August beauty

My gardens are rather drab in August.  The annuals are flagging as they reach the end of their growing cycle, the summer veggies are winding down their production, and the perennials are wilting in the intense heat and humidity that characterizes our August weather.

However, tucked in next to the compost heap, there is one shrub that shines in August, the August Beauty gardenia bush. 

The original plan was that gardenias would function as foundation plants in the partial shade on the west side of my back deck.  This plan was a flaming disaster; the gardenias got sick, infested with bugs and covered in sooty mold.  Of the three shrubs I planted, one died almost immediately and the other two died back to spikey sticks.  I gave one of them to a friend with a fabulous shade garden and I planted the other next to the compost heap and told it to grow or die on its own.

Five years later, my beautiful gardenia shrub is thriving, producing lovely fragrant blooms throughout the month of August.  There is no disease, no bugs and no sooty mold.  Apparently this August beauty just wanted to live by a nutritious compost heap, bringing joy to my backyard.

Every body at our house loves cream peas

We have a mixed marriage; while I'm from the far north (Minnesota), my precious husband, Bob, is from the deep south (north Florida).  Food and cooking styles from these two regions are vastly different so over the years we have had some interesting discussions about what we are going to eat and how it will be prepared.

One southern food that no one at our house argues about(I mean, discusses) is southern field peas.  Everyone loves field peas--they are easy to grow and simple to prepare.  Our favorite variety is the cream pea. 

The humans at our house love them a little green, and simmered gently with some bacon crumbles thrown in.

Mordecai, the sulcata tortoise (look him up on Facebook--he has is own page) loves the pods, but is always looking for the pea I might have missed while shelling them.

This year, there is another body that has developed a taste for fresh cream peas.  Whenever I harvest the peas, I always find several pods that have been split neatly with every single pea devoured.   Only a bird could reach some of these pods without cutting them down or disturbing the vines in any way.  The pea patch is within sight of my kitchen window but I have been unable to observe the culprit at work.  I suspect a pair of rufous-sided towhees that took up residence in our backyard this spring.  I caught them raiding the blueberry bushes in June so I know they love berries and are undeterred by my typical bird repelling activities. 

At the end of the season, we will all stop eating the cream peas (except the birds) to allow some pods to go to seed so that next spring we can grow our favorite southern vegetable once again.

Stuff happens

Everyone has experienced this; while sacrificially performing a good deed, one small bump escalates into a disaster which you feel compelled to correct at even more sacrifice on your part.

My dear husband contributes to our gardens by keeping the green spaces mowed, a project that requires him to work outdoors (not his favorite location) at some of the hottest and most humid days of the year.   During one of these miserable afternoon good deeds, the lawn mower gently bumped into the bird feeder pole.  Much to his horror, Bob watched as the pole slowly swayed and fell, splintering the bird feeder, and shattering the squirrel baffle attached to it.

The bird feeder had been his Mothers Day gift to me 15 years ago and over the years, the entire family had enjoyed observing the birds who frequented it for sunflower seeds.  Within 24 hours of its demise, we knew that we had to replace it. 

Thanks to internet shopping, the new pole, feeder, and baffle were soon delivered to our front door.  Our new feeder resembles a chapel and holds twice as much seed so I won't have to refill it as often. We are good for another 15 years of bird watching in our backyard. 

Sometimes the "stuff" that happens in our lives is really an opportunity to move forward to something even better than what we thought we had to have.

World's most awesome pizza sauce

The tomato harvest is overwhelming my harvest bucket.  It's been a great year for tomatoes in my garden.  We've had plenty of rain, the blight infection has been lighter than normal, and until recently the evening temperatures were low enough for high rates of pollination. 

Now, what shall I do with all the tomatoes?  I don't have storage in my pantry so canning is out and I only have the freezer in my refrigerator so freezer space is limited as well.

My first project was to make fresh tomato sauce.   All of the ingredients are fresh and a significant portion come from my own garden.  The first time I made it, we used it for homemade pizza.  My family promptly renamed the recipe "The World's Most Awesome Pizza Sauce." 

This week, I made a triple batch of pizza sauce, freezing it in one cup portions.  Then we had to make some pizza to make sure it turned out, of course.

Here is the recipe:
 3/4 cup chopped onion
1/4 cup olive oil (I sometimes use bacon grease)
6 garlic cloves, minced
1 tablespoon chopped fresh thyme
1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper
3 cups chopped fresh tomatoes (about 3 medium)
1 tablespoon light brown sugar
1/2 cup chopped fresh basil
2 tablespoons chopped fresh oregano
1 tablespoon chopped fresh rosemary
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper

Saute onion in the oil until tender.  Stir in garlic, thyme, and red pepper and saute about 2 minutes.  Stir in tomatoes and brown sugar.  Reduce heat and simmer until tomatoes are well cooked.  Stir in the rest of the ingredients and simmer for another 5 minutes.  Remove from heat and let cool.
Pulse the mixture in the blender, small batches at a time until it reaches your preferred consistency.
Use immediately, refrigerate for up to 3 days or freeze.  I freeze it in freezer bags in 1 cup portions to save space.

Of course, the tomatoes keep coming--I've got more plans for them. 

The strange saga of the off-season satsumas

October satumas

I wrote about the strange off-season satsuma bloom last fall.  The satsuma tree bloomed in the spring on schedule but didn't produce a single fruit; my theory was that the previous year the tree had been heavily infested with white flies and the stress of the insects combined with the strong chemicals I used to kill them interfered with the following fruiting season.   Much to my surprise, the tree bloomed again in the fall and produced three viable satsumas. 

July satsumas

I had no idea whether they would survive the winter or whether they would ripen at all but I carefully babied them through the winter, watching over them diligently as they continued to grow through the spring while the tree blossomed, producing a new crop of about 30 satsumas.

Ready to eat in July

They grew to about twice the size of a normal satsuma before finally ripening.  I decided to pick them this week, at the earliest ripening stage of pale yellow because no matter how interesting these off season oranges are, I don't want anything to hinder the development of this fall's crop.

When I peeled them, I discovered that the satsuma itself was a normal size, it was just the peeling that had grown extraordinarily thick.  The fruit was the correct shade of orange but it wasn't quite as sweet as a typical fall-harvested satsuma. 

It was a curious and strange event.  I'm looking forward to my normal crop of sweet satsumas late this fall.

Never again

Pulling weeds in the garden is one of those maintenance therapies with which I have a love-hate relationship.  As long as they haven't grown out of hand, I enjoy going out early in the morning with a bucket and pulling the random weeds that attempt to join my landscape design.  The finished project gives me a great sense of satisfaction for a "job well done."

However, what I do not enjoy is pulling weeds that have invaded my backyard at my own invitation. 

It's been at least three years since I deliberately planted blue morning glories on a chain link fence between my front and backyards.   I had no idea that morning glories are prolific reseeders.  It wouldn't be so bad if they produced the same glorious blue bloom that I originally planted but morning glories revert back to their original stock after their first season and the flowers of the second (and third and fourth and fifth) generation are tiny orange blooms that no one notices.  They produce even more morning glory seeds that seem to take root in every square foot of my garden.

If this was only a spring time event, it would be manageable, but millions of morning glory seedlings keep popping up all summer long.  If one lone vine survives the weeding process to produce flowers (and approximately one million seeds per blossom) my morning glory nightmare multiplies once again.

Mordecai, our baby sulcata tortoise, tries to help me by eating as many morning glory seedlings as his little tummy can hold.  He seems to think they are delicious, which might be their only virtue.

I will NEVER plant morning glories in my garden again.

I just might . . .

Since writing about the redwood tree in our neighborhood, I have more fascinating information that I feel compelled to share.

It turns out that this tree is a Dawn Redwood, purchased from a nursery in Alabama about 40 years ago.  Armed with that information, I hit the internet looking for more information on this redwood tree that clearly thrives in our Alabama climate.

Fossil evidence of what became known as Dawn Redwood is found in most areas of north America but was thought to be extinct until an intrepid explorer in the mountains of China discovered thriving dawn redwoods.  Since their rediscovery in the early 1940s, dawn redwoods have been propagated and re-established in their old American habitats.

Alabama is about as far south as this redwood will grow but once established, it can handle any type of soil, is drought resistant, and will grow as much as five feet per year.  It may top out at 120 feet when full grown so it is much smaller than its California Sequoia cousins.

Seedlings are readily available from internet suppliers for less than $20.  I intend to shop around at nurseries to see if larger saplings available locally.

Since losing my silver maple, I've been having a hard time adjusting to the blistering hot sun in my gardens.  I might just want to see if I can grow one of these amazing trees in my own backyard.