Pizza Night in the Valley…

Winter is the time of discontent. Daylight is short; darkness long. Nostril pinching cold on clear days (what few there are); fear of frozen pipes at night. Even during a “one snowman winter”when snowflakes double up on the roads, the entire world screeches to a halt. And when the cold gives way to the river of air known as The Pineapple Express, downspouts gush; gutters brim and overflow. Short pants and T-shirts are mothballed; bulky layers of sweats prevail. As if all this weren’t discontent enough, Papa Murphy’s “Ten Dollar Tuesdays”go on winter furlough. At times like this, you step up, you find that inner strength and reserve, you draw on resources you never knew you had, you toughen up,…you make your own pizza.

Our new pizza frontier began last summer at my brother Keith’s place on the banks of the Columbia River in Eastern Washington. Keith, twenty years my junior and the youngest sibling in the family, taught this old dog a trick or two about grilling not steak, not brats, not chicken, nor burgers or hotdogs, but pizza, pizza constructed on a sourdough crust foundation.

Sourdough. Ours is a sourdough family, a sourdough lineage traced to Alaska where Granddad Mike, riding on the coattails of the Klondike gold rush of 1889, ran a roadhouse and a freight business. In a land of ice and snow, yeast shivered during the bread making process and prospectors turned to sourdough to get a rise out of their bread, biscuits, and hotcakes. Sourdough manufacture requires a “starter,” a fermented mixture that adds the “rise” to the baking dough. Seasoned prospectors, miners, longtime Alaskans were known as “sourdoughs” (newcomers were branded “Cheechakos) because of their universal use of sourdough. Story has it sourdough prospectors made their biscuits by pouring their starter into a fifty pound sack of flour, mixing the liquid starter to the top layer of dry flour and then forming their biscuits from the dough. Those old time bakers literally doughed their way to the bottom of the flour sack.

When Granddad emigrated from Alaska to Seattle, the sourdough starter emigrated to“The States”with him. I remember the hearty breakfasts in my grandparents’ big two story house in Seattle where he served us up a main course of sourdough hotcakes, hot from the frying pan, edges crispy, crusted from the sizzling bacon fat. There were seven or eight of us around the big dining room table and as soon as our plates emptied, they were heaped again--almost as if the hotcakes sprung from the plates themselves. If it looked like our eating was starting to slacken, we were encouraged to “eat up, eat up” to the point we children felt genuine hotcake intimidation. Only after we nearly foundered, sat dazed and glassy-eyed, did Granddad untie his apron and join us at the table.

At one time I thought the starters in our respective households were all direct descendants of that original starter from The Land of the Midnight Sun; however, my brother Kevin, the official keeper of the “Sourdough Crock,”believes this to be apocryphal. Regardless, Kevin’s “Grail Crock” has been maintained the longest. If not used or worked regularly, the starter will go flat and the “sour” will die. For years in our household Wednesday night would be “breakfast for dinner”and sourdough pancakes were the main course. One year, for whatever reason, the routine came under fire and as a consequence, the starter languished and died. At the family Christmas reunion Brother Kevin brought a replacement starter. But the tradition was doomed, and after a few weeks of inattention the starter deflated and had to be taken off life support. Upon request, Brother would supply yet another starter, no questions asked, from the “sacred crock.”

A surge of nostalgia three or four years ago resolved the Wednesday night sourdough “breakfast” stalemate, prompting a Sunday breakfast compromise our household has sustained ever since. So with a vital starter now at hand, we decided to make the most of it, thus our sourdough pizza crust.

Any sort of sourdough baking requires at least a twenty-four hour prep: the batter infused with starter must be allowed to “work” for that duration, to allow the mixture to “sour up, if you will. The sourdough cook needs to prepare enough batter for the meal plus a surplus to set aside to “start” the next baking project.

Aside from having to plan ahead a bit, the pizza dough is easy to make. A cup and a half of starter and an equal amount of flour are the main ingredients. I set aside a couple tablespoons of water in case the dough needs thinning. Once the dough reaches the correct consistency, two tablespoons of olive oil (note: is there such a thing as “olive oil” these days; isn’t it all “extra virgin” olive oil? ) and knead this into the dough. The oil gives the dough its wonderful elasticity and allows it to be rolled and formed with ease. Next I knead the dough by stretching and folding it back together by hand. For about ten minutes I walk around the house kneading (and exercising) as I go. Before carpal tunnel syndrome sets in, I form a ball and divide it in half with a pastry cutter. Each half will yield a “large” size pizza crust. The halves, rounded, are placed in two oil-lined bowls and covered to prevent their drying out. This second prep step should be done three or four hours before mealtime to allow the dough sufficient time to rise a bit.

Now comes the fun part: building your personal pizza, customizing it, creating a gustatory work of art…. This stage would be a great activity for the kiddos, guaranteed fun, time to allow the t.v. or video games to cool, let the smoke clear a bit. (The little helpers may need some assistance rolling and rounding the crust; I have problems with this step myself, but if round turns out to be a bit oval, it’s no disaster.) While the dough is on the rise, you have plenty of time to prepare the toppings. My wife likes straight vegetarian; I, however, like to include some animal protein with the vegetable selections for some omnivorous balance: diced chicken, turkey pepperoni, sausage…once I sprinkled a handful of shrimp around to give my masterpiece a seafood flair.

After the crusts are rolled and shaped, pre-heat the oven to 450 degrees. This allows just enough time for the crusts to rise a bit more. Gently slide the crust onto a sheet of parchment paper. For the construction phase the parchment paper facilitates loading the pizza on the pre-heated stone and the baked crust slides easily from the paper onto a pan or cutting board once it’s cooked. Lightly brush the dough with olive oil to prevent the ingredients from soaking into the crust. For our red sauce foundation, we slather on homemade tomato sauce, half a pint per crust, layer on tomato slices and then the potpourri of ingredients piled on at random and top them off with slabs of mozzarella cheese.

Fourteen minutes later the sourdough pizza, toppings infused and oozing with mozzarella, is removed from the kiln and eased from the stone, readying it for pizza # two.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So take heed, Papa Murphy’s: two can play at this pizza game. Take a look at this winner…and on sourdough crust, no less….

(“What here shall miss,” www.breadtopia.com “will strive to mend.”)

Grounds for your Garden…Giving Back to the Soil…

My garden provides. I try to give back…. Here in the Tualco Valley we are blessed with a wonderful, thick layer of topsoil, thanks, I suppose, to the fact our Valley is a flood plain. Bottom land, they call it, soil that’s been deposited over time by flood action and consequent silting…a tradeoff, I guess, for the thirty days of the year we Valley folk have to worry about similar silt deposits on our carpets and flood waters wicking up our drywalls.

Even though I’m no agronomist, after thirty-seven years of backyard vegetable gardening, I’m well aware of what lies beneath my feet when I walk around my garden. Under a layer of dark, heavy topsoil lies a substratum of light, sandy loam, a fact that’s reaffirmed every time I dig holes to set my bean poles. At one time my garden was most certainly stream bed and over time, flood action laid down the layer of loam. What is curious about this topsoil/loam combination is that it varies from one part of the garden to another. The east portion measures nearly fourteen inches of topsoil covering the loam; however, some thirty paces west, the topsoil is thinner with only four to six inches of the dark, heavier soil overlaying the lighter colored loam. The annual vegetable garden makes demands on the soil’s nutrients, and whenever possible I do what I can to amend the garden plot. For thirty-seven years I’ve been trying to build the depth of that thinner topsoil layer in this stretch of garden.

My Granddad Mike had a small vegetable garden in his backyard. I remember a few scrawny tomato vines from which dangled a half dozen or so anemic tomatoes. A row of beets, a few spindly fronds of carrot tops. Might have been a potato plant or two (Granddad, like most folks from the Old Country, was partial to root vegetables), but memory is a bit fuzzy on this. What I do recall, however, is Granddad’s garden always smelled like coffee. Yes, his little garden plot was also the repository for the daily coffee grounds—coffee grounds and eggshells—Granddad’s way of giving back to the soil, a guarantee of a few more pale tomatoes and golf ball-sized beets.

Thanks to the folks at our local Starbucks I, too, catch the whiff of coffee in the off season whenever I pass my pepper and tomato patches. Each time I happen by the mound of dormant rhubarb, I have the urge to order a Grande Americano (just a little room, please), as well. Two of our local Starbucks take the time from their daily grind to package the shop’s daily grounds and offer them free to local gardeners. I always look for the plump, silver bags in the “free” bins and snatch one up whenever I spy it. The sticker sealing each bag includes information helpful to the backyard gardener. The liberal rainfall in the Pacific Northwest tends to leach our soils, budging their PH toward the acidic gradient—good for the cultivation of the berries for which our Valley is renowned. With coffee grounds, as the Starbuck’s label states, most of the acid is removed during the brewing process, rendering the grounds you broadcast on the garden high in nitrogen with a PH of 6.9, nearly neutral, good for the vegetable crop, less so if you have a berry patch.

For those who wish their gardens to be decaffeinated or don’t have access to Starbuck’s free offerings, there are other ways to give back to your garden. Here are a few suggestions:

Green manure: plant a fall cover crop that’s turned into the soil in the spring. There are several types of crops that serve the purpose: clovers and vetch are nitrogen-rich additives. Winter rye, which I plant in October, works well in our Valley. Planting rye  is also an excellent way to control weeds in the garden. If your garden is a carpet of chickweed come spring, winter rye will solve your problem. The sections of my garden I leave as winter forage for birds are at present one mass of chickweed; the plot of rye I planted is chickweed free. Grass clippings: layering the soil between vegetable rows and plants with summer lawn clippings not only serves as weed control but also adds nutrients to the soil. Grass clippings heaped in piles do not compost well, but clipped grass layered two to three inches thick between rows (I especially like to use them around my tomato plants) not only helps retain soil moisture during dry spells but also inhibits weed growth while at the same time giving back to the soil. The thin layers of clippings readily compost over the winter and are easily tilled under in the spring. (Tip: those piles of old newspapers you chuck in the recycle bin? Recycle them back to the soil instead; use those want ads and legal notices as a “floor” for those grass clippings.)

Leaf mulch: when the big maple tree in our backyard sheds its fall glory, I rake up the leaves and heap them on top of the dahlia hills for frost protection. In the spring after danger of frost has passed, I rake the mulch from the dahlias, scatter it over the thin topsoil portions of the garden, and turn it under. The raised bed of asparagus I also layer with leaves for frost protection and winter weed control. The fact the leaf mulch leaches nutrients into the soil is evident by the vermiculture that flourishes beneath the leaves. Earthworms forage beneath the mulch, help to decompose it, supplementing and aerating the soil in the process.

Composting: even patio or container gardeners can supplement their raised beds, pots, or barrel halves with composted vegetative material. We keep a compost bucket handy for degradable (non-woody) vegetable matter, and when it brims, the contents are dumped on our compost heap out back. Periodic turning of the pile accelerates the transformation of raw material into a rich compost one can spread over the garden or mound around berry canes and the trunks of fruit trees. This shifting about of compostable materials is an efficient form of recycling and precludes the use of chemical fertilizers thus keeping your garden as organic as possible.

I live in a Valley which hosts large herds of dairy cows and fortunately have access to their “by product.” Because others don’t have that opportunity, I haven’t mentioned this other valuable resource for the backyard gardener. An old pioneer friend of mine, an avid gardener, once told me she attributed her successful gardens to  her following the directives of the Farmers’ Almanac (“…root vegetables by the dark of the moon” and such). I believe, however, the fact that each spring she also tilled into her garden a truckload of “winter accretion” from a local cattle feedlot was in greater part responsible for her success as a gardener (she’d never admit to this, though).

Maybe you don’t have a dairy farm for a neighbor; perhaps there’s no feedlot just over the hill, but you can still amend your garden soil. For example, if you’ve leisurely sipped a cup of coffee while reading this post, be sure to save the grounds and broadcast them on your garden.

Need a Lift?…From the Archives…

                 It’s a girl, my lord, in a flat-bed Ford,

                Slowin’ down to take a look at me….

                                                           The Eagles

Perhaps it wasn’t quite a March lion of a wind, more tom cat-ish, maybe, but blustery enough for me to leave balky Gladys at home in the garage and strike out on foot. I was just getting up to speed when a green Subaru from somewhere up High Rock slowly eased out onto the highway and headed toward town. Instead of quickly accelerating, which is highly advisable on 203, the little car rolled along the opposite shoulder. When I glanced over, the driver shouted across the road: “Do you need a lift?” The first thought that came to mind was: “No, but I could use a wheelchair.” What I replied, however, was: “No, just the exercise. But thanks.” The driver smiled, nodded and sped away. That left me thinking how unusual it is these days in the hustle and bustle of every day life with everyone in such a hurry to get somewhere that one would take the time to stop and extend the courtesy of a ride. I wasn’t even carrying a gas can!

Once upon a time we were a one vehicle family, a rarity these days, I’m sure. The wife and I shuttled each other around in a red 1970 VW beetle. On the way to my job I would drop her off at hers, pick her up in the afternoons, and we would ride home together. Summers for a few years called for some creative transportation. I had a few hoops to jump through to shed my “provisional” teaching certificate and acquire the “standard” certification. This meant that a few summers I had to attend a session of classes at my Alma Mater, Central Washington State College (“SWEECY” as it was known in its pre-university days). A rookie teacher had only so many years to complete his “fifth year,” so the pressure was on. Besides, I was frantic to stay at least a half step ahead of the sophomores. Transportation was a problem: my wife had her job and therefore needed the car. For a summer or two we would make the trip to Ellensburg on a Sunday and she would drive home alone, return the following Friday to retrieve me. I believe there would be two week periods during the six weeks of classes when we were out of each other’s hair.

One summer I was able to get a ride to and from North Bend with my roommate. My wife would drive me to the Mar-T Café Monday mornings and collect me there Fridays after she finished work. Two or three hours to kill in North Bend soon became tiresome; I was starting to hear the same truckers’ stories twice at the Mar-T. “Why not hitchhike to Monroe on Fridays?” I thought, instead of sitting at the Mar-T until my school clothes smelled of chicken fried steak. It seemed like a good idea at the time. And there was precedent for such an adventure.

“June 8, 1972,” I wrote at the top of the little spiral-bound notepad that was to chronicle my hitchhiking debut, “Left Monroe at 9:20 a.m.” Earlier that morning I had provisioned a little day pack with snacks, filled a boda bag with some May wine (vintage a month earlier, same year, hitchhiking on the cheap), and got my first ride…my wife drove me to town on her way to work. My destination?  My hometown in Eastern Washington, 175 miles away. What follows are a few entries taken from my scrawled journal recording the adventure:

First ride 10:20, Jerry Baker, a logger, strong views on environmentalists vs. logging. Stopped for coffee in Gold Bar. Ride from GB to 3 miles e. of Index. Time 11:10. 11:50—Got ride with long-haired type to summit of Stevens. Started hiking down 12:20. 12:50, guy in panel with two other hitchhikers. Heading for Leavenworth. Arrived 1:45. Picked up at 1:55 to Y-Café by two hot rodding kids. Picked up by Al McIlhenney 2:10 at Y-Café, heading for home. (He’s going to Okanogan.) Al will be a junior at the UW next year, a business major attending on a football scholarship. He’s a redshirt linebacker for the Huskies (likes Coach Jim Owens. It’s Rose Bowl ‘72, he hopes (football scholarship pays tuition and books, plus $117 a month room and board.) Has a summer job with Wash. State Ferries, a deckhand on the Winslow Ferry. Arrived in Brewster at 3:20. I paid him $2 [What a cheapskate, you say? Remember, two dollars those days would fill half a tank] for the ride and wished him luck. One more ride to the ranch with the boss’s daughter. I arrived at 4:20 with blisters on both feet. And my final entry: ‘A very worthwhile & enjoyable experience (a bit apprehensive at times).’

So with that initial “worthwhile and enjoyable experience” in my hitchhiking repertoire, I decided to hop down off that counter stool, leave the Mar-T and the p.m. coffee drinkers to their gossip. This, mind you, I did on a whim; mobile and cell phones were years away, and I had no way of communicating my rash vagabondage to my wife, nor did I know when she got off work, whether early or late. My plan was to tell the good Samaritan who offered me a lift to keep an eye out for a red VW beetle in the oncoming lane, flash his lights at it, wave, do anything necessary short of running her off the road to get her to stop. At the time I  believed I’d most likely make the fifty minute journey home before she left.  How surprised she’d be to find me at home when she arrived from work.

That was over forty years ago and much of that adventure is lost in the mists of time. I can’t recall having to flag down a little red VW bug, so I must have arrived home before she did. Of the drivers who offered me a ride I only remember two. The first one was some teenage kid driving what he  most likely thought was a hotrod, but what I recall as a hunk of speeding scrap metal. Even now if I close my eyes, I can see the hole in the floorboard by the chrome gearshift and the pavement blurring by, the startling number of times the pavement shifted back and forth from black to yellow, so many times in fact, I began to wish I had spent less time watching Sunday football and more time in church. When the kid let me out in Carnation, I was so weak kneed I could hardly stand; it was a bona fide “kiss the ground” moment.

My second ride brought relief bordering on delight. Whatever vehicle it was that slowed and stopped, I’ve forgotten. Not so its driver whom I recall with pleasure even as I write this: a young lady, early twenties, I’d say, slightly younger than this hitchhiker then. I remember her as slight in stature--five foot two, maybe--a perky young thing with short, curly black hair. She was wearing a light summer dress, frock-like, that rested lightly just above her knees. A light yellow fabric, I recall, warm like that summer evening. A floral print…pastels? And an easiness about her that soon made me forget the previous perilous ride. I don’t remember how far we’d driven, a few miles I guess, before I posed the question I’d wanted to ask ever since I had blurted “Thanks,” and hopped in. “Aren’t you afraid of giving rides to strangers, especially men?” She turned, shot me a rather quizzical look, and said, “Not really. I’m on my way to visit my probation officer and he’s expecting me.” How does one respond to that kind of information? All I could think to say was “Oh!”

… --- … in the Valley

“Jeeez, let some light in here, will you!” I exclaim to Brett de Vries as he asks me into the living room. Now far be it from me to disparage a man’s Man Cave, but these dismal days of February the entire Valley is a man cave as far as I’m concerned and it seems a shame to shut out what little Valley light there is. In the days before his new window shades, I used to tease Brett that I was going to bring a lawn chair, set it up on the shoulder and watch whatever was playing on his big screen t.v. All I’d need would be a box of Jujubes and a bag of popcorn for me to have my own walk-up theatre.

Brett is working from home today, tells me he’s set up in another room and motions me into the kitchen which, I guess, doubles as his home office. Makes sense to me: every office should have a coffee maker and a well-stocked refrigerator. I’ve been asked to stop by and discuss a little journalism project Brett has in mind for The Ripple. We discuss business over a proffered cup of coffee and some hardtack-like fare, some distant kin of biscotti, I believe. The brief business we had to discuss didn’t take long, so I thanked my host as he guided me through that darkened living room to the door. I said good-bye and walked out into the gray Valley day wishing I had brought my sunglasses.

A couple days later I was walking by the de Vries’s and noticed the shades open on both the big front windows. No sooner did I think Brett had decided “Let there be light,” than the roadside shades abruptly closed. Now the last thing I want my Valley neighbors to think is I’m trying to spy on them as I walk by and I make a point to avert my gaze when I pass by their homes. No sooner had I thought, “How embarrassing,” than the shades opened again…then shut…then opened, shut, opened….  “Good one, Brett,” I thought as I smiled and waved at the house.

It doesn’t take much to set my head humming with thoughts when I’m out in the Valley, and before you know it, I’m composing a blog post as I stride along. Just the opening and closing of a window shade a couple of times and The Ripple’s readers are victims of the inspiration. That opening and shutting of the window blind immediately put me in mind of the signal lanterns used at sea to flash messages from one ship to another or ship to shore. And messages reminded me of the code the sailors used: Morse code. And that in turn brought back memories of my teenage years in Scouting.

The Boy Scouts. I learned some valuable life skills in the Scouts, many, come to think of it, having to do with fire: how to lay a “one match” fire; how to spark a flame using flint and steel and fine mesh steel wool as tinder (you’ll have a real hot fire real fast!); how to use pitch from a Ponderosa pine as an accelerant; and how the dead lower branches of evergreen trees (“squaw wood”) make excellent tinder. Once the fire was ablaze, you made camp stew from the ingredients you backpacked from home. Water from the creek in summer; snow melt water in winter. You learned how to camp in the rain and snow; you learned how to be miserable and not whine too much; how to right a capsized canoe, bail it of water, roll back in over the gunwale, and paddle the fifty feet to shore in the canoeing pond. Knots, too,…bowline on a bight ( a life skill, important like algebra, I’m told, but have yet to use)… how to knot together two lengths of rope with the old reliable square knot (“left over right; right over left”) instead of a “granny” if you can’t tell left from right. Lesser things, also, like how immersing the hand of a sleeping tent mate in a pan of warm water led to embarrassment for him and a few demerits for you.

I should have been a better scout, I guess. My younger brother Kevin is an Eagle Scout and that’s no little accomplishment; to achieve the Eagle rank takes dedication, commitment and just plain hard work, none of which was a priority to me in those scouting days. If it wasn’t fun and adventure, you could count me out. My rise in the scouting ranks ended one merit badge short of  Star. The signature merit badge? Citizenship in the Home. No fun and adventure there, especially if you were the household rebel as I’m afraid I was in those days. My scouting experience fizzled at that juncture, and I moved on to other pursuits, a shift of interest most likely toward those who were former Girl Scouts.

My Scouting career ended at the rank of Scout First Class. One of the requirements for the First Class rank was to master Morse Code. (The Boy Scouts have since dropped this requisite and included it as a requirement for the Radio merit badge.) Morse Code, for those of you who stalled at Tenderfoot, is a code of frequency and duration: dots shorter and dashes longer (WHAT HATH GOD WROUGHT!) and each letter of the alphabet is rendered as a series of dots and dashes. Twenty-six different configurations of short and long set to memory was one task the aspiring First Class Scout had to fulfill. I can’t remember the number of hours I spent memorizing the coded alphabet, but I’m sure it must have taken weeks.

Each aspiring First Class candidate had to prove he had learned the code and could pass a proficiency test. The test had to be administered by a qualified adult, someone familiar with scouting, a dad, older brother, or relative who was involved in the organization either as a leader, assistant, or chaperone. Dad was to administrate my test when the time came.  Bona fide Morse Code messages were sent using telegraphy which employed signaling devices, namely the telegraph key. None of us scouts had access to these devices, so we had to use optional methods. Brett’s flashing his shades as I walked by reminded  me of how my Morse Code test was given: by flashlight.

The night of test taking came. I gathered together a writing tablet, a couple of sharpened pencils, and arranged them on a small writing desk in the corner of the living room next to a window that offered a view up our long driveway. Dad changed out the batteries in the testing instrument, made sure the device worked, the switch, and that the beam of light was of sufficient amplitude. Then after a few words of encouragement, out he went into the dark. I remember a bit of test anxiety as I took my position, pencil at the ready and awaited the first flash of light, which, I recall, seemed a long time in coming. But come it did, and soon I was able to distinguish the short flashes from the long, the darkness between the letters…dit dit dit dahh dahh dahh dit dit dit….

I can’t recall the content of the message that night but believe, excepting a few errors, I did get the gist of it and passed the test, and Dad signed me off. Whatever the message was, though, didn’t really matter. Dad was out there in the night down that long driveway signaling me from out of the darkness. And we were communicating….

The Ripple at Three…

Willows whiten, aspens quiver…

“The Lady of Shallot,” Tennyson

Today The Ripple turns three. When I sat down to write the first post on that February day three years ago, spring had advanced to the pussy willow stage. In that initial post I mentioned a cutting of willow I rooted and planted out back. It was a two-year old sapling when The Ripple was born. At this posting that little sprout has grown to a height of fifteen to eighteen feet and today its twigs and branches bulge with furred catkins.

Most anniversaries are a time for reflection, a time to sort through the archives of memory. At its inception the intent of The Ripple  was to report the Valley news observed from my walking and riding “to and fro and up and down in it,”and that is what I’ve tried to do. 242 posts later The Ripple still plods on at a leisurely pace much the same as its author afoot or wobbling along on Gladys. 242 posts. 242 titles. So many posts, in fact, that truth be told I’ve forgotten the content of many of them and at this stage of my life I’m like the grandparent who spins the same tale time and again much to the grandkids’ dismay. My editorial apologies if any subsequent posts echo those of their predecessors.

As The Ripple was born into the month of pussy willows, it seems fitting that this post share a little willow information both from the past and my own personal experiences. The willow belongs to the genus Salix, and during medieval times the cuttings were brought to England (along with the French language) by 11th century Normans and were cultivated for use in basket making and crafting furniture such as chairs and hampers. Willows root readily in damp soil and in England February was designated as the ideal month for planting Salix:

                         Set willow to grow, in the stead of a stake,

                         For cattle, in summer, a shadow to make.

                                  Lost Country Life

During the Enclosures, Parliamentary acts largely responsible for the demise of rural living, the English countryside went from common ownership for haying and pasturage to private possession. Ditches and hedgerows were used to mark the new landowners’ boundaries. Because of its fast growing nature and fibrous root system, willow was one of the many varieties of tree used to form the hedgerow. Willows, beeches, ash, and oaks at the sapling stage were bent and staked horizontal to the barrow atop the ditch above which they were planted. Side branches were pressed into the top of the berm, rooted there, forming a sort of vertical espalier, the trunks of which formed the hedgerow. Many of these ancient hedgerows yet exist in modern day England and Europe.

In 1974 when we bought our one slim acre, before the mortgage, before the house, we were in such a hurry to stake our claim to the place we decided to clear a patch and plant our very first vegetable garden. One of the crops we chose was lima beans. The variety we selected was a pole variety, and I searched around for some suitable poles to support the vines. In those years the High Rock area was almost a pristine wilderness and willow coverts sprouted along the railroad grade across the road. From one stand I cut seven nice, sturdy poles and hauled them back to the garden. I set the poles in the ground and circled each with bean seed. The seed sprouted, and to my surprise so did the bean poles! As the summer progressed, bean vines and willow leaves competed for sunlight on the willow staves. 

A few years later (by then I had moved along to cedar bean poles) I thought I’d try my hand at basket weaving and set the goal of weaving a basket from natural materials at hand: hazelnut withes for rim, handle and ribs, cornhusks, pendant branches of Alaska yellow cedar, daylily leaves woven into cord, and cedar bark dropped from a passing log truck for the warping between the ribs. Back across the road again to the willow grove from which I ripped several long strips of bark for later basket projects. (Currently pending…but one of these days….)

My most memorable experience with pussy willows is personal but one I’m quite willing to share. Eastern Washington winters are long and cold, and our rambling ranch house on the banks of the Columbia was drafty. Two parents and six kids rattling around inside for weeks on end gave rise to a bad case of cabin fever, and come February sibling rivalry had turned from banter and badgering to hands-on altercations. The latter days of the month, before any blood was shed, we were turned out of doors and told to go find spring. Loosed from the house, we scattered into the hills and sagebrush looking for the first greenery of spring (Oh, the delight we found in a greening fern basking at the foot of a sun warmed boulder!). A favorite playground for us ranch children we simply called the “Canyon.”  Walled with clay banks in which cliff swallows nested in the summer and into which we carved our names and the date of the carving, the canyon was formed over the centuries by spring runoffs. As the season moved forward, the rush of water became a stream and during the hottest weeks of summer dwindled to a trickle which snaked along the canyon floor emptying at last into the river. Cress lined the little watercourse during the growing season, and we would chew the leaves to enjoy their tang. Willows, too, thrived in the moist sand of the margins. When the willows puffed forth their catkins, it was a sign spring was imminent, and with my jackknife I would cut a dozen branches—enough for a bouquet—and carry them home to my mom as certain proof that spring’s vernal promise was sealed.

The other day I was rummaging around in the clutter that is my desk and at the far end of a drawer, hidden beneath a stack of miscellany, I discovered a little blue box, cigar box-sized, upon which was the sharpie-scribbled phrase “Personal Keepsakes.” I had forgotten it was there. Among the personal memorabilia, I found a  note from my mom.  The note was brief, just three sentences, dated March 1, 1992. She had been for a walk that day and discovered pussy willows growing along the river. Her last sentence had me awash in memory and nostalgia. “Thank you,” Mom said, “ for all the pussy willows you ever brought me.”

Willows can be a pain in the landscape (the“weeping” as in “weeping willow” may pertain to the gardener, as well). Their aggressive root systems clog drain fields and plug sewer lines. The trees are messy: they shed branches and leaves everywhere; they perpetuate themselves by throwing sprouts and shoots all around them, even after the tree is cut to the ground; in short, they delight in being invasive. Why, then, you ask, did I plant a pussy willow out back? Well, I just told you, didn’t I.

And so The Ripple marches on into the New Year…. 

Dog Tales…

A couple months ago I wrote a post about two unwanted canine walking companions (“A Valley Walk…with Plenty Apologies,” 12/7). That post came to mind the other day when I was reading my one-year old grandson the classics. Yes, there’s no doubt about it, the grandson certainly enjoys the classics. This time it was the Dr. Suess favorite“Go, Dog, Go,” a story that’s long on rhyme, meter and wholesome childish silliness but short on plot (and for a classic, extremely brief, I might add). A story turns around its title, and I’m just sorry I didn’t think of “Go, Dog, Go” for the title of that December seventh post. What follows, I guess, is an epilogue of my experience walking the Valley with dogs.

I’m afoot this gloomy morning, striding along toward Swiss Hall. A black pickup truck rolls toward me. A passenger side headlight is out, and that tells me the driver is Hank Van Ness. Usually I have to look up to see Hank, as most often he’s grinding by me in the big yellow bucket loader (“My other car is a front end loader”). A friendly wave is the usually the only exchange between us; Hank spends more time, I’m sure, in that rig than his pickup. I prepare for another wave, but this time the pickup slows. Usually the slowing signals the presence of another vehicle behind me, the oncoming one backs off to honor the pedestrian’s right-of-way (steam yields to sail, you know). However this time the truck stops alongside me, the window slides down, and sure enough it’s Hank Van Ness behind the wheel.

At my age most folks I see around and about remind me of somebody I know, knew, or am familiar with. Hank Van Ness is no exception. His soft spoken nature and looks put me in mind of a favorite actor of mine, the late Richard Farnsworth. Both have well trimmed mustaches and a gentle, calming way of speaking that immediately puts the listener at ease. I’m not saying Hank and Farnsworth are exact  doubles for each other…whenever I see him, there is just something about Hank that reminds me of Farnsworth. I wonder if he’s ever considered the movies.

“How far are you walking today?” Hank asks. Strange question, I think. Now when I’m afoot, my turnaround point is Sargent Road and that’s what I tell Hank. “Just wondering,” Hank smiles, “I thought if you walked the Loop, my dog just might tag along.” “Wouldn’t be the first time,” I inform him. Hank smiles, and to my surprise nods knowingly. I launch into my dog tale about my walk with Frohning’s black dog and Hank’s shepherd mix, how the three of us slowed traffic on the Tuaclo Loop as if we were a flock of sheep thronging the road. Hank, much the same as a parent concerned about his child’s behavior in school, wanted to know if his dog was sashaying back and forth across the road, too. “I have her pretty well trained. Whenever I say ‘car,’ she moves immediately to the shoulder.” How was I to know that? Besides, I was too busy apologizing to the stalled drivers (“They’re not my dogs!”). I seem to recall it was “Blackie” that was tacking back and forth across the road, not Hank’s, and tell him so.  I can tell he’s relieved to hear this. (We all want to think good thoughts about our pets, don’t we?)

We begin to swap dog tales. I tell Hank about Broers’ pup I had as a walking companion a few years back, how I finally had to use some harsh words and chuck a missile or two its way to discourage my company from following me all the way to 203.

That led me to share another dog tale with Hank from a midwinter’s night some years ago. In the early morning hours I awoke to the sound of feet drumming the frozen ground outside our bedroom and heavy panting as the animals loped by. I heard them a second time, excited, apparently in pursuit of something. I jumped out of bed and rushed to the rear of the house. The motion light above the backyard deck had been activated, and in its glow I saw two large golden retrievers, tongues nearly dragging the ground, panting on the lawn just off the deck. They startled and ran when I opened the door and shouted. Thinking I had nipped their hijinks in the bud, I went back to bed.

The next morning I noticed the center boards of the deck had been splintered apart. The two canine vandals had attempted to dig through the decking to get at whatever it was, a terrified rabbit, most likely, that had sought refuge beneath the boards. The carnage did not end there either. When I went out to the woodshed later, I noticed the outer tier of stacked wood had collapsed and spilled out onto the ground. The pair, in trying to dislodge their prey from the cordwood, had dug under the outer tier, undermined it, toppling half the stack.

I gave Hank a description of the culprits. One had a yellow cattle tag on its collar, the other, almost its twin, was collarless. I would often see the tagged retriever wandering about when I was out in the Valley and knew it belonged to the Frohning family. The other I wasn’t sure about. “That would be Wilson,” Hank chuckled, “Andy and Gloria’s dog.” More interesting information followed, including the origin of the dog’s name (“Wilson” after the basketball friend of Tom Hanks in the movie “Cast Away”) and a strange tale of a dognapping. All I know is because of those two midnight marauders, I had to replace the splintered decking with two new treated 2’ x 4’s.

A blog I follow posted the other day that the domesticated dog (Canis lupus familiaris, I was informed) requires but a slight amount of animal protein in its diet and whereas its wild canine relatives need a diet high in animal protein, man’s best friend can fare quite well on a diet of carbohydrates (grains and such). I commented on the post and in a reply comment the author stated further that over time most of the pack instincts have been bred out of our modern day canine pets. That may be so, but it’s my experience dogs with no fence between them and mischief are certain to find it: one dog’s a pet, two or more dogs on the loose is a pack. Hank and I agree that more than one dog given free rein can wreak some serious havoc in the neighborhood—especially if there are chicken yards about.

It’s always good to talk with the Valley neighbors and I welcome the chance to catch up on the local flatland news. Hank and I must have swapped dog tales for a good twenty minutes. My apologies to all the traffic that had to slow, stop, and ease by us in the oncoming lane.

And the strange question that began our conversation? It turns out Andy Werkhoven had read my dog walking post about the exasperating experience and shared the post with Hank. That’s why you’re reading The Ripple’s latest…a classic case of the news creating the news.

The Biology and Biography of a Seed…

              “…like a wet wild seed in the hot blind earth.”

       As I Lay Dying

            William Faulkner

When you think about it, a seed catalog is a metaphor for the products it advertises: you plant one tiny speck of seed, and depending on what you sow, you harvest many times over that microgram capital outlay. When you order one packet of seed from the glossy pages of a solitary catalog, next season you’ll need a wheelbarrow to haul your harvest of seed catalogs home from the mailbox. Not that I mind…I just think it’s curious how many businesses across the country know I have a vegetable garden out back and are so eager to help me plant it.

There are the staunch old standbys: Burpees, Gurney’s, Territorial Seed and RH. Shumway’s newspaper-sized catalog, newspaper print format, with the staid patriarch Shumway the First glaring at you from the cover, looking as if he just stepped right from between the pages of the Old Testament. (Imagine trailing a beard like Shumway’s down a furrow!) “…like seeing an old friend suddenly show up at your door,” according to one Shumway fan. Specialty catalogs, too: greenhouses, gardening supplies, nursery stock…one that emphasizes “the kitchen garden.” One of my favorite specialty catalogs is “Totally Tomatoes,” (well, not totally tomatoes… a few peppers, cucumbers, and greens insinuate their way into the 289 tomato varieties the catalog offers. (A few years ago among  the packets I ordered from TT was one pristine envelope, sealed and in mint condition but without a single seed within. I wrote a note, returned the empty packet, and they sent me another, this one containing seed, no questions asked.)

This year as I thumbed through the stack of catalogs, I decided to sticky-note those pages that featured a vegetable variety I might like to try in this year’s garden. I figured that would preclude having to thumb through the stack again come ordering time. One catalog had a motto that caught my attention. “Saving the Past for the Future,” is  the mission statement of Southern Exposure Seed Exchange (SESE). This company focuses on “heirloom” seeds and plants. SESE defines “heirloom” as a pre-nineteen forties variety, the seed from which has been passed from one generation to the next. Hybrid seed came on the market after the ‘40s, the company states. SESE is also building its own seed bank and encourages seed savers to contribute their favorites. Those who do, receive gift certificates which can be used to purchase products from their catalog.

I was most impressed with SESE’s emphasis on saving seed gathered through the “open pollination” process. Whereas “closed pollination” produces hybrids by hand or the mechanical manipulation of pollen, resulting, therefore, in an artificial, man-made organism. “Open pollination”occurs through the whims of nature: wind, birds, insects… natural dissemination of pollen. SESE maintains open pollination promotes bio-diversity in the plant world. “Closed pollination,” on the other hand, can lead to “inbreeding depression,” which causes diversity to stagnate or wane. Natural hybridization produces random, surprising mutations, the seeds from which are saved and successive generations (F2, F3, F4) are different from their parents. To insure their plants are pollinated “openly,” SESE isolates their seed crops from pollen sources that may be genetically altered. These distances may require four times those used for controlled open pollination seed plots.

All seed from SESE is non-treated. Varieties are labeled “OG” for certified organic (“We will not knowingly offer seed of genetically modified varieties,” they declare.) and “E” for “ecologically grown.” An hourglass icon represents “heirloom”varieties.

[Note: SESE and seventy-five other plaintiffs have challenged the Montsanto Company for its work with GMOs (genetically modified organisms), and maintains: “The mechanical transfer of genetic material outside of natural reproductive methods and between genera, families, or kingdoms poses great biological risks, as well as economic, political and cultural threats.” Just what those “threats” might be, SESE never does say. The lawsuit  further seeks to address the plaintiffs’ right to save seed without fear they will be sued for patent infringement should Montsanto’s transgenic seed contaminate their crops. Plaintiffs also maintain Montsanto’s GMOs are not useful to society and therefore their patents are invalid. These days the GMO issue is in hot debate. During the current legislative session, the Washington State legislature has proposed legislation (“Label it WA,” I-522) requiring all GMO products to be labeled as such. Ed Hume (Ed “Humus” as he’s known in our household), our own local seed purveyor stated on the radio the other day that the term “GMO” is an unfortunate one. His point: any hybrid including those arising from open pollination has been genetically modified. Thus considered, we are all hybrids then, aren’t we? Hume suggested genetically “engineered” would be a more apt term for an organism created by mechanical manipulation. Just a little “organic” food for thought.]

SESE builds its inventory from seed exchanges with gardeners and growers  in the Mid-Atlantic states and while germination rates and maturity dates target that region, the catalog states many of their offerings do well in the Pacific Northwest. The company especially welcomes the seed from gardeners who have carefully saved varieties over the generations. They encourage exchangers to include stories—seed biographies—of the seeds they contribute and include these brief bios in their catalog. These little seed histories I found quite fascinating and some of the more interesting ones follow:

“Turkey Craw” (Heirloom OG snap bean from VA, NC, and TN). “According to folklore a hunter shot a turkey and removed a bean from its craw; the bean was later planted and saved, hence the name ‘Turkey Craw.’”

“Aunt Lou’s Underground Railroad” (Heirloom and E tomato ) “Heirloom carried through the Underground Railroad by an unnamed black man as he crossed to freedom in Ripley, OH, from KY. Seeds were passed on to Aunt Lou, who passed them to her great nephew, and eventually on to heirloom tomato enthusiast Gary Millwood.”

“Paul Robeson” (Heirloom E Russian heirloom.) Original seed sent to SESE by Marina Danilenko, a Moscow seedwoman. Named after Paul Robeson, performer of ‘Old Man River,’ and operatic vocal artist who was an advocate of equal rights for Blacks. His artistry was appreciated worldwide, especially in the Soviet Union, and hence this tomato bearing his name.”

“Earl of Edgecombe” (Heirloom E)  New Zealand heirloom. “When the 6th Earl of Edgecombe died in the 1960’s, the heir to the title was a sheep farmer in New Zealand. When he traveled to England to claim the title, he brought this tomato with him. Our seed source was Dr. Carolyn Male who found it the best of her 1996 tomato trials.”

I’ve saved my favorite for last:

“Mortgage Lifter, Radiator Charlie’s” (Heirloom OG) ‘The following history is based on portions of our 1985 taped interview with M.C. Byles who developed this tomato in the early 1930’s while in Logan, WV. Mr. Byles is affectionately known as ‘Radiator Charlie.’ He earned that nickname from the radiator-repair business he opened at the foot of a steep hill on which trucks would often overheat. Radiator Charlie had no plant breeding experience, yet he created this legendary tomato by cross-breeding four of the largest-fruited tomatoes he could find: German Johnson, Beefsteak, an Italian variety and an English variety. One of the four varieties was planted in the middle of a circle. Then using a baby’s ear syringe, he cross-pollinated the center plant with pollen from the circle of tomatoes. Next year he selected the best seedlings: he planted the best seedling in the center and the rest in a circle around it. The pollination and selection process was repeated six more years until he had a stable variety. After Charlie developed and named this large tasty tomato, he sold plants for $1 each (in the 1940’s) and paid off the $6,000 mortgage on his house in six years. Each spring, gardeners drove as far as 200 miles to buy Charlie’s seedling tomatoes.’”If Old Radiator were around today, his tomato discovery might very well have fended off a short sale!

As far as free literature goes, a gardener couldn’t find better reading material than SESE’s seed catalog. Not only can one learn about seed history, but also other interesting facts. (Did you know wormwood, Artemisia, repels cabbage butterflies? Or woad, Isatis tinctoria, whose leaves produce a natural blue dye, has been used as a dye plant for over 2,000 years? How about the fact that birdhouse gourds may very well have saved the Purple Martin from extinction? And that Washington State is represented by two varieties of garlic? Inchelium Red from the Colville Indian Reservation, Inchelium, WA. and Nootka Rose from Nootka Rose Farm, WA? Troubled with migraines? Chew two or three leaves of Feverfew, Chrysanthemum parthenium, daily over a period of time and your migraines will be less frequent, less severe. Sorry…if you’re pregnant, however, you need to stick with pickles.)

If you want to plant heirloom broom corn (Hungarian Black Seeded) or heirloom cotton (Arkansas Green Lint), are looking for a good heirloom parsnip (Hollow Crown) or Egyptian Walking Onions (heirloom? You bet…guaranteed so), SESE’s is the the catalog for you. Choose from a small library of books (Gardening When it Counts: Growing Food in Hard Times looks intriguing…you never know…), or help the less fortunate folks by looking into SESE’s “Plant a Row for the Hungry” program. Check out SESE’s website www.gardens@SouthernExposure. Order a catalog. It’s free and if you place an order, who knows, you may just reap a bounty of seed catalogs next year.

Open pollination; it actually works, you know. Just ask my pioneer friend Dorothy Lewis (Dorothy’s an heirloom herself, turns ninety-seven next month). She’s a devout seed saver, Dorothy is, boasts she hasn’t bought a packet of seed in years. Last season she planted some muskmelon seeds she saved (“mushmelons,” she calls them). At the end of the summer I gave her a call, asked her how the muskmelon crop turned out. A bit of silence. Then laughter. “They came up squash.” Not quite enough isolation space would be my guess.