The Last Tomatoes

Though we've had a slow, warm, La Nina fall, this weekend I finally pulled up the tomato vines. After a couple of nights of below freezing temperatures one must accept there really will be be no more tomatoes this year. Everything went into the compost heap: withered stalks, green tomatoes and all. Green tomatoes that have frozen develop an odd translucency and squishy texture when they thaw.

Meanwhile, the kitchen table was covered with a pile of tomatoes, from dark green and full of tomatine to the almost chartreuse they become just before morphing into pale yellow and then red. A row of tomatoes sat ripening on the windowsill. I'd already made and put up various kinds of salsa and sauce, some canned, some (without the vinegar or lemon juice) frozen. But there were all those green tomatoes.

My friend the British historian had recently given me a book of preserves from the British Women's Institute and in it was a recipe for green tomato and apple chutney, one of those recipes that must be simmered for three hours, a perfect project for a chilly, gray Sunday afternoon. So I converted the measurements and set out to can. I used the chartreuse and yellowish tomatoes for the job, and culled the really dark green ones for the compost heap. The rest, as they ripen, will go into salads or soups--and that, alas, will be the end of fresh tomatoes for the year.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

Note: I had always thought green tomatoes were full of solanine, since they are in the nightshade family, and had been told that tomato foliage and green tomatoes are poisonous--eat too many and nausea will ensue. But it turns out that they are not so dangerous after all, according to NY Times food writer Harold McGee. You can read his most interesting article here, "Accused, Yes, but Probably Not a Killer."

Related post:
All Kinds of Nightshade

Samhain, Halloween, Day of the Dead, All Saints/Souls Days

What a lot of names there are for this time between the autumn equinox and winter solstice. It is the time in the northern hemisphere when we gather in the harvest, say goodby to growth and prepare for winter's rest, the time when the barriers between the worlds of the living and dead become momentarily thinner, and we remember friends and relatives no longer with us. It is a time of bittersweet celebration, as the days grow shorter and colder before the great turn back towards the light.

Agriculturally and for gardeners, the old year closes when the harvest is gathered in, and for the old Celts and neopagans, the new year begins. My instincts have always gone with the idea that spring is the time of new beginnings, as I wrote in Sandhill Cranes and Spring Resolutions. Each of these holidays are like buoys in time's flood, not really a beginning or end, but a marker of beginnings and endings that have no real fixed points, that blend, that submerge and emerge ceaselessly as the tides. So we pick days for remembrance, to mark and celebrate the turn of the seasons, the progress of our lives.

An Absence of Some Months

The past few months I've been involved in helping develop a sustainability center at Triton College. The process is not yet complete. More news to come regarding this exciting development.

A Small Prairie Garden

Here is a piece I wrote for a Triton College email newsletter for faculty and staff:

Triton College Prairie Garden in Bloom

Triton College is known for its neat, manicured landscape featuring acres of carefully tended lawns, trim bushes, and bright annuals and perennials. However, something a little wilder is going on in an area in back of the science building, where Triton’s Greening the Campus Committee and biology students have established a small prairie garden.

In December 2009, students and committee members prepped the area and sowed into sod the seeds of nearly 100 native prairie species. We had learned that native plant areas started this way take longer to establish, but there are fewer problems with weeds. We also collected seeds in local forest preserves, which we cold stratified and propagated in the science greenhouse for planting out the next spring.

The first spring and summer not much happened, though as the soil warmed we saw a few seedlings, and the plants we had set out grew well. Would the experiment work? We weren’t sure. As advertised, there were very few weeds, but mainly it looked like someone’s badly neglected lawn. Since we had determined on a five-year timeline, we reassured a few questioners and more-or-less patiently waited to see what the next year would bring.

This spring Triton’s grounds crew de-thatched the area and removed an ailing ash tree. We set out more plants we had propagated, and waited. Would this second year show improvement? Would there be more flowers? Tall grasses? When spring semester ended, prospects seemed dim, though a diligent searcher could find many more tiny native plants among the turf grasses. The campus geese also seemed to like the area, and something—geese? deer? —was grazing when we weren’t watching. More waiting ensued.

After a hot, rainy summer, this fall we are pleased to announce that not only are flowers and native grasses in bloom, but beneficial insects rarely seen elsewhere on campus, such as monarch and sulphur butterflies, and several species of bees, moths, beetles and solitary wasps have appeared as well. The project seems as though it will succeed, and we hope to grace the area with an informative sign and possibly a bench. We have started collecting more seed to propagate, and plan to conduct our first burn when weather permits, either in late fall or early spring.

(Photos courtesy Biology instructor and Green Committee co-chair Joe Beuchel.)

Related Post:
Midewin Means "Heal the Land"

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On Summer Break, Back Soon

During the month of August I'll be on a blogging break; I plan to be back the first week of September.

Until then, dear reader, happy gardening to you.

All Kinds of Nightshade

"Deadly nightshade:" a name that makes me glad for Latin nomenclature

Purple flower

Easy post, I thought. Just write about the deadly nightshade. I happened to be thinking about the perennial, semi-woody, weedy vine that lurks along my property boundaries, and climbs up through the links of the fence. It can grow to six feet and the leaves have distinctive “ears” at the base. Its purple flowers bloom in summer, and the berries ripen to an alluring red. Warned as a child not to eat the berries or leaves, I've been pulling it my entire gardening life. A little research informed me that this plant is also called bittersweet nightshade, or Solanum dulcamara.

Guest Post at Beautiful Wildlife Garden

Carole Brown, at Beautiful Wildlife Garden, has put up a guest post I wrote about giving away native plants to unsuspecting gardeners. You can find "Stealth Native Plant Gardening" here.

Previous Guest Post at BWG:
Reconciliation Ecology and the Beautiful Wildlife Garden