Tall Clover Farm

Being Followed by More Than a Moon Shadow

Tomagrams

Tom

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March 4, 2011

Being Followed by More Than a Moon Shadow

I’m not sure if it’s the snoring bulldogs (who share a combined decibel level of an idling chainsaw) or the sump pump activation two floors below or the play of light casting shadows on my bedroom wall or even the several cups of high-octane coffee the day before, but insomnia has become my late night date this winter. I often toss and turn for hours, then finally acquiesce and get out of bed.

As I let gravity and sloping floors usher me downstairs at an ungodly hour, my first stop is the thermostat, my second the kitchen table, morning headquarters of Tom’s one-man coffee klatsch. The tabletop is a mosaic of clutter, which includes, but is not limited to, a week’s worth of mail, an orchid on suicide watch, and a brooding stack of overdue library books. I complete the chaotic puzzle by fitting my laptop in the only parcel of vacant real estate left. The space heater kicks on and the ceiling shakes; Boz and Gracie are officially up and off my bed, their eight-legged runaway train trundling down the stairs in search of an open door or full dog dish. Beneath my feet and those of the table, a tangle of cords speaks to the shortcomings of my outlet-challenged nook. I plug my laptop in and thank the circuit for obliging.

Now up and enjoying minty fresh breath, I log on. Hands poised to type, glasses on, and coffee brewing, my vision blurs and my head hinges slowly downward. Regaining my upright posture, I try again. Uh, oh, neck muscles are not cooperating and my chin requires chest support. (This is not looking good.) I begin to feel sleepy, very very sleepy. My eyelids are growing heavy. As I’ve learned drooling on one’s laptop can void the warranty, I take my lead from Boz and Gracie and head over to the sofa. A quick nap is in order. About the time a dream takes me to Bora Bora, a set of bruise-proof knuckles collides repeatedly with my front door.

Startled, I jump up and head toward the disturbance (fright wig and baggy eyes intact). I open the door. My visitor looks puzzled and declares, “I can’t believe you are still in bed!”

Vashon Snow Globe: Mother Nature Shakes It Up

Nature

Tom

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February 25, 2011

24

Vashon Snow Globe: Mother Nature Shakes It Up

Vashon Snow Day!

Royal Grevillea’s silvery sage leaves bending under the weight of winter white.

Snow usually visits the maritime Northwest briefly and more in spirit than in force. This week witnessed the exception as Vashon enjoyed a hearty dolloping of the white stuff, casting a spell on the island and islanders alike.

Grevillea’s hot colors flower beneath a cool disguise.

A dressed-up madrona branch fence separates the orchard and front field.

The dreamsicle that is my house; I see Boz left the backdoor open.

Pampered paws prefer a cozy couch to an icy walk.

There’s no place like home, especially on a snowy winter day.

The Olympics and a low-tide beach hold court between storms.

A wee bit brisk this vantage point, but warming upon later review. (Sun setting behind Vashon Island and the Olympic Mountains.)

Who You Callin’ a Weed Wench

Gardening

Tom

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February 23, 2011

13

Attack of the brambles! See what I go through for a good berry pie.

I recently received an email from a friend who has the greenest of thumbs. Michelle of Pacific Potager was sharing information about her latest discovery, the Weed Wench, a miraculous tool that uses simple leverage to pull out the most stubborn root systems of the most pervasive weeds, which around here means Scotch broom, English holly, and Himalayan blackberry (Thank you Luther Burbank.)

Scotch Broom in bloom, a sea of gold best viewed on your neighbor’s property.

I read with interest as my front field and side pasture are about to be consumed by both. I thought Weed Wench, what a funny if not audacious name for a garden tool. I envisioned a troupe of lusty barmaids (on leave from their buccaneer boyfriends), tossing back a few stouts and taking out taproots that reach Taipei as if plucking drinking straws from a malted. I was certain of one thing, that the manufacturer of Weed Wench likely endures some spirited feedback from female customers.

Think I’m kidding about invasive? In just one week, this bramble had insinuated itself into my dining room. (Time for new French doors.)

As I searched for the tool’s official website, I was treated to a wide array of curious results: pirates smoking doobies, bar maids in compromising positions and costumers eager to satisfy any swashbuckler’s (or cross-dresser’s) fantasy.

I could see I was seeking the wrong kind of Weed Wench. I went back to Michelle’s email. There upon closer examination were the words: WEED WRENCH.

Oh, well that explains it. I don’t know though, I think I like Weed Wench better… Ayyyyyy Matey!

The official Weed Wrench site: WeedWrench.com.

I’m not a total bramble slayer. I relent in late summer, designating September as Blackberry Appreciation Month (Double-crust, peach-blackberry pie shown).

One Green World Nursery Delivers the Goods

Plants I Love

Tom

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February 19, 2011

24

One Green World Nursery Delivers the Goods

I read seed and nursery catalogs like dime-store novels. Will the characters within the dog-eared pages deliver on their promises. Will their potential be realized, or will some find their end in a wheelbarrow ride to the compost heap? Will their shortcomings haunt me every time I come across a wilted leaf or withered branch? Only time will tell, as the plot is fully revealed years from now.

York apple blossoms: April flowers portend loaded bowers

Erring on the side of optimism and choosing plants best suited for my climate, I look forward each year to adding a few new cultivars to the orchard and garden, while reminding myself repeatedly that my acreage, energy and age are limited resources (though, I never listen).

Aromatnaya quince: delicious, beautiful, and easy to grow, planted 2008

Which brings me to One Green World, I love this nursery for its quality plant material and availability of edible plants from around the world. They never disappoint and continue to surprise me with the striking, tasty and unique.

This year I ordered the following newcomers:

Marionberry, because my pie needs demand it.
Tayberry, because I fancy tayberry sauce on ice cream (and shortbread, and covered in Creme Anglaise, and…)
Nanaimo™ Peach: A new (to me) Peach Leaf Curl Resistant variety from Canada. Its namesake island city, three hours to the north, shares a similar climate to Vashon Island.
Chilean Guava: I learned of this ornamental and flavorful powerhouse from Sunset’s Blog: Fresh Dirt. Apparently, Queen Victoria enjoyed it in and as her favorite jam.
Early Laxton Plum: Had me at hello. “Prized for its ornamental value as well as its fruit, this classic European variety bears abundant crops of juicy and sweet, reddish orange fruit. One of the most productive varieties, Early Laxton is easy to grow and is the earliest to ripen of the European plums we offer.” (Source One Green World)
Imperial Epineuse Plum: This is a late season variety that I’ve grown successfully before. “Very sweet and richly flavorful, Imperial Epineuse is simply one of the most delicious plums we can grow. An attractive, large, reddish purple fruit with firm yellow flesh, this famous French variety is great for fresh eating and a good variety for drying. (Source: One Green World)

An admirable first crop of cherries: Van, Stella and Lapin planted in 2004

Here’s an important caveat, if you order bare-root plants and fruit trees, be sure to know where you are going to plant them and do so immediately. (And in this case, I do take my own advice.) The longer they stay out of the ground, the greater the chance of planting failure. I have a couple apple trees that became expensive bean poles later.

Fresh raspberries produce in the first year and are a backyard treat you should not go without.

Fall Gold and Caroline raspberries are pictured above, and I also recommend Tulameen for an earlier crop of equally large, sweet berries.

I have a couple other varieties to scout out, so on to Trees of Antiquity, Burnt Ridge Nursery, Raintree Nursery and beyond!

Making My Mark: A Cure for the Common Cold

Tom

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February 11, 2011

20

Making My Mark: A Cure for the Common Cold

Like most men, I complain when I’m sick. (Cough, sneeze, whine, repeat.) Fortunately for friends and family alike, Boz and Gracie endure my pithy in-house pronouncements so no one else has to (that is unless you call me or knock on my door, then the next half an hour is all mine).

Sequestered to the sofa, legs locked in by two snoring bulldog logs, I yearned for the days of easy breathing and an ache-less body. (I did feel immediate improvement upon convincing Boz that my chest was not a dog bed.) I tried to watch TV, but quickly realized that viewing more than 60 minutes of television would send me into a spiral of depression. (It seems, no one on daytime TV is happy.) Reading gave me a headache, crossword puzzles seemed futile and venturing online was short-lived. Okay now, I’m whining.

Gracie and Boz: lovable (albeit unapologetic) sofa and blanket hogs

Suffice it to say I wanted to feel better. Then, my Mom called and suggested I whip up a serving (moderation is important here) of Grandpa’s cough syrup. I remember his honey, whiskey, lemon juice concoction well; it would burn the inner lining of my esophagus, and cause me to gasp, sweat and tremble, all before tucking me in to a berth on the Sleepy Time Express. His secret ingredient came from a country far to the north, its magical healing powers seemingly exclusive as it was called Canadian Club. (In my recipe, the not-so-secret ingredient comes from the American South and plays an equally important role in the curative nature of the Mint Julep.)

I was doubly ill so I made a double batch of this medicinal elixir and preceded to dispatch it within the hour, at which time I became particularly interested in the prismatic rainbows dancing about my study’s walls.

Um, um, nothing as pretty as a round rainbow on a Douglas fir door.

Chasing rainbows or rainbow chasers?

The sun rays and show were short-lived, but then again so was my lucidity. Nap time for Tom, let the healing begin.

Recipe: Maker’s Mark Cough Syrup Supreme

Ingredients:

2 T Marker’s Mark Bourbon Whiskey (spring for the good stuff)
2 T lemon juice
2 T honey
1 T chopped crystallized ginger or stem ginger in syrup

Preparation:

Pick a nice glass (paper or plastic cups render the magic syrup useless).
Mix equal parts of bourbon, honey and lemon juice.
Add chopped crystallized ginger (or stem ginger in syrup) as it provides more heat.
Stir, serve at room temperature.
Say hello to better health (or at least a happier sleep).

I would especially like to thank one Matthew G. for his generous gift of fine Kentucky bourbon. (You and Marker’s Mark do your home state (and Mama) proud.) I believed I am on the mends.

Related Quotes:

“Love is staying up all night with a sick child — or a healthy adult.” -David Frost
“If you treat a sick child like an adult and a sick adult like a child, everything usually works out pretty well” -Ruth Carlisle

A Man, His Truck, and the Road Not Traveled

Tomagrams

Tom

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February 4, 2011

23

A Man, His Truck, and the Road Not Traveled

With rear-wheel drive, snow is not our friend

Life doesn’t always turn out the way you initially visualize it. My teen mind daydreamed about a flat in London, friends who said, “shaken, not stirred,” lunch dates with Emma Peel (replete in catsuit), and a Jaguar XKE purring in my garage. And while I’m not complaining about my current circumstances, I never thought I’d be driving a moss-covered Mazda truck with 225,000 miles on it.

In 1998, I bought Jennifer Grey, a gray 1988 Mazda truck, for $1,500 and embraced her odometer reading of 151,00 miles without prejudice. The previous owner, a navy-pilot-turned-airline-pilot, drove this reliable maven between Seattle and Portland, from home to flight base, respectively. Thirteen years later, Miss Grey is very much at home on Vashon, enjoying a slower paced life as an “island truck,” carting manure, hauling garbage, and venturing into Seattle every once in while for a good mocking by 20-somethings leasing ultimate driving machines.

Boz and Gracie ride shotgun (photo by Rondi Lightmark)

I love my truck, as do Boz and Gracie who consider JG a luxurious (from a pooch’s perspective) mobile kennel. Sure the paint is peeling, dog fur and dust consume the cab, and the driver’s seat is frozen in a lift-off position, but she’s mine and she runs.

Last month, I feared a chugging, labored start followed by a backfire and plume of white smoke signaled the demise of my main-transportation squeeze, make that my only transportation squeeze. Try as I did, she would not turn over. Resuscitation was futile. Even as I pushed her down the drive for a little jump start, I could sense this may be my little Mazda’s swan song. Two days and a new AAA membership later, I had her towed to my favorite island garage.

Several days passed before I got the diagnosis. ( I know better than to rush or bug my mechanics.)

The phone rings. I pick up.

“Hi Tom, Dave here, your truck is ready.” (I’m gleeful. She’s alive, she’s alive!)

“So Dave, was it the carburetor?”

“No.”

“The fuel pump?”

“Uh-uh”

“The starter?”

“Nope, you were just out of gas, Tom.”

“Say what?”

“Yep, it won’t run without fuel. (Ah, the set up is complete.) You can pick her up any time.”

Before you judge me and question my mental acuity and mechanical ability, hear me out. First, I must have run out of gas exactly as I shut off the engine the night before. (How odd is that?) Secondly, because the gas gauge is kaput, I set the odometer’s trip meter without fail after each fill-up. I should have had 100 miles to go before JG succumbed to sputtering and the vapors.

Yesterday’s lesson: When a truck runs on two cylinders, it uses a lot more gas.

Today’s lesson: Know when your truck is running on two cylinders and schedule a tune-up.

The happy ending: Miss Jennifer Grey is up and running and shining like the star she is, thanks to an overdue wash and trip to the tune-up town. Now if I can just figure out how to eliminate the sloshing sound that occurs in the cab panels every time I make a turn. Did I mention it rains a lot here?

Boz points out that I should mow the grass before I wash the truck.

When Marriages and Toasters Were Built to Last

Celebrations

Tom

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January 29, 2011

39

My favorite couple in 1953.

My parents are about to celebrate 58 years together, an anniversary also shared with one of their favorite wedding gifts, a 1953 Sunbeam T-20 toaster. I’m happy to say both the marriage and toaster are still in fine working order.

The T-20 toaster was billed as Automatic Beyond Belief. Simply pop in the bread and watch it magically descend into the glowing gallows, only to rise perfectly browned minutes later. It’s technology like this that won the space race and the hearts of cinnamon-sugar toast lovers everywhere. Marriages, unlike toasters, are not automatic. I’ve witnessed over fifty years of giving and taking and laughing and crying between my parents, and one thing remains constant: their commitment to and love for each other.

Shining brightly for the last 58 years (both the toaster and the couple).

If you don’t think times have changed, my mother and father had to wait four years to get married because my father’s football scholarship disallowed it. With the last bowl game under his belt and the pigskin retired, the wedding was on and their journey together began.

My father, a man of few words, likes to chide my mother with, “Maxine, you’d drive a normal man nuts.” My mother counters with a smile and the last word, “Yes Dear, it’s a good thing you’re not normal.”

This was also the father, who called me when my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer*, and said, “I can’t imagine my life without her.” For a man who thinks “pretty good” is the ultimate compliment and a handshake is better than a hug, the crack in his voice spoke volumes. (This will likely embarrass him and I will be out of the will, but so be it.)

Bundled up last July, Mom and Dad taking in the festivities of Vashon Island’s Strawberry Festival.

While a blog post doesn’t do justice to lives and loves as rich as theirs, it’s perhaps a little reminder to always celebrate the people we love, and to go out on a limb and tell them so. One thing’s for sure, this is an anniversary that my sister, brother and I are always grateful for. Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad!

*My mother is also celebrating her 35th year as a breast cancer survivor, a milestone and blessing we never take for granted.

Introducing Orienpet Lily: Garden Star — Va Va Va Voom!

Plants I Love

Tom

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January 26, 2011

12

Introducing Orienpet Lily: Garden Star — Va Va Va Voom!

My two-year-old stand of Satisfaction Orienpet lilies in late July

My days as a plant snob are over. There’s room in my garden for both the brash and the understated, for flowers the size of snowflakes as well as blossoms that standout like a chorus line of bodacious beauties. A marigold deserves my respect just as much as a magnolia. That said, I’d like to introduce you to my latest petaled fancy, the Orienpet lily. A cross between an Oriental lily and a Trumpet lily, the Orienpet exudes the best qualities of both parents and then some.

The Vegas Showgirls of the flower world, Orienpet lilies are bedazzling showstoppers. After two years, mine tower at six feet and range from five to fifteen blossoms per bulb. They thrive in the Pacific Northwest and are relatively drought tolerant and easy to grow when given good drainage.

Orienpet lily “Frisco” (evidently not named by someone from the Bay Area)

When planting Orienpet (or Trumpet or Oriental) lilies, keep them close to the garden path. Your eyes and nose will thank you.

You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby…

Tom

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January 21, 2011

20

My mother just turned 80, and the family was together to celebrate not only the milestone but the lovely woman who wears it so well. For clarification, of the two dolls in the above photograph, my mother is the one on the right. Born to a Lebanese father and German mother in a Midwest Mayberry, Mom’s family life was spirited to say the least, a home chockablock with family, friends, food, hospitality and lively conversation.

She may have left the Victorian on tree-lined street to marry my father, but the love and warmth of her childhood has followed her throughout her life. As her father told her, she told me, “Always fill a guest’s coffee or tea cup, anything less would suggest they’re not welcome.”

What does turning eighty mean? As a witness to the last 5o or so years of my mother’s life, I see it as an evolving study of how one person can touch many lives. My Mom’s a giver not a taker, an optimist not an Eeyore, an action verb on a page of pronouns, a doer in a world of couch potatoes.

Her road has been bumpy, smooth, adventurous, lonely at times, and life-threatening at others; and despite it all she rarely thinks of herself. To paraphrase Frank Lloyd Wright, for her, youth is a quality, not a matter of her circumstances.

When I was away at college, my Mother made sure I always had my favorite cake on my birthday. Well before the advent of packing peanuts, she would pop some of Orville Redenbacher’s finest, and pack it gently around a cellophane-wrapped, frozen homemade German Chocolate cake. It arrived with nary a crumb or pecan out of place, and rarely lasted a day.

As I explore meaning in my life and asked the big questions, I look to my mother as a example of what to do right. She lives her faith, never does anything halfway, tries new things, embraces those around her and treats life as a gift.

I fear that no matter how hard my Father, brother, sister and I try to find the perfect gift for my mother each year, the offering never compares to the gifts she’s gives us every day.

You must a been a beautiful baby, ’cause baby won’t you look at you now.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

PS: On my flight home, I opened up my carry-on to retrieve a book. There among a tangle of cords, I found some tasty stowaways, a zip-lock bag of homemade goodies . Mom and love strike again (and at any age).

Winter Pear Salad: A Gifted Dish

Recipes

Tom

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January 7, 2011

22

The good, among the bad and the ugly of the refrigerator.

After the holidays, my refrigerator can resemble a food morgue with rows of Tupperware caskets sealing in freshness or fuzzy blue mold as the case may be. After deciding to exhume the bad dishes of Christmas past and make way for a culinary New Year, I was delighted to rediscover some epicurean gifts tucked among the sarcophagi of scary leftovers: Oregon Comice pears from Leslie and Olivia; fresh Georgia pecans from my Mom and Dad; a slab of Shropshire Blue from Tamara; a voluptuous carafe of aged balsamic from Denise; and a meaty ham bone from this resident ham bone. As culinary kismet would have it, I had everything I needed to make one of my favorite winter salads–a gifted dish indeed.

Recipe: Winter Pear Salad

Ingredients:

3 peeled Comice pears (or Bosc or D’Anjou pears)
1/2 cup of chopped pecans
1/2 cup of crumbled Shropshire Blue cheese (or Stilton or blue cheese)
1 cup of chopped ham (or omit for vegetarian status)
1 T. of aged balsamic vinegar
1 T. of olive oil
Ground pepper to taste

Preparation:

Chop cored peeled pears into bite-sized pieces.
Add pears to salad bowl
Add chopped pecans
Add crumbled cheese
Add chopped ham
Drizzle balsamic and olive oil over mixture
Toss, let it sit for a couple minutes and toss again to incorporate released pear juice
Pepper to taste
Serves 4 as side salads, or 2 as dinner salads

I love this salad and make variations of it all winter. Ripe pears make it sing, blue cheese adds vibrato, nuts provide percussion and ham packs a salty punch. Experiment with your favorite fruits, cheeses and nuts. Sometimes I mix in wild salad greens or Boston bibb lettuce, that is when the contents of my crisper don’t resemble sea kelp.

PS–My blog pal Stacey also offers up a delicious variation of a pear salad on her site.