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. 

Someone else's tree

When I was a teenager, my parents took our family on a cross country road trip from our home in Minnesota to the Oregon coast.  One of many memorable stops was a visit to the redwood forests of northern California.  I was so mesmerized by the massive trunks of these trees that I never noticed the canopy, meaning that I would never recognize a redwood tree in any other context.

Some years ago, I noticed a perfectly symmetrical cedar tree in one of our neighbor's backyard.  I was amazed at its large size and perfect shape; it became a landmark to look for on our daily morning walks.  When fall arrived, I was horrified to see that its foliage turned completely brown and dropped off.  I knew my neighbors would be saddened by the loss of their lovely tree.

Much to my surprise, the tree grew a fresh, new canopy in the spring.  Clearly, I was wrong in my identification of "cedar."  Some research revealed that there are some deciduous varieties of cypress so I decided that this tree must be one of those varieties, although it really didn't look like any of the cypress trees pictured in my research.

This winter, my husband had an occasion to meet the homeowners of "my" tree.  Bob told them how much I loved their tree so they graciously shared their story with him. 

"My" tree is a redwood tree!  They purchased it as a sapling on a trip to California as an experiment.  They were definitely successful.  Their redwood is quite happy growing in its Alabama backyard.  If you know to look for it on the skyline, it is already the tallest tree in the neighborhood and in redwood years, it is just a "baby."  One day, it will tower over the neighborhood!  It makes me smile to think we have a little bit of exotic California in our central Alabama neighborhood.