Proverb for May 23, 2009:
He who hogs a sofa, will make no qualms about doing the same on a hammock.
Then again, he who can adjust the hammock’s height wields all the power.
Truth be told, the view is too good not to share.
I Built a Fence That Fell From the Sky
Sometimes beauty reveals itself in unexpected ways, other times it’s a familiar friend on my daily path. For the madrona trees that have stood witness to the lives and loves of this house over the last century, it’s both. As I’ve said before, they are truly living sculptures.
Towering and twisted, they reach for the sky, shedding any branches starved for light. A few Sou’westers, and the ground becomes a battlefield of branches, driftwood spears released by the wind’s slightest provocation and gravity’s standing invitation. (I recommend neither standing under a madrona during a wind storm nor anchoring your hammock to its boughs.)
The rustic branch fence at Olana (Hudson, New York)
I was inspired to make a fence out these branches after visiting Olana: the home of landscape painter Frederic Church in the Hudson River Valley. On the historic estate, I studied a stunning rustic fence, intrigued that by using one type of tree branch (cedar, I believe in this case), the randomness of the individual branches formed a greater harmony and formality when fashioned in the whole. The fence created movement in the static.
When I arrived home, I knew the piles of madrona branches were destined for something more artful than a burn pile. The madrona (like Olana’s cedar branch fence) unlocked its fluidity and quirky formality when brought together collectively. I built a fence that fell from the sky–a fence that grows and snakes along new territory after each storm.
A blanket of snow outlines its fanciful form
And in 2012 a new tradition: a seasonal livery–lighting up the fence and madrona grove!
Quince It Came: Delicious, Beautiful Fruit
Quince: Welcome this uncommon and fruitful tree into your garden. 
I first encountered the edible quince Cydonia oblonga at a friend’s farm, where the tree stood like a garden prop, perfectly shaped, petite and laden with fuzzy gold orbs the size of small papayas. With fruits doing double time as well-placed ornaments, the tree was showy and productive. In other words, it had me at “hello.”
Years later, my quince is in bloom and I’m no less smitten. The blossoms sit high on each twig cluster like individual nosegays. After the buds unfurl in shades of pink and white, the airy (and large) blossoms point skyward. Yep, it’s mighty pretty and the good news continues; the tree is pest free, self-fertile and fruitful. And while the fruit is rock hard when harvested, it becomes fragrant, tender and delicious when cooked, but I’ll continue that part of the story this September.
Here’s what Trees for Antiquity Nursery has to say about the quince (in case you need another opinion).
Cydonia
A relative of the apple, the quince is one of the earliest known fruits. For over 4,000 years, quince trees have grown in Asia and the Mediterranean. Today, they are also found in Latin America, the Middle East and here in the United States where there is a resurgence of interest in this ancient fruit. Quinces typically aren’t eaten fresh (with the exception of the Aromatnaya Quince), but make wonderful marmalades, are a lively addition to apple sauces and pies, and compliment meat dishes. Because they contain a large amount of natural pectin, they are also ideal for jellies, chutneys and preserves. Quinces are all low chill (300 hours), self-fruitful and tolerate wet soils better than most fruit trees.
Update: Here’s what the fruit looked like when harvested in October at Tall Clover Farm.
Related links:
- Delicious History
- Botanical Print
- David Lebovitz: Recipe Tart Tartin
- Simply Recipes: Membrillo Recipe.
What I was blogging about a year ago: Renee, I Have Your Rhubarb.
Sprouting Broccoli: It’s a Keeper
There’s broccoli and there’s sprouting broccoli, a cousin to the bulked-out broc we tend to knock. After some British friends of mine sang its praises, I planted it for the first time last summer. Surprisingly, it overwintered and I harvested it this spring. Two words: tender and delicious. The stalks are pencil thin with little broccoli mop tops crowning the beautiful and prolific brassica. Because of its branching habit, the more you harvest, the more new shoots are encouraged to replenish the plant. (And thus, the secret to its name: sprouting broccoli.
To cook, I simply blanch the sprouting broccoli quickly and drain the water, dob a bit of butter, pinch some salt, take a couple turns at the pepper mill, and enjoy thoroughly. Grow some this year in your garden or pick it up at your local farmers market. You’ll never look back at big-guy broccoli again.
Some related links and Seed sources (updated):
- Baker Creek: Early Purple Sprouting Broccoli,
- American Meadows: Green Sprouting Broccoli
- Bountiful Gardens: Sprouting Broccoli Varieties
- Kitchen Garden Seeds
- Recipe: Purple sprouting broccolit with proscuitto & poached egg
- Recipes from readers at the Real Epicurean
What I was blogging about a year ago: Wheelbarrow or What 2.5 Hours Looks Like?
Mom, These Are for You
Here’s to the fine woman who brightens our lives with love every day. To my Mom who always made me Chicken Kiev* and German Chocolate Cake on my birthday (I was smitten with international cuisine at an early age.) who managed to locate a bolo tie and vest for a second grader going through his Bat Masterson phase, who would tread water for hours awaiting the chilled child holding up the high dive line, and who still sends me boxes of Georgia’s finest pecans each winter. Here’s to my Mom who created countless fond memories of growing up around (and sometimes outside) the country and always with one constant; no matter what the address, it was always home. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!
*my Mom wisely used scallions instead of dill
Roses in photo clockwise from left: large white, sombreuil; top pink, Souvenir of St. Anne’s; Buff Beauty; and Souvenir de Madame Leonie Viennot
What I was blogging about a year ago: Ringing the Return of the Bluebells.
Tulips: A Worthy Form of Currency
Tulips at the market: my favorite harbinger of spring
I think the Dutch had it right in the seventeeth century; why not base your economy on the beauty of the tulip? It’s a most worthy form of currency. And no offense to other spring bloomers, but that’s a feat neither a daffodil nor a hyacinth could pull off.
Yesterday, I was at the Puyallup (pronounced pew-al-up) Farmers Market (“off-island” as we like to call it) and the locally grown tulips stole the show.
While the sprouting broccoli, cauliflower, and mixed greens looked delicious, healthy eating has a hard sell when a bouquet of long-stemmed tulips can stop you dead in your tracks. Price them to sell at $10 a dozen, and your stomach will forgive you when raisin bran is on the menu for breakfast, lunch and dinner. But as I like to say, “What feeds the heart, feeds the soul.”
2 bulldogs and tu-lips: Boz & Gracie channel their inner Vermeer
One week later and they are just as dreamy (though it helps if you keep your house as cold as a meat locker).
If These Walls Could Talk…
They’d likely say “What took you so long?”
My five-year anniversary of living in this fine old farmhouse is fast-approaching, a mere blink in its beautifully-framed 120-year-old life. And as each homeowner makes his or her mark, some times enhancing, other times insinuating ‘improvements’ where none are needed, I try to spare this winsome Victorian a profile with any ill-placed warts.
I’ve waited awhile to tackle the living room. A beautifully proportioned room (almost) with its original tall slender windows, and a ceiling height that suggested a more recent history. I made my initial move to investigate the ceiling in 2004, but then the roof, gutters, foundation, furnace, plumbing and porch cried foul, “Hold on Bucko, us first!”
Tom’s Unproven Home Improvement Equation: 2 friends + 1 sawsall + 3 hunches that the ceiling had been lowered = 1 gaping hole in my living room ceiling and an immediate call to action. 
Eureka! There’s space under them there rafters.
I had a ceiling to raze and raise, and besides my ten foot Christmas tree was having nothing to do with an eight foot height restriction. 
Under the rafters, I discovered simple marbled Victorian ceiling paper that softly reflected the light. The lumber remaining around the room’s perimeter was going no where; 3 giant in-line nails every 16 inches saw to that.
Interior design rule 204: Hang a chandelier and no one will notice the crumbling plaster.
The 6 best words in the English language: I hired out the mudding and taping.
2009: Things are finally shaping up, as I ponder what color to paint this room’s walls and trim. (Now where’s that box of five years worth of paint chips?)
What I was blogging about one year ago: A Bird in the Hand.
Tyson Pear: Portrait of an Heirloom Fruit
The Tyson pear is summer’s answer to winter’s Comice.
I spent the first twenty-some years of my life eating but one pear: the Bartlett, first found canned, bobbing in a soup of syrupy sweetness, second as the only option in the grocery store produce aisle. Years later, I discovered the many personalities and possibilities of the pear–the amazing array of shapes, sizes, flavors and purposes.
There are summer pears and there are winter pears. Bartlett is a summer pear ripening on the tree or shortly after being picked. Winter pears, like Comice, Bosc or D’Anjou are picked firm, kept in cold storage and released to ripeness when left to their own devices at room temperature weeks or months later. But that is just the tip of the pyriform; there are hundreds of amazing pears to grow and eat.
After reading the description (found below) in the Fedco catalog , I was smitten with the Tyson pear. I bought some scion wood and grafted it to an older pear tree. The resulting harvest: a pear with creamy non-gritty texture, superb flavor and abundant juice. It reminded me of a perfectly ripe Comice, the pear that half of America waits for and knows as Harry & David’s Royal Riviera Pear around Christmas time. Lucky for us, Tyson ripens months earlier, the first week of September in my Seattle garden (as seen in these photos). Now on Vashon, my newly planted Tyson is too young to produce, but I can assure you in a year or two I’ll be waiting with a plate of soft cheese and prosciutto the minute it yields to touch, and inevitably, my impatience.
Tyson Pear Summer. Jenkintown, PA, about 1794. The definitive 1921 text The Pears of New York calls Tyson’s flavor “second only to Seckel,” and says that the “tree is the most nearly perfect of any pear grown in America.” Medium-sized acute-pyriform deep dull-yellow fruit with some russeting and no blush is very juicy, sweet and aromatic. Local lore suggests Jonathan Tyson discovered it in a hedgerow on his farm west of Jenkintown, or maybe on the grounds of the Abington Friends’ school. Widely planted here in Maine for generations. Our scionwood comes from a huge spreading specimen in nearby Freedom. Well over 100 years old, the annually productive tree lived through all the great winters of the 20th century. Tolerant of bugs, disease and weather. Fire-blight resistant. Rare. Z4-6 (source: Fedco Trees, Tyson Pear)
Related read: Heirloom Pears by Sue Weaver
What I was blogging about a year ago: Moments for Pause & Put Down the Bottled Water, and No One Gets Hurt .
The Fountain Gurgles Again!
My garden fountain gurgling away as it should.
The sun is out (May I hear an Amen!). My coffepot is yielding no more of its pricey brew. Boz and Gracie are resting on the sofa after an early morning of intense begging and need for post-Easter ham scraps. The day and to-do list are before me. While I strive to accomplish several (make that many, many) things, gratification comes in the simple action of being able to mark off just one task as complete. Yesterday it was the garden fountain–an all day affair. But after a winter of silence, brought on by a defunct pump and my aversion to yearly maintenance, the fountain lives! Yes, we have gurgle. One task down, 572 to go.
Garden fountain or world’s fanciest water dish for dogs?
What I was blogging about a year ago: Flower Garden or Salad Bar for Deer
Easter Wears a Slicker…and a Smile
The face of Easter may be wet, but she’s undettered (psst, look to the left).
When the Easter bunny comes to the Pacific Northwest, he better bring along his gortex, galoshes and plastic eggs.
There’s a joke that when a newcomer to Seattle asks a neighbor kid, “Hey Jimmy, does it ever stop raining here?” He replies, “Gosh Mister, how would I know; I’m just six years old.”
But then again, April showers do bring May flowers. Not sure what May, June and July showers bring. Oh wait , I do; glorious berries. The good news is we broke a rain record yesterday and still had a glorious day and spirited easter egg hunt, though toward the end it began to resemble pint-size mud wrestling.
What I was blogging about a year ago: Embracing My Inner American Breakfast