The Urbane Homestead

Mulch, glorious mulch

Here's my big excitement this week: I have 8 cubic yards of shredded hardwood mulch in my driveway! Mulch, of course, is the very best thing you can do for your plants. It helps the soil retain moisture, it breaks down into organic matter and improves the quality of your  soil, it insulates so the roots of your plants don't bake in hot weather and  freeze in cold weather, it discourages the weeds, and it looks nice. What looks nice, though, is a nice fine-grained mulch like cocoa or buckwheat hulls or shredded bark or shredded leaves or even straw—but unless you have a shredder (which I don't), all these cost money. In the past, I've used wood chips as mulch, which is free if you are lucky enough to have persuaded a kindly arborist working in your neighborhood who is willing to give you their excess chips. Wood chips, however, are chunky and pointy, and don't make such a nice cushy bed for your plants. So, setting aside the argument about protecting your plant investment, it's always a struggle between being cheap and being a responsible gardener.

And then, in May, I went to a wedding celebration party at my friends Emily and David's house. David is an enthusiastic and skilled gardener, and he had surpassed himself in getting the yard ready for the party—including spreading lots and lots of shredded hardwood mulch in all the beds. David's gardening style (like most people's) is considerably more precise and less haphazard than mine, but I was swept away by the cozy beauty of those heavily mulched beds. The brown mulch set off the green plants so brilliantly! The plants looked so happy and healthy! The garden looked so tidy and fresh! I resolved right then to mulch my yard in just the same way.

As happens, though, the days and then weeks started slipping away. I promised myself that I would most certainly mulch before we left for Argentina, so the garden would be protected in my absence. That didn't happen either, and so when I returned I found a garden chock full of happy, healthy weeds growing in rock-hard dirt.

I've learned my lesson: after weeks of weeding and watering, I'm now going to be spending the rest of the summer spreading mulch, mulch, mulch, and swearing, as God is my witness, I'll never be mulchless again.

Of weeds and cannibalism

Vicki at I Love Orange has posted some pictures of garlic mustard with a (correct) exhortation to tear out this invasive weed whenever you see it. And here's an even better idea, from the Brooklyn Botanical Garden: eat it!

Think delicious winter invasive-plant salads, mouth-watering invasive-plant omelets, or perfectly cooked pastas infused with invasive-plant pesto.

Rather like eating the body of one's enemy killed in battle as a way of humiliating the enemy. E-e-e-excellent (rubbing hands together nefariously).

On the other hand, I've been waging a ten-year battle against Bishop's Weed, a rather pretty and very—ahem—vigorous plant which has been trying to take over my entire back yard. Over the years I've tried poisoning it with glyphosate (Round-Up), I've tried smothering it under old shower curtains and several feet of leaf mulch, I've tried picking it and pulling it and digging it up bit by bit, but however fast I worked at its destruction, it could grow even faster.

At some point I discovered that Bishop's Weed, too, is edible, having started cultivated life as a pot herb in England. This didn't surprise me since it has an astringent fragrance which would be not unpleasant under normal circumstances. However, when I steamed some up for dinner, I learned that the hours I had spent crouched in the yard, scrabbling in the dirt to remove every shred of root of this despised plant, had conceived a hatred in me so intense that I couldn't bring myself to eat it, however humiliating it might have been for my enemy.

This story has a happy ending, sort of. After our house was raised and our yard was razed, the Bishop's Weed has been greatly reduced, so that now all I have to do is stay vigilant and keep my trigger finger on the Round-Up, and victory is in sight.

Kitchen detritus

My sister mentioned composting on her blog recently. Compost, like dogs, is something of a running theme in our lives. When we were growing up, we always had a compost pile for carrot peelings and teabags. Right around the time I graduated from college, my parents moved into a beautiful new house on the river. The garden is located to the west of the many-windowed sunroom, and in the evening we would often see Ruffy standing on top of the compost pile in silhouette with the glowing red of the setting sun behind him as he snacked on eggshells and banana peels. Sort of like those Southwestern paintings of a coyote howling at the moon. Sort of.

Over the years I've had compost piles of varying degrees of success and stinkitude. The two are intimately related—compost does not smell when done properly, with layers of green (vegetable trimmings, coffee grounds, the abovementioned eggshells and banana peels) alternating with layers of brown (leaves, grass clippings, shredded paper). Throw in a couple of handful of dirt, just add water, and, as the bumper stickers say, compost happens.

Thanks to the bunnies, our compost pile now is a veritable mountain of organic matter. Week after week of rabbit hay, litter and droppings really add up, and in winter the pile can't generate the heat it needs to break down. The pile is huge, and, of course, hugely attractive to any puppies that happen to be hanging around in the backyard. Mmmmm. A trip to the ReUse Center for enough chicken wire to make an puppy-excluding enclosure is on the agenda for today.

Cooked food, mouldy bread, and lunch leftovers are inappropriate for compost, but I've had good luck throwing that sort of thing in the dog waste composter. Bones should also stay out of the compost, and in my house they are slated for another purpose: the stock pot.

I keep my giant stock pot in the chest freezer in the basement. Parsnip parings, onion ends, parsley stems, chicken bones, that last inch of wine in the glass—all go into the stock pot, and wait, frozen, until a critical mass has accumulated. Then the frosty pot is filled with water, popped on the stove, and the heck is boiled out of it. A bay leaf or some peppercorns may be added, or not. The refrigerator may get a quick cleaning and anything too tired to eat may be thrown into the pot. For some reason this recipe yields invariably delicious stock. I strain it, freeze it in quart containers, and use it in all kinds of things like soups and risottos and so on. Meanwhile the pot goes back into the freezer (after being washed, of course) and the cycle of stock begins anew.

One word of advice: if you have stock simmering on the stove, do not forget about it and leave the house for four or five hours. The result is dangerous, messy, and makes your entire house smell like smoke for months afterwards.

When the rubber hits the fan

Ah, the weekend. A time to relax on the sofa in silk lounging pajamas, sipping a cosmopolitan and leafing through Vanity Fair.

Or not. I spent part of my weekend digging a big hole in the backyard so I can shovel dog, um, waste. Why? Because I get tired of wandering around the yard, one hand covered with one blue New York Times bag, scooping and dropping sticky clumps into another blue New York Times bag (happily opaque), so I made myself a dog waste composter.

First, I chose a corner of the yard that is far from tree roots (for ease of digging) and from vegetable or fruit plantings (for good hygiene). I had purchased some hardware cloth—that wire mesh that everyone calls chicken wire but isn't really—which was about three feet high when standing on its side. I dug a hole that was about three feet deep, which I measured with the assistance of a local resident who is about four feet tall, and was willing to jump into the hole at rather too regular intervals. Having wired the hardware cloth into a cylinder, I sunk it into the hole and backfilled the sides. I sprinkled in some Rid-X septic starter, which is really just enzymes and not as scary as it looks or sounds. An old trash can lid finished the project with elegance and style.

I share this story for two reasons. One, I wanted to impress you all with my environmental conscience and how hard I work to keep unsanitary matter out of the landfill. Two, I wanted to make sure that if you see me wandering around the backyard with a big shovel, and I'm burying something in a mysterious dark hole while flies buzz around me, you won't call the police or Jimmy Hoffa's friends.

Back (?) to the salt mine

My vacation, like all good things, and come to think of it, all bad things, and also all things of no particular quality one way or another, must come to an end. It's been a lovely week. I spent lots of time in the yard, of course, planting and paving and digging soil. On Thursday, when it started raining, I moved indoors, reading, knitting, and organizing. I was so industrious I scared myself. Who was this person? I'm ready to go back to work just so I can settle back into a less frenetically productive routine.

Of course, I'm not going back to a routine at all, because tomorrow I start (drum roll, please) my new job. Everyone knows it's a good idea to relax and rest before your first day. Your new employers have selected you from a broad field of qualified candidates, impressed by your competence, your ideas, and your energy. You want to be at the top of your form when you walk through that door, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to  knock 'em dead and show 'em that they made the right decision when they chose you. The day before, you'll want to make sure your most professional looking suit is clean and pressed, and that your shirt is crisp, and your pantyhose run-free. You'll want to check the refrigerator for the makings of a good hearty breakfast, so you'll have strength and stamina all morning long. Maybe you'll even want to spend the afternoon reviewing all the information you've collected about your new place of employment, so you'll show up fresh and informed.

Makes sense to me. So why, I wonder, did I spend the entire afternoon recreating Aguirre the Wrath of God?

My parents live in the woods on the Huron River, and I've been meaning to go out there and collect some plants for my rain garden. Native plants, of course, are much more likely to do well it that environment, and there are plants aplenty out at Mom and Dad's. So I put on my old gardening clothes and threw my favorite spade, a tarp, and the dog in the car. Dad had set out a little plastic cart for me to use; in the past, I've dug up a selection of ferns, lungwort, jack-in-the-pulpit, and whatnot from around the house. But standing there and looking down towards the river, I got a "better" idea: plants from the river marsh.

When I say my parents live on the river, what that really means is that they live on a woodsy bluff about 200 yards above the river; between the house and the bank is a)a very steep slope; b)trees, dead and alive; c)poison ivy and brambles; d)a large marshy area full of skunk cabbage; e)lots and lots of slippery mud. Nevertheless, I plunged down the slope with cart and shovel, the dog slipping and sliding along with me. At the bottom of the hill is a raised area, on which there is a walking path that follows the river. The dog wouldn't even come that far; he stopped halfway down and watched me for about twenty minutes before going back to the house for a nap. I got the cart onto the path and spent the next hour wading around in the sticky marsh mud, and digging up heavy wet root balls.

I found all kinds of treasure: irises, wild rose, marsh marigolds, mayapples, cimicifuga, reeds, ferns, grasses, and even twinleaf, which is abundant there but apparently rare elsewhere. Pretty, isn't it? The leaves look like soft green butterflies on a stem. There were so many beautiful plants that new ones sprang into the gaps I left as soon as I stepped away. I was delirious with plant acquisition, as well as caked with mud. I slogged over to the river's edge to rinse my spade. I stood there and breathed deeply of the verdant essence of spring, and, at the same time, slid right into the cold muddy water up to midthigh. I could feel my boots filling up like a teakettle. I was so hot and sweaty that it felt kind of good, but when I got back to the path, I discovered that trying to pull them off only created a vacuum inside the boot, and that they were not coming off without some assistance.

I think you can imagine the rest: me pulling 100 pounds of plant, dirt, and cart up 100 yards of what seemed like a vertical incline, covered with mud and leaves, in squelchy boots. And yet, the triumph when I reached the top. The beauty that will live in my rain garden. And then, the many, many ibuprofen, and the sheer fatigue, and the wondering, not only about why I pursued this particular activity the day before starting a new job, but also why I subsequently stayed up much later than I should have writing about it.

My life of leisure

I'm on vacation, on glorious, glorious vacation. I've been on a strict morning regimen of sleeping in, wearing only the grubbiest of clothes, and playing in the yard. In the afternoons, a little light retailing, a nice walk around the neighborhood, a cup of tea. Oh, sure, there have been some tough decisions to make (Should I answer the phone or not? Should I read another mind candy science fiction book, or dive into the new Orhan Pamuk book about Istanbul? Cheese toasty for lunch, or tuna salad?), but I'm managing.

Here's what I've gotten planted: two pawpaw "trees" (var. Davis), one American Persimmon, one elderberry (Johns). Spikenard (it's what root beer is made from). Strawberries (both some cute little plants and some very pathetic bare roots—we'll see if those even grow, let alone bear fruit.) Three Dunbar plums (not quite sure what exactly they are, but I hope to find out.) A lot of herbs. A row of lavender ("Munstead"). Some lettuce, radishes, and tomatos (I want some kind of payoff this year!). This and that in the rain garden (AKA the Sea of Mud).

I've also put in a little stone path from the driveway to the front walk. It's like putting together a jigsaw puzzle, but heavier. Lots heavier, in fact. That's just one reason why ibuprofen is my friend.

I have a fun day planned for tomorrow: I'm going to fill up the back of my car with composted sheep and llama manure. If anyone wants to join me, just give me a call! (It's not an offer you'll get from anyone else, I bet.)

Results of our labors

Yesterday was a very exciting day. Why? Because it rained all day long! Before you think, "The inevitable has finally come to pass: she has left the path of sanity and gone off-roading into the sunset," take a look at what I spent all last weekend doing:

It's my new Rain Garden! Yes, it looks like a ditch in my front yard with some Schedule 40 PVC piping leading to it, but in reality, it's our own personal wetland. The piping is attached to two of the downspouts from the gutters, and leads the runoff from the roof directly into the garden. Soon it will be planted with lots of yummy green plants that like to have wet feet sometimes, and to be dry the rest of the time.

Yesterday's rain was its first test. Look at the garden today:
Lush and gorgeous. Well, almost, anyway. Soon.

More about rain gardens.

A truth every gardener knows

Browsing through the Pirke Avot (which I linked to in my last post) I found this:

Rabbi Levitas of Yavneh used to say: Be exceeding lowly of spirit, for the hope of man is with worms.

Indeed, a garden is a wonderful thing for inspiring humility and sure knowledge of the frailty of life. How many vibrant, lovely plants, rich with foliage and buds when fresh from the garden store, have been reduced to a withered brown stem under my desperate and hapless care? A lot.

But the marvelous thing about gardening is that there's always a next year. Winter comes, and you're off the hook for a while; with the passage of time and the chitter of snow against the window, you forget about your lack of success. Your confidence rests and rebuilds itself, and then the garden catalogues start arriving, and there you are, dreaming of spring and the Eden you're going to create out of your yard and writing big fat checks to the seed companies.

Luckily, the fact of it is that each year of dead plants does serve a purpose. As each layer of plant tissue decomposes and returns to the soil, and the microbes and, yes, the worms, stir it all up, the soil gets richer and yummier until it eventually gets to the point where it is the perfect home for the right plant. Excessive lowliness of spirit, and willingness to risk further humiliation, ultimately creates a better earth—with some help, of course, from the worms.

Land/dreamscaping

Ah, spring. Here in Michigan, where the population's preferred temperature is about 5 degrees below the national average (no kidding - it said so in the paper just tonight), iron-grey skies begin to show variations in color, the slightest hint of sogginess perfumes the air, and one last freak blizzard marks winter's last gasp of glory. At least, that's how it usually goes. This year we had early snow, then no snow, then a nice warm January, then bitter cold, and now it looks like spring is more or less here. With such a painless winter, we hardly deserve spring so soon.

Because it froze so early last fall, we weren't able to have our sandlot graded - the sandlot, that is, that we used to call the "backyard" before the basement replacement. As a result, it's a sea of, well, sand, and muck, and dirt, with not a scrap of green left. Or so I thought. Incredibly, bulbs are sprouting: snowdrops, squill, crocuses, daffodils, and even tulips - despite the fact that I dug up all the bulbs I could find before the work started last summer, in a  foolish attempt to save them (they're saved, all right, in a bucket in the shed - and a fat lot of good that does), and despite being squashed on a daily basis by heavy equipment for four months. It's a testament to the tenacity of life, and an apt one, too, because a true bulb, for example a tulip, contains the entire plant - stem, leaves, flower - all compact within its meat, just waiting for a little chill, a little warmth, a little water, to spring up and be alive. Besides, most bulbs are edible, which, even though one might not consider eating them except under duress, nevertheless gives them that extra edge of utililty. Just in case.

I have great plans for the yard. I envision stone paths wandering through a luscious landscape of edible but beautiful plantings: quince, hardy kiwi, currant and gooseberry, scarlet runner beans and okra, pawpaws, espaliered apple and plum trees, perhaps a medlar. (Maybe I should actually taste a medlar before I plant one. They're supposed to taste like spicy applesauce, but flavors are so difficult to describe accurately). There'll be lettuce beds and sorrel patches in the shady areas, lavender and thyme to the south of the house, and herbs of all sorts. In the front, there will be a rain garden watered exclusively by the runoff from the roof. In the back, the vegetable garden, restored to its former yummy glory, will fill the freezer with a whole winter's worth of summer. I'm also thinking grape arbor, and rain barrels, and a strawberry bed, and raspberries trained on a little fence. And a little moss garden by the front walk. It will be an Eden, a Paradise, a haven, a marvel of beauty and usefulness. You're laughing, I can tell! Hmph. Well, maybe you're right. I should probably start by cleaning up the rest of the leftover ductwork and pvc piping that ended up in the yard after the basement was done. But then you'll see!