Green Tomato

In an effort to divide and conquer, while Dennis made a hardware store run, I found myself alone at the nursery recently, which afforded me a rare bit of power and influence. Even though my list said, "more tomatoes, variety of my choosing," my shopper's eye drifted, almost without my realizing it, beyond the tomato table, just as it might drift toward the ladies shoe department or the jewelry counter in other shopping venues.

But, as they say, browse and ye shall find. In this case, I found tomatillo plants with beautiful green papery globes growing on thriving, young plants. And my brain, along with my tastebuds, immediately conjured up bowls of bright salsa verde. Without hesitation, I grabbed two plants and headed for the cash register.

Driving home, I gauged how much of a sales pitch I would need in order to get my spouse's buy-in on the tomatillos, since they were perhaps a tomato cousin, but definitely not on my shopping list. The answer was only a tiny sales job, because as soon as he understood that tomatillos were the base of the delicious green salsa we regularly consumed at our favorite Mexican restaurant, he was fully on board. Dennis immediately planted them and then did some Internet research on how succesful other gardeners were with tomatillos.

We quickly learned that my shopper's instinct to buy two plants was spot on, because tomatillos apparently needed a buddy in order to cross-pollinate. However, Dennis had not planted them exactly side-by-side, and we worried they were too far apart. Of course, we only considered this a problem for a minute or two, before arriving at the obvious solution: Go back to the nursery and buy two more plants, which we did.

Now we have four tomatillo plants, which seem to be thriving. Because I couldn't wait for them to mature, I bought a couple of tomatillos at Whole Foods yesterday and made a small bowl of salsa last night. If yesterday's salsa is any indication of what's to come, this is going to be a very good summer.

Boxed In

Has it been more than a year since I posted? I'm not sure what happened to rest of 2010, or to the first quarter of 2011, but let's just pretend that my last post was really only a few days ago and not more than a year ago, shall we?

Getting right to what's important, it's tomato time at my house. Because the winter crops -- romaine lettuce, sugar snap peas and a form of Italian broccoli -- were still giving us very delicious produce, we were reluctant to rip them out just yet.

On the other hand, you'll recall that I'm married to Tomato Zealot. Dennis can only be put off for so long until his internal pressure to plant tomatoes mounts to such a degree that he explodes into action. This year, the explosion took an unexpected form.

With the raised beds in our backyard mostly full of still fruitful crops, and with me holding firm that we could not convert the small patch of grass in our backyard to tomato fields -- at least not until our elderly dog transitioned to the great farm in the sky -- Dennis had a space problem. But then again, not really. We actually owned other usable square footage; it was just planted with grass and referred to as the front lawn. We were allowing convention and a vague willingness to act in unison with our neighbors dictate its use. The moment for front-yard agriculture had arrived.

Over three weekends in March and April, Dennis channeled his inner construction worker and set about building, installing, and filling a very usable raised bed with compost and soil. He situated it on what had been a rectangle of water-sucking grass in a sunny patch of street-side land. Did I mention irrigation? Dennis tapped into our existing sprinkler system and plumbed a line into the raised bed, so the tomatoes could drink wisely from individual little drippers.

Who knew he had it in him? I'm so proud.

An interesting and unforeseen side benefit to this project was the neighbor contact it continues to generate. First, we met Gwen and her husband, an elderly couple who, as it turns out, adopted the stray Siamese-calico kitty we used to feed -- news that allayed our fears that kitty had became coyote fodder. Then we met a stroller mom, who told us about her quince jam, which led me to talk about making plum jam and grape jam, all of which will likely lead to future jam trades.




Dennis also has reported lots of nods from drivers and several curious stares. But so far, everyone has appeared positive, at least they're feigning support. As far as I can tell, we are setting trend with front-yard vegetables. A few houses have fruit trees in the front, and other neighbors have ripped out their lawns and installed drought-tolerant plants. But I have yet to see any other produce-producing raised beds in any neighborhood front yards.




My guess is that we won't be stopping at only one box, that expanding to the front was a move long overdue. Dare I say it -- I'll try to keep you posted.

Investigation Proves Fruitful

Investigations almost always follow this path. Let's say you need to determine the facts surrounding an incident. You do some initial sleuthing. Based on what you learn, you formulate a working premise about what happened. Then, over time, more information is revealed, and you revise your original theory accordingly.

That is exactly what happened during my investigation of the tangerine caper (reported in the preceding blog post). When Dennis reported the crime to me, it was already dark outside. I conducted my first examination of the scene with only the benefit of a flashlight. Seeing no tangerine detritus and clean cuts on the tree limbs, I reasoned that the heinous acts under investigation were the work of human hands.

Then, the next morning, in the light of day, I sought out my neighbor, Evan. We share a property line with Evan and his wife, Heather. Their bathroom window sits just on the other side of our common fence, within viewing distance of the top of the satsuma tree. Perhaps they saw or heard something that could help us identify the thief. I was now entering the witness phase of the investigation.

Evan was appropriately outraged when I told him that our satsuma tree, previously laden with orange fruit, was now stripped nearly clean. (We have a reciprocal produce-sharing arrangement with Evan and Heather. They give us oranges from their bountiful tree; in exchange, we share whatever's ripe and abundant.) Evan had undoubtedly been expecting a bag of tangerines to appear on his front porch any day now, so he quickly joined me in my victimhood.

After discussing the details of the theft and ruling out of possible suspects, Evan suggested that we examine the crime scene from his side of the fence. And that was when I had to rethink my original theory. Borrowing a phrase from The Big Lebowski, new information had come to light. On Evan's side of the fence, within a few feet of our satsuma tree, lay a wide pile of tangerine peels. It was now evident that the purloined tangerines had been largely eaten at the time they were picked. I was wrong to assume this was the work of a human perpetrator. No one would take the trouble to steal dozens of tangerines and then hunker down in the next yard to consume the fruit in one sitting. Our thief was a member of the animal kingdom. And guessing from the sheer volume of tangerine consumption, it was mostly likely the work of several animals -- a family of raccoons, most probably.

The raccoon theory also explained the secateur-like cuts on the branches, considering their notoriously sharp claws and teeth. It also fit with the fact that our other citrus fruits -- the Mexican lime and the Meyer lemon -- were untouched. These raccoons wisely selected the citrus with the easily removable peel and the most complex flavor. As I left Evan's yard, I remarked bitterly that our resident raccoons certainly had a taste for satsuma. "Who doesn't?" Evan replied.

True, who doesn't appreciate a good satsuma? I'm heading to the farmer's market now to pick up a few pounds before the season ends. Next year, we'll have to remember to harvest the tree earlier, before our raccoon bandits orchestrate another midnight raid on our fruitful satsuma.

STOP! THIEF!

It's so hard for me to wrap my head around this, but we were most definitely burglarized today. A person (or persons) unknown entered our yard, unauthorized, and stripped one of our tangerine trees -- the satsuma -- of 95 percent of its crop. Sadly, we are the victims of Grand Theft, Tangerine.

Here are the few facts we have. Sometime this afternoon, my husband, whose office is close enough to our house to allow him to pop in now and then for a mid-day meal, returned home for lunch. He went to the yard to pick a few tangerines to eat, and was surprised to find the tree was almost without fruit. When we last took notice, probably sometime yesterday, this tree was laden with delightful satsumas. By my estimate, 60 to 75 tangerines have been pilfered. It was a tidy job, too. No dropped fruit. No torn branches. This crime was planned by someone who brought in a carry-bag and a clippers. Notably, the Meyer lemons and Mexican limes were untouched and still hang from their branches. Likewise, the lettuces, kale and other greens also appear to be fine.

So who took the satsumas? And for what purpose? Was it tangerine lust? Greed? Resale value? A desperate need for Vitamin C? None of this makes any sense.

The dog -- our ever vigilant corgi -- was in the house today, probably napping during the crime. She refuses to provide any useful information, claiming that she heard nothing, smelled nothing, saw nothing. I keep quizzing her, but she answers with the same "I don't know what you're talking about" stare. Tomorrow I'll talk to the neighbors to see if they noticed anyone in our yard.

Our kids both have solid alibis; both boys are away at college at the moment. Being late January, their friends are also mostly away at school. Honestly, I can't picture any of their crowd taking the trouble to steal tangerines, even as a practical joke. It's just not funny.

Do we have any enemies, you ask? No, no one we can finger. In fact, we go out of our way to build good neighbor relations by giving our oversupply of fruits and vegetables away. Our neighbors know that if they want some fruit, just ask for it.

This tangerine loss comes on the heals of our grape debacle this past September, when the local Station Fire created so much ash, our concord crop was dusted with it and made inedible. Now, it's a tangerine thief. We feel so violated.

So no leads -- only trepidation. Will the thief (or thieves) return for the rest of citrus? Will the salad greens go next? Should I make a police report? Who suggested that this gardening thing was a peaceful and relaxing hobby? It's full of heartache and disappointment -- and sometimes, a really good piece of fruit.

Seeds of Winter

This winter, I set about staging a small experiment. I planted seeds from the same packet in two different locations in the yard to see which group would thrive better. Watering levels would be the same, but one spot would receive full sun, while the other would get filtered light.

You're smirking. You know that I'm not the science experiment type and you're finding the idea that I voluntarily conducted an experiment hard to believe. You're right. This was not a botany experiment, but rather a greed-driven back-up plan. I was simply hedging my gardening bets. Given my spotty track record at growing things, I reasoned that if one patch of seedlings failed, I still had a second group in the dirt -- just in case.

Results of this trial: I proved to myself that in the gardening realm, a distance of 15 feet might as well be two different galaxies. The lettuce seeds that I planted in the raised bed under full sun are thriving. (See photo.) The seeds from the same packet planted in dappled sunlight in a ground-level patch of dirt have produced only a few anemic little lettuce leaves. Last night, New Year's Eve, I harvested some of the young, tender leaves grown in the raised bed for our first home-grown salad of the winter season. Sprinkled with good quality olive oil, balsamic vinegar and a few twists of salt, what could be simpler or fresher or tastier. A great way to end the year and welcome the new one.

Happy New Year!

Thank You, Sarah

Dear Sarah,

Please excuse this letter's informal opening, but I feel as if I know you so well, first names are only appropriate. Referring to you as Mrs. Palin would be overly stiff and just wrong, somehow.

So, Sarah, I'm writing today to say how much I've enjoyed your media blitz and to share with you, on this Thanksgiving holiday, some of the many things for which I am grateful.

The recent 24/7 news cycle has been broadcasting non-stop interviews with you of late, which makes me very, very thankful for the First Amendment. Seeing you on TV, or reading about you in the paper, reminds me that, in America, anyone can bask in uncensored media attention, no matter how inane their message is. Because of the First Amendment, Americans have just as much right to listen to vapid speech as they do to profanity, or to sound reason, or to eloquence. Thank you for reminding me of this.

You've also made me thankful for the many women who trail blazed ahead of you and me, winning for future generations of females the right to vote and the opportunity to run for elected office. I'm reminded of the suffragettes and of those first women who secured seats in Congress: Margaret Chase Smith and Shirley Chisholm come to mind. Now a woman with your qualifications, Sarah, can be tapped for the vice presidency, which tells me that our gender no longer needs to be substantially more qualified than their male counterparts in order to be taken seriously. Our foremothers deserve a nod of gratitude on this Thanksgiving day for all of their pioneering efforts.

Finally, I have to hand it to the editor or marketing person who came up with the title for your memoir, "Going Rogue." Until the book's release, I had never thought of you as rogue, given that the dictionary defines such a person as a "villain, trickster, swindler, cheat." But maybe you're hiding some ill deeds that the National Enquirer will soon reveal. While that would be fun, I doubt that you have many more skeletons in your closet. More likely, the book title was just a cynical attempt to position you as an iconoclast of the right, a strategy that may well work. But if true roguishness was your goal, you might consult with your own rogue from Wasilla, Levi Johnston, for some tips. Or better yet, Martha Stewart might give you some pointers. Martha has actual prison time on her rogue resume. Just a thought.

Seriously, Sarah, the rogue thing is at odds with your Alaska-beauty-queen- embracing-home-and-hearth image, which worked so well for you and reminded all of us of the importance of family, especially at Thanksgiving. So in honor of the family values that you previously espoused, I'd like to propose an idea: Rather than spending $25 on your book, people could donate that amount to a local charity that helps needy families. Just to show that I'm fully committed to this idea, I pledge to send $25 to my local chapter of Habitat for Humanity in lieu of owning my own copy of "Going Rogue."

What do you think? If you tell your friends and I tell mine, and they tell all of their friends, we could do some serious fundraising. True, your publisher, Harper Collins, might be a tad annoyed at the idea, but they're a big company and they'll get over it. After all, my idea is for the greater good. Let me know if you're in. Happy Thanksgiving.

With warm regards from Glendale,
Cathleen

GERMINATION!!!

A couple of weeks ago, Dennis finally ripped out most of the summer's tomato plants. A few aging vines that had been tucked into a corner of the yard still remain, but, for the most part, this year's tomato extravaganza can only be relived by pulling a container of puree from the freezer and defrosting.

As you surmised, I was more than ready for those tired, whithered plants to go. But not without a fond farewell. Many of this year's tomato plants showed great aptitude and surpassed all of our expectations. But of late, they were saggy and parched. California summers are brutal, and those plants were weathered, long past their prime.

With the tomato obsession in abeyance, we could focus on a new season. Dennis stirred up the loamy contents of his compost bin and refreshed our raised beds with some dense brown earth material. Meanwhile, I grabbed the graph paper, sketched in our existing planting space, consulted the back of the seed packs, and formed a plan. Then, I carefully tucked seeds just under the dirt's surface -- two types of lettuces, kale, sugar snap peas, carrots, and an Argentinian green called achicoria from a seed envelope that a friend had shared with me.

I carefully studied how much sun each crop demanded and placed the seeds in what I hoped was the best possible neighborhood for each type of plant. Location, location, location -- never truer words than when endeavoring to grow something. I know this from my many past failures, including several of my kids' science fair projects, which went awry because none of us could germinate a simple bean.

Maybe the conditions in our yard are just better now -- more conducive to success -- with the raised beds and the compost and all, because I'm here to report that 20 days after burying tiny seeds, we have germination! Itty bitty little lettuce leaves, minuscule tips of kale, tiny pea shoots, and carrot tops are all breaking through. I'm stupidly proud.

Tomorrow's plan is to thin the young crops, a random and capricious exercise that calls for a devil-may-care approach and great trust that the plants left behind will live long and prosper.

But I'm game for the task. If any seedling gives me the slightest scowl, he's history.

P.S. If you're wondering what's happening with the South Laguna Community Garden (the subject of the previous post), an invitation has been extended to Michelle Obama in the hopes that she'll make a very special appearance at the garden's opening cermonies. No harm in dreaming big.