Tall Clover Farm

Tomato Plants: Leave the Little Suckers Alone

Growing Vegetables

Tom

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July 12, 2009

104

Tomato Plants: Leave the Little Suckers Alone

Pinching tomato suckers: not on my garden to-do list

Step away from the tomato plant and no one gets hurt.

Garden myth: you should pinch tomatoes suckers (the growth between main stems and the leaf) for a better tomato crop.

I ‘ve been growing tomatoes since I could say spaghetti sauce, and I’ve found that pinching the suckers is something every garden resource seems to preach as the gospel–a dire must-do when growing tomatoes. But In my experience, it’s a big ol’ waste of time that diminishes your harvest. If you want just one big tomato at the end of the season, then I’d say go for it.

Healthy row of un-pinched heirloom tomatoes (one tomatillo in foreground)

A tomato plant is not a bonsai tree. You want it to grow and glean as much energy from the sun to produce sugars for the star feature of your next BLT or caprese salad. I liken it to removing sails from a sloop and wondering why it doesn’t move as fast. Leaves harness the sun’s power, sails the wind’s. Don’t short yourself on either.

One of the many suckers that became a robust tomato-producing branch

People who grow dahlias know to pinch the lead growth so as to produce more suckers and thus more flowers. I would not pinch the lead stem for a tomato plant, as the suckers automatically show up. Another thing I’ve observed is that if you leave the tomato plant’s side shoots alone, they mainly appear from the base of the plant, and not such much on new growth as the season continues. Why? Because they are concentrating their energy on producing fruit for your next Salad Nicoise.

I trellis my tomatoes; don’t get me started on cages.

Now that I’ve spared you one more thing to do on the chore list, take a break in shade (ice tea optional) before you get back to your weeding. (And as you can see from the photos, I surely need to attend to mine.)

Here are few links to other gardeners who agree with just leaving the poor little suckers–the tomato suckers–alone:

https://www.gardenmyths.com/should-you-prune-suckers-on-tomatoes/
https://laidbackgardener.blog/2017/07/08/the-truth-about-tomato-suckers/
https://joegardener.com/top-five-tomato-growing-myths/

Growing Cherries the Size of Apricots, or Not

Growing Fruit

Tom

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July 8, 2009

16

Growing Cherries the Size of Apricots, or Not

I was feeling pretty smug about the several handfuls of fresh sweet cherries I had just plucked from my young orchard, when a friend dropped by to share the bounty of her trip to Eastern Washington–a veritable fruit basket of a region blessed by serious sun and abundant irrigation sources. Her gift, Rainier cherries the size of apricots, required three bites per cherry (and this from chops that have no trouble dispatching a sushi roll in one fell swoop).

The Rainier cherries on the left are from Eastern Washington while the ones on the right are Rainiers from my home orchard on Vashon Island in Western Washington. I marvel at the power of sun and water, how the same type of fruit can be so different based on where it’s grown and how it’s cared for. These big guys are grown for the export market, so they are surely more pampered than my backyard Bings–not a problem as I’ll take sweetness no matter how it’s packaged.

Van sweet cherries on the tree, a day or two from ripe

My fresh-picked cherries clockwise going left: Rainier, Van and Stella

My sweet cherry trees are in their fifth year and doing admirably (as seen above). One particular variety, Early Burlat, has yet to produce a stone, but the tree looks quite healthy, so maybe next year. I guess it’s so early that it’s yet to have arrived. If you’re looking to grow a sweet cherry in a cooler climate, I had good luck with the varieties above and I just planted a Utah Giant cherry after reading some fine reviews of it as a taste test winner. My Montmorency sour cherries (and preferred pie filler) should be ready in a couple weeks–pies worth waiting for.

What I was blogging about a year ago: The Best Way to Ripen Peaches (and yes this really works).

Prepare Yourself for a Sunny Fourth

Seasons

Tom

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July 4, 2009

2

Anyone who’s spent a summer in Seattle, knows the season really begins the fifth of July, when the sun begrudingly shows up for its abbreviated run. A sunny Fourth is rare. In fact the last time I pondered it was 2001, when I wrote a letter to the editor, providing my tips for a sun-safe Fourth of July. Eight years later, I’m able to dust it off and share it again (with a few modifications).

The Seattle forecast calls for a sunny Fourth of July with temperatures in the mid-to-high 80s. (Take time to compose yourself.) For newcomers to the Northwest, we liken a sunny Fourth of July to a moon landing, a Bigfoot sighting, an easy commute; it’s a very rare occurrence. A sunny Fourth requires preparation, take heed:

• The sun can be bright; wear sunglasses and don’t look at it directly. Your eyes will compensate with a natural reflex called squinting.

• There is a product called sunscreen that will protect your skin from the sun’s damaging UV rays. (If found in medicine cabinet, dust off lid before using.)

• Potato salad, chicken salad and macaroni salad are not friends of Mr. Sun (or Mr. Locked Car).

• Don’t be frightened by clearly visible fireworks; it may take practice to adjust your “ooh” and “ahs” to the sight of the actual explosions.

• You will not need to wear flannel-lined jeans, wool socks, hiking boots, polar fleece, turtlenecks, ear muffs, Hefty garbage bags or snowmobile suits this Fourth of July. (Read slowly and several times.)

• Beware ice cream can do a funny thing called melting when eaten too slowly.

For those who may scoff and say, “I’ll believe it when I see it,” we politely respond that is your choice, but we’re marking our calendars: July 4th sunrise is at 5:18 a.m.; sunset, 9:09 p.m. (Clear skies all day.)

Happy Fourth of July!

Tom, Boz & Gracie

Boz & Gracie contemplate a sunny Fourth…a sunny porch.

Look Who Turned 102…Happy Birthday Granny!

Tomagrams

Tom

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July 3, 2009

5

Our Queen for the day, make that everyday

The day was as sunny as our birthday girl.

If I told you Le Ida was twice my age at 102, I’d venture to guess you’d wager heavily against my shared truth. While my dear friend does not look a day over eighty, it’s my presence in the mathematical equation that becomes easy fodder for quick reproach. “So if she’s twice your age, wouldn’t that make her 122?” (There’s one in every crowd.)

Last Sunday, we gathered at my house to cheer Le Ida’s big 1-0-2. I fashioned a crown, throne and scepter as we planned to royally celebrate. Ever the good sport, she posed for photos in her regal togs. I said, “You look smashing.” She offered her own list of adjectives.

Tom as Grill Master…imparting a smokey aftertaste…cough…hack

And how lucky for me that her favorite people are my favorite people–all with cooking skills that can transform a simple potluck supper into an epicurean overload. We laughed and dined under the trees, and embraced a woman who embraces life. What is Granny’s secret? If gifts were any indication, one would assume tequila and chocolate. For me, I think it’s her plucky nature and keen sense of humor, for loving to fish when the halibut weigh more than she does, for growing the best tomatoes and raspberries around, for sharing almost all of the ingredients to her enchilada and Beef Stroganoff recipes, for sitting across from people at a dinner table (whether on Vashon, in Seattle or Montana) who love her.

Secrets to a long life: tequila, chocolate and red wine

Now that I think of it, the day was almost as sunny as our birthday girl. Happy Birthday, Granny.

Boz was not very happy about his earlier seating assignment.

Summer Belongs to the Black Locust

Tom

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June 28, 2009

6

Black locust trees anchor my house. They are a much a part of its history as the wavy glass windows and half-wrap porch. Even in a photo taken in 1900, they were relatively large trees. Where three once stood, there are now two. A large weathered stump tells the tale of a sapling’s fate—its robust nature ill-suited for a spot so close to the house.

When I moved into the house five Mays ago, I was surprised to see the locust trees bare, massive limbs exposed and skeletal while the surrounding trees were drenched in spring green. Weeks later, they made a late entrance that was well worth the wait, unfurling lacey leaves positioned below racemes seemingly stolen from the wisteria. Their fragrant white petals rode the wind when spent–a flurry that lasted for weeks and a scene too dreamy for me to grouse about clogged gutters.

At the peak of bloom, and at sun’s first light, the tree began to hum, like a pulsing current of energy. It took a while for me to understand what I was hearing and where it was coming from. (Heavy-breathing bulldogs tend to drowned out decibel levels just shy of an operating jet engine or stone crusher.) Walking toward the din of activity, I discovered that every bee on the island–bumble, honey or otherwise–was scurrying for position at this inviting nectar bar. Locust trees must possess the most delicious nectar around because the bees were focused, frantic and loud, uninterested in anything other than what was before them (much like me at a Sunday brunch).

I’d have to say my other favorite, the madrona tree, belongs to fall and winter. When the days are short and the light fleeting, the tree commands your attention. But when the sun is high, the breeze cooling and the daylight without end, there is no finer place to reflect the day (or place a hammock) than beneath the furrowed branches of the black locust tree, especially if a kind soul planted a few for you 120 years ago.

When My Coffee Cup Takes a Walk

Tomagrams

Tom

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June 27, 2009

5

One down, five to find. Judging by its contents, some creepy crawlers take their coffee with cream and sugar, too.

I like old coffee cups, the chubby ceramic kind well suited for a beverage called Joe. When daylight and I are on the same schedule, I usually take a brief stroll, coffee cup in hand as I remind Boz and Gracie that there is a purpose to this abbreviated walk. I’ve yet to find a word (and there are quite a few available) that connects my voice with their brain and elicits the intended response. Good thing they’re cute.

So today when my cupboard was bare of coffee cups, I had an inkling of where to look: down the lane on any number of old cedar fence posts–each a perfect coffee table and place to plead one’s case that sniffing is not the only thing on the morning agenda.

Father’s Day: He Trusted His Son With the T-Bones

Tomagrams

Tom

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June 21, 2009

11

Fresh-from-the-garden shares a plate with grilled-perfection. (Well, actually Dad would have called for more searing time.)

Happy Father’s Day, Dad, This Steak’s for You!

Here’s to the Dad who relinquished his grill to a second grader, to the man who trusted the family’s ribeyes to a boy. As barbequer and mentor, he kept it simple: a shot of salt, a dash of pepper, then throw the slabs of meat on the hibachi, a very hot hibachi. (For the uninitiated, it’s a grill as big as a bread box, not a Mini-Cooper) “Remember, coals aren’t ready until covered in white ash,” he’d say, handing me a long-handled spatula and disappearing right after my final instruction, “Call me when they’re ready.”

In his book, the key to a good steak was searing the outside. As for the inside, you knew it was ready when the juice just reached the surface. (And cutting a steak to determine doneness was for amateurs.) So here’s to the Dad who never relegated his kids to hot dogs, unless he (and my mother) found it on their plates as well. From the art of grilling to mastering the marinade, to finessing the flank steak and surmounting the smoker, I’ve come a long way on the barbeque path. The only thing different is I like my steak rare, a state of being handily shared by this grill master’s father.

For ribs, a few briquets to start, then it’s cherry wood all the way

Solstice: Vashon Island Celebrates the Longest Day

Island Life

Tom

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June 20, 2009

4

Solstice: Vashon Island Celebrates the Longest Day

Celebrating Solstice: Summer returns to Vashon Island

I began my day in a sweater (cotton) and my day ended in a sweater (wool), a fitting and not unlikely costume change for the first day of summer in the Pacific Northwest. The varying degrees of chill here require you to choose your fibers wisely. And, I can report that by noon I was resplendent in my weekend uniform: a v-neck tee and shorts (clean t-shirt I might add).

Olympic Mountain sunset solstice — View from the Fauntleroy – Vashon ferry dock.

Solstice goes pretty pagan here on the island though I’m not sure if pagans had potlucks and pinot noir. I spent my evening with friends on the north end of the island. It’s high-bluff geography jutting out into the middle of Puget Sound like the bow of a boat—a vantage point that challenges the wind and affords its guests and residents an unequaled view of Colvos Passage and the Olympic Mountains to the west. I often think of this range as the world’s largest sundial. Its southern flanks host and hide the sun during the long dark winter months. Then beginning in spring, the sun is shepherded across the entire ridge line of the range, marking the culmination of summer at its northernmost reach. It’s a moment when most islanders slip into a state of denial. For the longest day and farthest reach signal a return path to opposite extremes.

Welcome summer! — Puget Sound turns in for the evening.

Inevitably, we recognize that the sun—like most island commuters—is not immune to the reality of a roundtrip. The evening culminated with a rousing two-minute display of fireworks, crackling bon fire and chorus of kind voices trying to recall the words to many fine campfire songs. It was fitting tribute to Solstice, and on the drive home, I enjoyed an extended warmth not provided by sweater, bon fire, or reluctant truck heater. Welcome summer.

Morning Has Broken, and Time Is a Wastin’

Island Life

Tom

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June 13, 2009

10

Morning Has Broken, and Time Is a Wastin’

Pink oriental poppies capturing the first light of day

I get up at the crack o’thirty to begin my commute into civilization from the island, an odyssey that cross-utilizes every form of transportation known to man (at least in King County): my beater truck (the shortest leg of the trip), a Metro bus, a Washington State Ferry, and a county vanpool. In the darkness of winter it really can seem like a journey to the River Styx , but in summer, um, um summer, it is a magic show of haunting beauty and changing light.

So this morning, on my way to said vehicles and long commute, I was halted by a particularly arresting play of light as the sun broke. Pretty to me is like shiny to a crow. Did I have time to: (1) run back into the house to grab my camera; (2) remind B&G I had only been gone for 12 seconds while reassuring them that indeed I would return; (3) bribe them with a biscuit; (4) lock up again; (5) capture the moment with my Canon ELPH; and (6) still make the bus –my key domino in the adventure that is my daily commute. As you can see, I did; but that is only thanks to Alexis, the best (and sweetest) bus driver in the world who kindly keeps an eye out for any frazzled commuters in beater gray trucks.

And this time of year, the sun is obliged to follow me home.

(Fringetree: Chioanthus Virginicus in foreground)

What I was blogging about a year ago: Too Much Rhubarb Means Too Much Good Jam

Old Sofas Never Die…Unless Assisted

Tom

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June 9, 2009

13

Boz and Gracie lounging al fresco among the carnage

I must have been drugged or under the control of space aliens to have allowed one particular oversized sofa a resting place in my home. Secured at our island thrift shop Granny’s Attic, the sofa was as comfortable as it was ugly, an olive drab mastodon that some happy family on the island was cart wheeling over to have unloaded. My supposition is they lived closer to Granny’s Attic than the dump.

On the plus side, it could support one man, two dogs, a smattering of newspapers and magazines, and the occasional brave guest unfazed by dog hair and dust. (I must be good company.) With a little creative draping of a Hudson Bay blanket here, a Pendleton duvet there, the sofa’s makeover was complete. It’s 80’s faux Bauhaus roots hidden; it’s barge-like silhouette not.

Yep, Tom’s “media” room was open for business. The run was short. Unfortunately Boz and Gracie preferred the sofa’s ultra suede undercarriage to my stylish wool cloaking devices, quickly laying claim to it as their favorite all-day sleeping casbah.

Gracie begins to suspect something

Cushions on the porch? Gracie begins to suspect something is up.

Four years (and a myriad of sofa covers) later, I’ve resorted to equipping the room’s light fixtures with 15 watt bulbs so I don’t have to look at the thing. There’s likely enough popcorn in the cushions to satisfy a double feature. The fabric now resembles Jackson Pollock’s early work and in the words of my friend John, B&G really see the sofa as their napkin. So today when I spied a handsome slip-covered sofa at my friend Alexis’ garage sale, I knew the green suede monster would soon be slain and removed from its second floor lair.

May I just say when you reach 50 that your labor pool of heavy lifters is pretty shallow. It didn’t help that the sofa was accessed by a stairway wide enough to suit bean poles and minarets. A friend’s back is too important to abuse, so I halted the ill-fated exercise after a couple of telling grimaces (on both their faces and mine). With the sofa wedged on the upstairs landing, my friend Tamara said, “Too bad you just can’t cut it into pieces and throw it out the window.” (Smart girl.) Once they left, I made a beeline for my reciprocating saw. (I wanted no witnesses for this episode of Tom’s Home Remedies.)

Boz ponders, “What does this all mean?”

Fresh from a quick run to the hardware store for premium sawsall blades, I attacked that thing like a Thanksgiving turkey. I’d considered hurling each piece out of the upstairs window for dramatic effect and quick gratification, but I find the satisfaction of such gestures is short lived when the end (and inevitable) result is harm to me and damage to my house.

After learning that coiled box springs can’t be cut without reverberation that removes the arm from the socket, I rethought my dissection from halvsies to lengthwise at the seatback seam—a very wise choice in avoiding steel springs and chipped teeth. Boz and Gracie were downstairs unwittingly enjoying their last wallow on the sofa’s cushions.

When it was all said and done, the outdated, clumsy carcass littered my drive, frayed fabric and foam core innards exposed and destined for the dump. B&G held a vigil circling the beast like a fallen friend. Several passes later their march ended in favor of comfort. While still respectfully mournful, my two beasts sprawled in repose atop the cushions like Roman nobility awaiting peeled grapes. Real closure came the next day when the new sofa was christened with a couple Milk Bones and a few poorly aimed popcorn kernels. All is well again with this set of couch potatoes.

What I was blogging about a year ago: Summertime, and the Hammock is Ready