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Vashon Garden Tour: Where the Grass Was Greener

Tom
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Vashon Garden Tour: Where the Grass Was Greener

I take my hat off (Elmer Fudd wants it back) to any homeowner brave and hardworking enough to participate in a garden tour. For a man who thinks folding clothes is a chore, the idea of maintaining a dandelion free lawn or growing a rose bush without black spot sends me scrambling for the security and comfort of my backyard hammock.

While I do struggle with the concept of pastoral perfection at my place, I had no trouble being treated to some of Vashon Island’s finest home landscapes and dreamy locales on the VAA garden tour last weekend. Bravo and Brava to the island gardeners who worked their tookuses off for charity and the enjoyment of others. In the process, I had a blast and enjoyed my own comparative sturdy in gardening philosophies and techniques.  For some, the grass really is greener.

I had no idea wood could be stacked this neatly.

My woodpile has more of a Frank Gehry EMP feel to it.

I was puzzled by this well-stacked wall of bricks.

Unlike my pile of terracotta squares, theirs did not support a slew of gardening gewgaws and tools, nor was it sidling up to a tangle of hoses.

I can unequivocally say that my garden has something none of the tour gardens had: weeds, lots of weeds.

The Open and Shut Case of the Stubborn Man

Tom
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The Open and Shut Case of the Stubborn Man

Boz, a proponent of the open door policy

In case you are unaware, men have fragile egos. (Please keep this under wraps or else I’ll be booted out of the club.) As slightly evolved hunters and gatherers, we like to call the shots and be right most (nah, make that all) of the time. Thank goodness for GPS; now we really don’t have to ask for directions and can still be right.

That said, I had a recent “discussion” with my friend and on-island Annie Oakley, Tamara, a woman who can hunt, fish, cook, play a mandolin and build a chicken coop. Resourceful she is, shrinking violet she is not.

Several days ago, I helped (make that forced) my back porch and most-used door into place. After hearing an unusual click, I discovered the doorknob would not turn. The shut door was now a barrier, blocking Boz, Gracie and yours truly from our favorite escape route. Unfortunately, there is neither a key to the door nor access to the locking mechanism.  I tried everything to free it, but the doorknob was frozen in place and not giving a inch (much like me in the debate to follow). Did I mention we have no locksmith on the island?

The door before Tamara McFixit entered

That evening Tamara dropped by and bounded up the stairs to the door that normally allows her entrance without the inconvenience of having to knock or ring of the bell. She tugged, pushed, and rattled the doorknob. I yelled from the kitchen, “Come in through the front door.” Within seconds of explaining my closed-door dilemma, Tamara, said “Oh that would be easy to fix.” As she started reciting fifty ways to release the lever, I stopped her, “Tamara, I’ve tried everything, so don’t worry about it. I’m going to try to find a skeleton key.” She smiled, and continued to tell me how she could fix it. (I feared one of her plans may have included a saw-all and dynamite.)

For a quick distraction, I changed the subject to dog care, and reconfirmed with Tamara that she would drop by on Saturday to feed, water and walk Boz and Gracie as I was going to be in Seattle that evening.

Saturday night, I returned late only to have my truck’s headlights illuminate Miss Tamara’s handiwork (and unflinching tenacity). The back porch door was wide open and held in place by a brick. (Nice touch, Tamara.) I couldn’t decide what was worse, having a blocked entrance or having to say, “Yes, Tamara, you were right and I was wrong.” There would also be the indignity of having to repeat that line over and over again in the presence of friends and strangers with Tamara supervising the finer points of the story.

To add insult to injury, Tamara left a handwritten progress report of the day’s activities, including a no-poop entry for Boz. (Oh the indignity, Boz.) Notice the 3:00 – 3:45 time slot. Congratulatory, but not giving an inch, I said, “Nice work Tamara, but I guess the door really wasn’t so easy to fix; so it took you 45 minutes to free it from the jam, huh?”

She replied, “What are you talking about?  I fixed the door in ten minutes, and could have fixed it in five if I had another set of hands available. The rest of the time I spent hanging out with the dogs and prodding Boz to get with it and do his thing.” (Ouch, that hurt. Boz concurs.)

The only thing that made the conversation bearable was my closing inquiry, “So Tamara, when would you like me to come over to set up your new laptop and wireless router?”

I smiled. She smiled.

Ah, a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. No doubt if I asked Tamara, she would qualify it as a draw.

Okay, this may kill me Tamara, but thank you for fixing my door. Boz on the other hand has not forgiven you for the insensitivity of your earlier remark.

Attack of the Mutant Deer From Outer Space

Tom
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Attack of the Mutant Deer From Outer Space

Mutant deer from outer space: Note the way they can warp time and space at will, all while devouring my lawn. I’d shoo them away but their mind meld has left me incapacitated.

Deer are behaving differently this year: smarter, choosier and more willing to risk life and hoof for forbidden shoots and flavorful leaves — namely anything I’ve planted that is cherished and/or fruit bearing. While not officially confirmed (I smell a cover-up), I believe the deer on Vashon to be a mutant strain of antlered space aliens sent here to observe our ways and test our mettle.

First encounter: Two weeks ago, my neighbor Tim called to say he saw a deer in my fenced orchard. I could barely find time to say thank you and goodbye before hanging up the phone and charging out the door to the orchard. After fumbling with the gate, I was in, and low and behold a doe, a deer, a female deer was staring right back at me, undaunted. Then, she took about ten quick steps and hopped over my eight-foot fence with the ease of stepping over a shoestring. On the other side, she stopped to grab a couple bites of tender blackberry shoots for good measure and meandered just to make a point. I later discovered the doe had gained access by wedging her way between the gate and fence, stretching a bungee cord to its tearing point.  Yep, this deer wasn’t from around these parts.

An alien’s favorite foliage and fruit, the fig (a.k.a ficus edibulis denude-us).

No Sweet cherries this year

Second encounter:  Fence repaired and days later, I sensed something was amiss again when I opened the gate to the orchard. I turned slowly to witness the horror and devastation, and begin whimpering like a kid on roller skates with skinned knees and bruised ego. My row of young cherry trees looked like poodle-cut topiary, the branches munched bare with a few tufts of leaves on top. The doe, still in the orchard, bounded out of the woods at full speed with Boz and Gracie in hot pursuit. Since fence jumping seemed passe (done on her last visit), she opted to blast through my deer fence like it was wet tissue paper.

After scouring the perimeter, I discovered a towering cottonwood tree had dropped a large branch and brought down a section of fence in the woods. Was it merely gravity at work or…did the mutant deer used some kind of laser to bring it down. After whining to a couple friends who would understand my angst, I fixed the fence, and cursed the antlered aliens (much like Charlton Heston did in Planet of the Apes, shaking his fist to the sky and damning those bossy primates, that is the apes, not us.)

2011, a non-vintage year

Third encounter: Several days later I discovered new damage as deer had stripped most of the leaves from my 15 grape vines–all of which were nicely trellised, a veritable vertical smorgasbord of budded delights.  Rose tips rounded out their late night gorging, with a few plums trees serving as digestifs. Again, the deer had determined the new weakest link in my fence and wedged through a fence section I had spliced, securely I thought.  I can just see them now in their night vision goggles casing the perimeter, looking for flaws in my wall of defense. I went back to the house to stew, steam and pout, and possibly burn a Bambi DVD and shop online for venison.)

One week later, my spirits revisiting a kinder, gentler state of being, I noticed my apple trees (above) looked strange. Not again! Not again! Not again! The fourth time was not a charm. I was ready to move back to a cramped condo in the city and raise tomatoes in pots on my deck.

Mutant deer are wily alright. Yep, the hungry herbivores fell back on an old trick and activated their stratospheric wind machine, which brought down a very large Madrona branch. Of course it fell perfectly perpendicular to the fence, flattening it in seconds.

T-posts, zip ties and a plastic fence are no match for a falling half ton log (and the skills of mutant alien deer).

While I don’t have any photographs of the mutant deer in their alien form, I did make a sketch of one when caught one off guard. Beware of laser tipped antler points and spiraling hypnotic eyes. Stare too long, and they can telepathically will you to open the gates to your most succulent gardens and orchards.  (Not to worry, the  National Security Agency has been alerted.)

English bulldogs asleep on the porchGracie and Boz have assured me that they are on it. Here, feigning sleep, ready to launch their surprise attack on mutant deer from outer space!

Listen Up Poppies: Time to Rise and Shine

Tom
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Livermere poppyFor most of May my garden flowers languished in bed, hunkered down and hitting the snooze button thanks to an endless month of unseasonably cool, wet days. With the first week of June delivering  temperatures a few degrees above 70, my plants are finally beginning to answer the wake-up calls. Ferns unfurl. Lilies tower. Snapdragons tease. The first act of a lengthy seasonal show is garnering rave reviews from  this head weeder, full-time waterer and constant admirer.

Hardy Gloxinia (Incarvillea delavayi) is hardly known, though once a hugely popular cottage garden perennial. Maybe it’s time you rediscover this stunning classic.

Lewisia cotyledon: This Pacific Northwest native is one of my favorite flowers, erupting each spring with parasols of shockingly bright (and bossy) pinks, oranges, golds and yellows.

Oriental Poppy (Papaver orientale ‘Beauty of Livermere’) : If flowers are showgirls, then the Oriental poppies are strippers, uh make that burlesque performers. Bold, cheeky, in-your-face, these posies demand your attention every step of the way, from buds to flowers to seed heads. And the above variety, Beauty of Livermere, dresses (and undresses) in the reddest of reds.

Siberian Iris (variety unknown): As the name might suggest, this plant is as tough as nails and can take cold winters, hot summers, periods of drought and general neglect. It creates a lovely drift of blossoms and the leaves look good all summer and into fall.

Omphalodes verna: Creeping forget-me-not is a charming ground cover that sports sky blue blossoms in spring and gently spreads without overtaking the flower bed.

Madame Alfred Carriere Rose: This heirloom rose (noisette) is one of my favorites, and while I eat it up visually, the deer take a more literal approach. After the first flush of blooms, I’ll be transplanting this fragrant beauty behind the deer fence so she can establish permanent roots and rambling growth, protected from a herd of antlered overeaters.

Stay tuned; dahlias, zinnia, lilies and hollyhocks are preparing to take the stage.

For the Record: My Neighbor Dan Is the Man

Tom
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For the Record: My Neighbor Dan Is the Man

Or The Day Big Red Refused to Move

Happier times: A man and his new riding mower…vroom, vroom

No doubt my neighbor and friend Dan has enjoyed (make that endured) the moniker Dan the Man his whole life. Well, I’m here to tell him to accept the title proudly and embrace his awesomeness, because Dan, you truly are the Man.  So where is this bro-mance coming from? For starters, Dan is a mechanical genius, or better said, a genius with all things mechanical.

I think I’m a smart guy (think is the operative word here), but Dan has that innate gift of really understanding processes, outcomes and mechanical relationships. He’s my go-to guy when I’m stumped on how to fix something. He quietly ponders, makes the right inquires and then magically has a solution. I’d pit him against IBM’s supercomputer Watson any day.

So yesterday, when I was taking advantage of the first warm, dry day in months, piloting my riding mower through the nose-high reeds that I call lawn, my mower stopped. Let me rephrase that, my relatively new, warranty-just-expired, 44-hours-of-use mower that cost more than my truck, stopped moving. (Perhaps a sign that I should eat lighter lunches.)

Mind you Big Red is still running, just not moving. For the next half hour I try everything, and I mean everything that my mechanically-challenged mind can consider. Frustration mounts as I kick the tire, grunt a little, and devolve into a Nancy-Kerrigan-inspired cry/whine: “Why? Why? Why?” And so my meltdown and tirade begins.

“What a piece of crap! How come everything falls apart after minimal use. I remember when the brand Craftsman meant something. It’s a lawn, not the Serengeti or the fertile central plains of the Pampas. Is it too much to ask that a riding mower does its job of letting you ride and mow? Is 44 hours of use, the new timeline of planned obsolescence? (And there is a gauge to remind you of this.)

All the while, Boz and Gracie look on from the porch, smart enough to know this is not a good time to beg for a treat.

Gracie and Boz sizing up my mood, then opting to take a nap. They will revisit the idea of begging for treats later.

With money being tight, it was all I could do to call one of our local repair shops to make an appointment. Within one sentence of our exchange, I realized I would have had a better chance asking Nero for a fire extinguisher than this employee for help.

“I’m calling regarding mower repair.”

“uh, huh”

“My riding mower is running but not moving.”

“yeah”

“Well I wanted to bring it in to have it looked at.”

“Okay”

“Any idea what it might be?”

“It could be a lot of things, won’t know until you bring it in.”

“Any idea how long that will take?”

“Depending on the problem, could be one, two, three weeks, maybe even four.” (Let me interject, based on earlier experiences, I know to double all his figures whether cost or time related.)

“Okay, once I get it in my truck I’ll bring  it over.”

“Sounds good.” (Translation: can I hang up now? I’ve got a tin of corn nuts and crossword puzzle to get back to.)

At that moment, standing on principal and an half-mown lawn, I swore I’d pluck the grass with tweezers before giving them my business.

Now what? And then, I received a divine sign. Like the heavens opening up and a chorus of angels descending upon me, I heard a magical din, a din created by Dan, hammering away on some exceptionally cool project no doubt, just a orchard field away. I was desperate and Dan never seems to mind teaching Tom how to fish…or plumb…or construct…or….

I hopped the fence and headed over. He was most welcoming (I would have run the other way if I saw me coming) and obligingly said he was happy to take a break and return with me to investigate the mystery of the immobile riding mower. I turned it on and he said, “probably just a belt.” I turned it off and held down the clutch for him as he worked his magic under the chassis like a heart surgeon with a tee time.

“Done.”

“What do you mean, done, Dan?”

“It’s fixed. The belt just came off. Now it’s back on and it should ride fine.”

I saddled up and flashed him a crossed-fingers sign to his amusement, and road off toward the Rhodie bed. I jumped off and pogo-ed  up and down like a twelve-year old, happy dance, happy dance, happy dance. Dan smiled (and hopefully didn’t think his neighbor was a certifiable nutcase).

I showed him some of my latest projects, courtesy of his previous input, freed him from my clutches and then sent him home with a jar of jam and my unwavering devotion. Yep let me just say it again, DAN IS THE MAN.  Thanks Dan, there’s a pie in your future.

Oh, and just one more thing. Sorry Sears, I didn’t mean it. Craftsman, you had me at “hello.” You had me at “hello.”

Freshly mown grass and the sound of silence (and a normal pulse rate)

Croquet anyone?

Heritage Recipe: Rhubarb Berry Cake Pudding

Tom
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Heritage Recipe: Rhubarb Berry Cake Pudding
berry cake pudding
Rhubarb berry cake pudding: gooey goodness by the spoonful

Recipe updated February 2013; a few fixes for a better cake pudding.

Rhubarb rocks and rules in my garden and kitchen.  As spring’s first crop, the cheeky stalks burst forth like delicious red exclamation points begging to be plucked. I happily oblige.

berry cake pudding ready to be bakedReady for its bath, uh, water bath I should say.

Seasonally sublime: Fresh is best

I’m always on the lookout for great seasonal recipes for my garden harvests. Rhubarb is a particular favorite because the recipes are usually homespun, easy and delicious. The fruit choice of church socials and neighborhood potlucks, a rhubarb dessert is just as American as any apple pie. (Bring on the John Philip Sousa!)

Rhubarb Berry Cake Pudding from the Great State of Washington (blueberries added for good measure)

The New York Times Heritage Cook Book (a great garage sale find ) features this (adapted) recipe from my home state. Part pudding, part cake, it’s all delicious, especially if you like a little goo factor in your sweets.

Rhubarb Berry Cake Pudding

Print recipe
Rhubarb Berry Cake Pudding
Serves 4-6
Prep time 15 minutes
Cook time 45 minutes
Total time 1 hour
Meal type Dessert
Rhubarb Berry Cake Pudding is a wonderfully gooey, cakey treat. The dessert gives you a little sweetness and a little pucker, and a whole serving of doughy goodness.

Ingredients

  • 2 cups Sugar
  • 1/4 cup Flour
  • 2 tablespoons melted butter
  • 2 cups milk
  • 1/4 teaspoon salt
  • 4 eggs (separated)
  • 1 cup rhubarb
  • 1 cup berries (your favorite type)

Directions

Step 1
Preheat oven 325 degrees.
Bowl 1: Combine 1.5 C sugar with flour
Step 2
Bowl 2: Mix together butter, milk, and salt
Step 3
Combine bowl 1 and bowl 2
Step 4
Toss rhubarb and berries with 1/2 Cup sugar.
Add rhubarb and berries to lightly beaten egg yolks and then add all to combined bowl mixture, and incorporate gently
Step 5
Whip egg whites until stiff but not dry. Fold egg whites into combined bowl mixture and pour into greased shallow baking dish (or individual cups). Sprinkle with sugar
Step 6
Set pan in a larger water bath pan, and bake for 45 minutes. Serve warm with vanilla ice cream (or Creme Anglaise if you fancy something fancy).
Powered by GetMeCooking

Rhubarb letters TCI love to play with my food.

Fresh Rhubarb Rules Need I say more? Enjoy!

How I Can Tell Summer’s Almost Here

Tom
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How I Can Tell Summer’s Almost Here

Not so fast, this was last summer.

I don’t need a calendar to tell me summer is fast approaching. Here in the Pacific Northwest, the signs are everywhere: the mercury is tipping 60 degrees Fahrenheit; I’m donning cotton sweaters instead of wool; and my tomato plants are beginning to bend their stems toward the sky. Yes siree, as a keen observer and gifted guru of reasoning, I know the harbingers of summers when I see them. Here are a few more from my corner of the world.

growing asparagus1. After applying a truckload of manure, mulching with a bale or two of straw and weeding regularly, I have one spear of asparagus ready to harvest and cook. (Chew slowly, Tom, chew very slowly.) frozen food in ziploc bags2. Opening the freezer door, last summer’s bounty has one serving to go: halibut, squash and blackberries (one bag each)

3. Canning jars outnumber canned goods.

sleeping bulldogs on the sofa4. Couch Chameleons (subspecies: Sofafuss Camouflageous Vashonia) awaken from their uninterrupted and lengthy winter hibernation to migrate to warmer environs, namely porches, decks, driveways and lawns.

5. The inside temperature begins to match the outside temperature. (Please note, this can also be true during power outages.)

6. The promise of warmer days brings out the barber in me. Thankfully, this year I sought help from trained professionals.

I’m ready summer; bring it on!

Cleaning Up: A Gift Bag of Good Intentions

Tom
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Cleaning Up: A Gift Bag of Good Intentions

cleaning suppliesClearly, there’s a message in these bottles.

Last week I received a less than subtle rebuke regarding my slovenly ways, make that alleged slovenly ways. Momentarily taken back by the frightful experience of retrieving a cold drink from my refrigerator, my friend Tyson felt compelled to share his thoughts on the condition of it. (Good thing he didn’t open up the produce bin or I would have had to administer CPR.)

If the broken chair isn’t telling enough, perhaps a Christmas Tree stand on the porch in May is.

I have to admit while my face feigned interest , the sensory network between my ears and brain was blocked (a natural reflex any time I hear,  “You need to clean.”) I did pick out a couple lines, “Blah, blah, blah Tom…Tom, blah, blah, fridge.” His shock-and-awe moment of disbelief was countered with my eye-rolling, simmer-down approach of non-urgency. I offered, “If the bottle is chilled, I don’t see a problem.”

To me, Lived-in is a interior style just as real as Mid-Century Modern or French Provincial . Let’s face it, one’s man’s mess is another man’s cozy. And may I point out in my defense, dirty dishes stacked in the sink show my concern for water conservation, and clothes draped over furniture protect my fine furnishings from dog hair, dust and the fading effects of sunlight. Besides, the trouble with vacuuming is it never gets resolved. You have to do it over and over again; that just seems wrong to me and surely unsustainable in my world.

A ceramic pumpkin and pile of winter coats protect one chair, Boz the other.

With tidy on trial at my house, we discussed, sparred and finally put the issue to rest (or so I thought). My Tom Sawyer tactic of suggesting he show me how to clean a house from top to bottom was most ineffective if not laughable, so I tried reverse psychology, “Tyson, I wouldn’t allow you to clean my house even if you begged me.”  (Drat, that didn’t work either. Neatniks are a wily lot.)

A tale of two loafers: Maybe those shoes should go in the closet and Miss Gracie should sleep on the floor. (Not gonna happen.)

A week or so later, I met friends for dinner off-island. Tyson, the icebox inspector, was last to arrive. Before sitting down, he handed me a snappy looking and heavy tote, a gift bag of untold goodies no doubt, a peace offering, an apology for the cleaning critiques of his last visit. Unzipping the top flap, I looked in and could see the joke was on me. I began to chuckle realizing the last laugh would not be mine. Out of the tote, I pulled an arsenal of cleaning products, from scouring sponges to Pine Sol to Windex.

Everyone else also laughed, laughed a bit too hard in fact. I asked, “Seriously, you guys think my house needs cleaning?”

Now the co-conspirators were tight-lipped, and their silence seemed particularly articulate.

“Okay, I give, so tell me, what are these Scrubbing Bubbles of which you speak?

Does a Bird Poop in the Kitchen?

Tom
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Does a Bird Poop in the Kitchen?

Direct hit: a disapproving dive bomb, a bird’s rebuke on my blog?

When a Critic Came to Roost or…

Yesterday the mercury neared 70 degrees, a veritable heatwave for the Pacific Northwest! With every door wide open to capture the moment, I returned from planting kale to find an airborne intruder in the house. A Spotted Towhee, startled by two bombastic bulldogs, darted around my kitchen like a BB in a Pachinko machine. Cornered between wall and window, I gently closed in and cupped the little guy in my hands, careful not to trip over the always curious and underfoot Boz and Gracie.  (“Is that a treat, is that a something to eat?”)

Not much of a ringing endorsement for my journal entries either.

Outside I opened my palms skyward and off he flew to meet his mate in the maple tree out back.  Throughout the day, I discovered droppings that seemed particularly targeted. I don’t wish to project, but on my journal, really? And on my laptop, with homepage set to this blog, really?  And then today, I see the towhee took respite in a porcelain nest scheduled to hold my morning oatmeal. Not take it personally, really? I was grateful a goose had not landed in my kitchen, as calling cards from a four-ounce bird are message enough. My feathered aerialist, I get your Post-Its loud and clear. We’ll see who puts out thistle seed in the feeder this week, alright.


Menu change: I think I’ll have some toast instead.

I just can’t leave you this image as the final photo in the post, so here to help fade it from your memory and celebrate a rare sunny day are some photos from Tall Clover.

Bluebell bouquets bound for the Saturday Market

Reflections of a sunny day

My fence of fallen branches snakes along at pace determined by high winds and my industriousness.

Lawn Mowing Hypothesis Tested and Confirmed

Tom
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craftsman lawnmower sitting in tall grassAfter weeks of extensive testing and observation, I can unequivocally and confidently say my hypothesis holds true; the lawn is not going to mow itself.

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