harvest. Our plants give us two harvests a year, one in early spring, one in late summer. I simmer it with sugar and cinnamon, then freeze it to use for desserts in the winter holidays. Ours also never gets really red, but it tastes just dandy.

Lemon cucumbers. Rodent-proof. We hope. So far.

Green beans, Emerite variety. This type is prolific and stays tender even if seeds form. It's possible to use as a dry bean, too, but we eat them green. They freeze really well, too, when lightly steamed and vacuum sealed.

Not shown: tomatoes (late this year), grapefruit (our poor tree is sooo confused by climate change, it keeps dropping fruit now instead of in the winter). Wild blackberries, almost done in the heat (33 quarts frozen so far...)

Yet to come: pears and apples, sunchokes (after first frost), maybe parsnips (ditto).

Squash Harvest. 2017

Every year we grow winter squashes of various sorts for food. I specify food rather than decoration because the output of a small plot of land in nutrients and calories from winter squashes is extremely good. They’re not only delicious (and beautiful) but are low in sodium and fat, and provide an array of vitamins, minerals, and fiber. Growing them is fairly easy, although the vines have a tendency to wander and take over.

Midsummer 2017

Autumn 2017

Like summer squashes, winter squashes hybridize and so it’s best to either grow only one variety or start them from commercially obtained seed or seedlings every year. At least, that’s the theory. We often end up with “mystery squashes.” (“Wait! I don’t remember planting that – what is it?”) Our current theories are: (a) these are truly hybrids from last year’s crops; (b) they are hybrids from the seeds that entered our garden through compost scraps. The latter used to be more true when we got vegetable trimmings from the local health food store. My husband tells me we use “cold” composting (worms) rather than the “hot” method, so seeds will survive.

Boer White squash

Buttercup, one of our favorites

Mystery squash, perhaps a hybrid of delicata and acorn. We got two and have devoured one. The shell is quite hard, as it often is with hybrids, but the flesh was delicious.The seeds will go to a friend who runs a seed-saver business.

Squashalypse!

Okay, we've all heard the warnings. In summer squash season, do not leave the window of your parked car down or you will find a 20 lb zucchini on the passenger seat. And every year we (as do many others) suffer a memory lapse and plant -- well, too many squash plants. (This applies only to summer squashes like zucchini, pattypan, and crookneck; winter squashes like butternut, buttercup, and acorn aren't a problem because they can be stored and enjoyed over the course of months.) However, we have devised several strategies for dealing the the bounty that do not involve breaking and entering our neighbors' vehicles.

The first strategy is the careful selection of summer squashes. Most varieties, like ordinary zucchini, become woody once they pass a certain size. The seeds get large and tough. You can cut around the seed area and use slabs for zucchini lasagna or brush with olive oil and slap them on the grill. But really, how much zucchini lasagna can you eat? We found a variety, romanesco zucchini, that stays tender (and small-seeded) even when it attains considerable size. It's a delicious squash with a sweet, nutty flavor. Here's what it looks like on the vine. This squash is about 18" long.

Romanesco zucchini

We usually pick them at this size or smaller, but occasionally, one hides from us...

Sarah displaying the culprit

What to do with such an edifice of squashness? Strategy Two of the squash abatement program is to chop it fairly small and freeze it for winter. No summer squash tolerates freezing well enough to eat plain, but the small cubes go beautifully in pasta sauces and soups. The first step is to wash and slice it. You can see why we call it "steampunk squash." The seed cavity is really just a spongy central area, and the seeds are tender.

Steampunk squash with iced hibiscus tea

Typical instructions for home freezing call for blanching in a hot water bath, then plunging into ice water. Clearly, those folks have never heard of modern appliances. My short-cut is to microwave the cubes until they are just steaming but not cooked, then quickly seal them in freezer bags and pop them in the freezer. Here are pint-sized bags ready to go into the big chest freezer. The monster squash yielded 7 pints.

Frozen diced romanesco zucchini

Summer Bounty

It's late summer and the garden keeps giving. This afternoon I picked a basketful of cucumbers: Russian Brown, English Telegraph, and lemon cukes. The Russian Browns are nice in that, like the lemons, they don't get bitter. When they're ripe, the skin turns rich brown and sometimes gets crackles. We will eat 1 or 2 per bowl of salad. (you can see a little container with purslane from the garden at the upper left.)

Then there are the pear trees. One is a Comice, the other a variety we haven't been able to identify. It's a little like an Asian pear but tastes terrible raw. When cooked, however, it is flavorful and intensely sweet.

I picked a couple of baskets, including bird-pecked ones, chopped and seasoned them with cinnamon, cooked them until just tender, and canned them in quart jars. I brought some extra to a gathering at the home of a friend, where they were much enjoyed. Some years I will slice and dry them, too -- sweet as candy -- but I still have some left from last year.

This process will go on for a while, many quarts' worth, as the "Asian pear" tree bears heavily. I'll refrigerate the Comice pears to eat fresh.

Then there are 2 apple trees...but those are fine when chopped, tossed with a little sugar and ascorbic acid, and popped into ziplock bags and the freezer. They are slightly spongey that way but go wonderfully in oatmeal, where the cooking softens the texture just right.

It's July in the garden!

Lacinato (dinosaur) kale

It's been a while since I've posted about the state of our garden. We have about 1/3 acre, much of which is under cultivation. Our orchard consists of 2 pear trees, 2 apple trees (one with 5 different varieties grafted on), an an enormous grapefruit tree that survives the winters in the micro-climate created by one of our beautiful old California oaks. For a number of years, we tried a vineyard (Syrah grapes, which like this climate) but neighboring redwood trees cast too much morning shade so the Brix (sugar content) was never high enough for decent wine. Last year, we dug up and gave away the last of the vines to friends with sunnier plots. The old cordons are excellent for pole beans, small climbing squashes (like Delicata), cucumbers, and the like.

My husband has become enamored of the idea of "feral gardening," so many of our plants are naturalized. Chard has sprouted in a number of places; it's happiest right now at one end of the old vineyard, where the aforementioned shade provides a cooler environment during hot summer days. Purslane, amaranth, and arugula run rampant everywhere. And we will never, ever get rid of the tomatillos we were so imprudent to plant five or six years ago. (You need two to produce fruit and the result is hundreds and hundreds of seeds.) The asparagus is migrating through the lavender, which has returned the favor by invading the asparagus patch. Along the fence separating the apple and pear trees from the alley plot, volunteer scarlet runner beans are going gangbusters. I fully expect to find lacinato kale coming up in odd corners.

Gooseberries

In July, the asparagus is done for the year, as is the rhubarb, but we sometimes get a second season in the fall. Last year, the grapefruits ripened in the fall instead of winter, and from the softness of the fruits, this year may be the same.

This summer we planted a bunch of summer and winter squashes, as this is a vegetable family that doesn't play havoc with my husband's digestion. One zucchini was nibbled by wood rats, and Dave is hard at work trying to trap them with peanut butter. If the gods shine upon us, we will have corn, tomatoes, and cucumbers. Lots of pole beans, as they freeze exceptionally well. Our favorite variety is Emerite, prolific, long-seasoned, delicious.

Around the back, we have a small raspberry patch, more squashes and pole beans, some potato plants that refuse to die, gooseberries (make amazing jam), and four heat-tolerant blueberry bushes that took a while to get going but are now exuberant. Here and there, I see a few parsnips that might be harvestable after the first frost (more feral gardening -- the seeds scatter everywhere).

I keep forgetting about the herbs: an enormous catnip patch, pineapple sage, tarragon, oregano, mint. You never get rid of mint, so you might as well eat it.

Fall harvest