Eating my words

Perhaps our exceedingly faithful readers with acute memories will recall an incident a year or two ago when an attempt was made to generate applesauce from one of our trees. It was a tree I believe to be sprouted from seed, and therefore an undocumented variety, new to agriculture.

The applesauce was a complete failure.

At the time I asserted that the tree was probably not useful to humanity, and I almost cut it down. But I was just not totally convinced that I had fully understood the tree, and for that reason decided to give it another try before annihilating it.

Enter Permaculture class this winter and spring, with Dave Jacke's helpful instruction in the design process wherein he presented to us some practical benefits to be gained by withholding judgment until the relevant patterns emerge to our minds and we can confidently draw reasonable conclusions.

So this year when the apple-ripening cycle came about, I was better equipped to allow the patterns inherent to that particular tree's seasonal cycle to play themselves out, intervening only when it was apparent to me that the time had come for it.

Folks, I just finished one of those apples for a midnight snack, as wedges dipped in peanut butter. My friends, I must eat my words, for though the flavor of the apple lacked complexity and the sauce still wouldn't be likely to win any awards, it was truly sweet and not at all bad.

What is the difference between that last experience and this one? I must humbly admit that it is mostly a matter of waiting until they are ripe to pick them. Also, the age-old practice of pruning and thinning makes for yummier apples. Lesson learned, I hope!

The "Honey Cider" tree, which is slowly succumbing to fire blight, still produces very weird apples, not at all yummy for fresh eating, but quite sweet. THAT one is still a head-scratcher, I must say.

In other news, I am pleased to report that our thirteen Roma tomato plants have satisfactorily inundated us with tomato matter, from which we are happily, if somewhat exhaustedly, manufacturing salsa, sauce, and diced tomatoes, all preserved in mason jars. Today I picked just over a bushel of Romas, and four days ago my sister and I picked a bushel and a half from those same plants. By the time the season is up, each of the plants may have produced between a third and a half of a bushel of the pointy, pasty little fruits. I don't know if that's a good amount according to professional production standards, but I am mighty o.k. with it.

I intend to plant at least that amount next year, with the possible exception that I may dedicate a portion of the space to a variety of tomato called "Mariana", which produces largish, egg-shaped fruits that are extra firm and dry; an excellent salsa base, I believe. Also, they ripen later than the Romas, so their timing would coincide better with the ripening of the peppers. But would they be as productive as the Romas? I do not know. They certainly are loaded with fruit, but I'm not sure it's any half-bushel per plant. I may have to find a way to plant even more of the garden to tomatoes. This may be a simple matter, as I am planning to eliminate the grass paths in the garden, which will free up 50% more productive space (and reduce weed pressure and mowing chores).

Perhaps I am crazy to increase production, but I admit that having "too many tomatoes" is the kind of punishment for which I am happily gluttonous. If nothing else, there is no harm in having extra to give away, and I am gratified by the few opportunities we've had this season to give a handful or two of produce to neighbors and friends whose generosity has so often benefited us in the past. It's not about paying back (I'm under no illusions that that would be possible), it's just that the time came around that we had something they needed.

The alternating tidal motion of generosity between gardening friends is among the many rhythms that have been coming to my attention over the past few weeks. The seasonal pulses of produce, the planting/tending/waiting/harvesting cycle, the emergence and re-emergence of genetic traits in the march of the generations, predator/prey balance, the looping patterns of our traffic to and from the gardens and chickens and compost pile, the elaborate dance of food processing workers avoiding collision and providing mutual support in a kitchen...these things inspire and humble me, and encourage the expansion of my sense of gratitude for this land, this family, and this community which together form the matrix from which my life is--tenderly, I hope--painstakingly and lovingly extracted.