How Does Your Garden Grow? The Harvest

Containing more  Lessons from my Daughter and From My Son

The End for 2010

The last of the harvest has been eaten.  Tom cut four lone pieces of okra from the garden the end of  November and ate them raw, cut up into our mixed salad.  It was not enough for a mess and some folks would have just tossed them, or put them in the compost pile.

 But Tom is a  WWII baby, whose mother’s  voice still echoes in his head.  “Waste not, want not.....   You must belong to the Clean Plate Club..... Eat your food—just think about all those starving children in Africa.”

I hear a similar voice.  I could never understand, though,  about that starving children thing.  Why in the world couldn’t we send the food—which I DID NOT WANT---to the hungry children who so needed it?

First Harvest of the Season 2010

This year we planted a limited number of crops, unlike in past years.  The tomatoes and okra were givens, though not quite as much okra as in the past.   Peppers and fields peas rounded out the garden. My three favorite summer foods are tomatoes, okra and field peas.  I could eat them every meal. 

I do not eat peppers.  To be in the same room while Tom is cutting them up makes my eyes water.  Tom puts them in everything he eats and if,  by accident,  it is something I also am eating,  my mouth burns for hours.  Taking a hint from Jeff's cheese stuffed peppers dish, Tom also makes his own unique stuffed hot peppers, stuffing them with all kinds of cheeses, smoked oysters, crab meat, chopped shrimp, smoked salmon, tuna, minced clams and other interesting and unusual things.  The two tricks to this dish are to wear gloves during preparation (the more important of the two) and to roast them well  so that the intense heat is under control.  He freezes these individually on cookie sheets so that he can pull out one or two at a time to roast for his dinner.  

The only disappointment were the field peas.  They were heavenly tasting, but almost nonexistence. We planted four rows of them, two on one side of the garden and two on the other.  The rows on the right side yielded some every now and then, so that every few days we had gathered enough to cook a mini pot full.  Tom let me eat them all each time(about 3 spoonfuls), because I was the one who had begged to plant them this year.  The other two rows yielded nothing—not one pea.  The plants looked healthy and were heavy  with dark lush leaves.  That was it.  No peas. We are going to be more careful about the exact kind of field pea we try next year.  I think we will try two different kinds, maybe crowder  and pink eye peas, and keep track to see if either does better than this year.  If anybody had a recommendation, please let us know. I don't know if I can go another summer without fresh field peas.  On the other hand, Tom may be over it and have no interest in trying them again.  If you have read my previous gardening posts, you know that Tom is the master gardener and I am the sometimes helper—except for the summer of his hip replacement, when I was the worker bee under his rigorous oversight.  So if he says it’s a no-go, then we will be pealess next year.   

The tomatoes were .......... Wow!!

Sam & Madeline pick our tomatoes

We planted many heirlooms this year, harder to grow, but so worth it.  The whole experience is an affirmation that beauty is only skin deep.  Heirlooms  are open pollinated, not hybrids,  that look like they've grown wild. They're all different lumpy shapes and sizes, with scarred splits in the delicate skin and the flesh is firm, sweet, rich, lush, and smoky tasting. I love to eat them straight out of the garden, like apples, hanging over the sink with the juice dribbling down my chin. I have been excited to learn that, besides being funny looking

Davis & Tom

and tasting scrumptious,  they are  more nutritious, packed full of vitamins and antioxidants, than are  the more common hybrid varieties. Hybrids, on the other hand,  are cross pollinated, developed for commercial purposes--a uniform size to make them easy to pack,  with thick skins to be bug resistant, and to stand up under rough handling and for travel. Hybrids look uniformly, perfectly attractive, but are mealy, juiceless and drip free, manipulated for the sake of economics, taste be damned.

Our earliest harvest is always green tomatoes, picked  to thin the plants so that they will yield more. I have searched all my cookbooks and the internet for the best green tomato recipe to be had.  I am glad to share it with you.  The secret is the mustard mixture that you spread on the tomato before you fry it.  It is messy, but the spread adds a tang that makes this dish special.

Fried Green Tomatoes

This recipe is from Robert Lorino of The Irondale Café in Irondale, Alabama.This restaurant is the inspiration for Fannie Flag’s Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café.  The recipe is world famous.

2          Medium hard  green tomatoes, chilled

1          Tablespoon Dijon mustard

1          teaspoon sugar

½         teaspoon salt

¼         teaspoon paprika

1/8       teaspoon ground red pepper

 1 ½     teaspoons Worcestershire sauce

½         cup yellow cornmeal

¼         cup hot bacon drippings or vegetable oil

Cut tomatoes into ½ inch slices

Stir together mustard and next 5 ingredients.  Spread on both sides of tomato slices.  Coat with cornmeal.

Fry tomatoes in hot drippings (or oil) in skillet over medium heat 3 minutes on each side or until browned.  Drain.

Yummmm!!!

  We planted less of everything this year, so we only froze a few of our tomatoes and gave away those we couldn’t eat at three meals a day sliced, diced,  minced and roasted, in sandwiches, sauces, and stews.  The office attorneys and staff got lots and we had enough get ripe at once during the summer to serve them on Sunday in Finlay Park at Food Not Bombs.

Our wonderful preacher,  Neal, got the lion’s share though.  In fact, he called every Saturday night to remind us to bring him some. “You know my favorite food is a BLT sandwich,” he would say. He even wanted us to bring a bag of them and hang them on his office door on the Sundays he was not preaching.  There was a little catch in his voice the Saturday night we had to tell him the yield was  over and there would be no more tomatoes in the morning. He is a tomato glutton and I threatened to tell the Board to reduce his salary,  as we were paying part of it in produce, the old fashioned way. LOL.

He did not LOL.

Okra was our most prolific crop this year.  Originally from Africa, okra is a hot weather plant.  We put the seeds in the ground later than any of our other crops and it is the last to stop yielding—when the weather is below freezing for several nights in a row, usually in late November.  We use it in stews and gumbos and soups, but primarily we coat it with corn meal and deep fry it.  Fried okra is as Southern as fried catfish, fried chicken, fried pork chops, fried squash, and….fried green tomatoes.  Good as it tastes,  Tom and I have stopped eating fried food of any kind, switching to broiled or baked, for the sake of our health.  But fried okra--we just have not been able to give it up. Until this year.  In yet another of the Lessons From My Daughter, Jeny introduced us to a new way to cook okra.  It is healthy, less messy than fried,  and so tasty that we are never looking back. Sauteed okra is simple.

Sauteed Okra

Cut okra in slices as for frying. (If you have just washed it, pat it dry with paper towels, or wait for it to air dry).   Coat the sauté pan well with oil. On medium high heat, sauté the okra in pan  until brown on edges and slightly crisp, 4-6 minutes, stirring constantly so as not to burn. Lightly salt if desired.

There are more elaborate recipes with onion and various spices, but we all like it so well  plain we’ve not tried to fancy it up yet.  Maybe next year.

  Both of our children have turned into master gardeners and master chefs and their gardens include a wide variety of herbs to use in their cooking. Our garden in no way rivals theirs.   Jeny grows a wider variety of crops than we do, including a fall garden.

 Jeff plants cucumbers, and pumpkins, in addition to most of the same things we do. He plants  pumpkins and such for fun for the kids. Sam loves cucumber cookies. The Lessons from my Son in this blog post involve his turning his garden produce into highly sought-after gifts. His cucumber and okra pickles and  fresh salsa, made with his own tomatoes and peppers, are to die for and he makes many of us happy with his homemade Christmas and birthday gifts. The marvel of this is that he manages it at all, in a teeny plot on the side yard, raided frequently by their two large, rowdy family dogs.

Winter is here, the temperature is in the 20’s and  the garden is only a memory, except for a few frozen quarts of tomatoes in the freezer and some of Jeff’s pickles in the cupboard. We are already looking forward to next summer and so, I am told, is Neal.  He misses his BLT sandwiches. 

THANKS FOR NOTHING, DAD!

Thanks for Nothing, Dad!

A sort of Poem

On this Father’s Day week I want to thank you for those things you passed down  through your DNA, Dad

The things to be grateful for

As I look at your picture on my wall, frozen in time, your long, slender frame I see--

To My brother you passed it, to our son, Jeff, you passed it

good gosh

what happened to me!

 As I step on the scales and look down at the numbers

I can only say—Thanks for nothing,  Dad!

Huuum, so many other things ----------------

That brain of yours, Georgia Tech educated,  engineer honed

Which awed me every night—“yeah, Dad--but how did we do the equation? get that answer, tomorrow in class I have to know?”  “Well—It just comes to me,” you’d say. “I can’t explain it to you.” And really, you couldn’t.

So Grandaughter Madeline and Davis too have mad math skills they got from you.

And me, a grown woman—I still can hardly add two plus two

So as I try to balance the ledger, in vain,  I can only say

Thanks for nothing, Dad!

You drank way too much and chain smoked too, but still had some pretty awesome healthy DNA.

Till the day you died you eyes were clear and you could hear what was said a mile away.

So as I twist in my hearing aids each morning and clean my glasses to put them on.

I look in the mirror to see if they’re straight and I can only say

Thanks for nothing, Dad!

But then there're other things I think of -- not so much DNA

Nature or nurture kind of stuff, see-- if you want them to be a certain way, live it and they will see, they say----

The time we had with you--too short
Death ripped in one night and you were gone.
In all the years you had on earth, I never heard you say an unkind word about a living soul--

 that’s just how you were, every day.

 And another thing Dad—you never ever raised your voice in anger, ever—for me the calm in the center of a storm, so kind a man,

You know—I’m working on all that, still

And someday maybe I’ll get it, I so hope that I will

So as I look in my heart, I can only say

Thanks for everything,  Dad! 

JUDY'S POETRY

WE SHALL NOT CEASE TO BE

When I cease to be

And there are for me

No more bends in the road

No more grand adventures to come

I shall not cease to be

For me there is no end

I will live on

Forever and a day

In the happy dreams of my children

And the hopes of the ones I love.

For our children reflect the best in us

And pass it on down the line.

The dreams of our children live on in the lives

Of their children, you see

And that’s why I know each precious one

Has just a spark in them of me.

In Elliot’s lopsided grin and the twinkle in her eye—

When you see her merrily twirling round

I hope you will think of me.

For she is part of me and I of her.

In her I will live on.

Our Madeline, the lover of stories

Drowns in books and the tales that they tell.

Her mother passed that love on to her

But she got it from me,  as well.

The serious side of me I see in Davis

Her way of silently studying a thing just so

To understand how it must go

Though no gift in math I own

That’s hers and Gil’s alone

And one that inspires pure awe.

What about our sweet rambunctious Sam,

Who gives a squeeze and hug on the fly and then is off, posthaste?

What of me is in him?

The glint in his eye, his grin?

Somewhere in there

Is a hint of me and someday

It’ll come out.

You’ll see

And someone will say

That’s just the way of her

Isn’t that just like his JuJu!

Oh my many friends, can you not see?

We shall never cease to be!

For us there is no end.

We will live on

Forever and a day.

In the glorious dreams of our children

And the lives of the ones we love.    

LESSONS FROM MY SON 2

My Mother died a little over 3 years ago. Jeff wrote a piece about her and gave me permission to post it here.  

 You're never too old......

 Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Popmommy's Funeral

My last remaining grandparent, Popmommy, died last week at the age of 93 and we went to the funeral this past weekend.

Popmommy's eyesight and general health had declined in the past few years, but her mind had not. Everyone saw the end coming and all family and friends had been to visit her in the weeks before she died. Because everyone had already said their goodbyes and knew that Popmommy was ready to leave us, the entire weekend became a celebration of her life.

Here is Popmommy's obituary.

NEWNAN, Ga. — Elizabeth Cherry Davis, of Peachtree City/Newnan, passed away Wednesday, October 18, 2006, at home surrounded by family, three days after her 93rd birthday. Mrs. Davis, known to her many friends and family as “Lib” or “GG” or “Pop Mommy” was a Renaissance woman. She was born and raised in Estill Springs, Tenn., lived a large part of 

her life with her husband, Jack, in Birmingham, Ala., and spent her post-retirement years in the Peachtree City/Newnan area. She was a prolific reader who collected, over her lifetime, a wide spectrum of books that numbered in the many thousands. She was an exceptional bridge player for decades, having earned various masters points. Her reputation as a linguist, a crossword aficionado and a Scrabble player was well known. It was claimed by Scrabble opponents that she knew every word in the English dictionary. She could discuss at great length subjects as diverse as politics, sports, music, religion, classical and modern literature, history or the latest computer game. She was a successful businesswoman who held a number of management positions in the Birmingham area. In addition, she was the president of several service clubs and charities. She was a member of New Hope Baptist Church South in Senoia. However, her greatest joy came in seeing her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren grow and prosper. She was the matriarch of a large family that lives throughout the southern states. She is survived by son, Jim (Evelyn) Davis, of Newnan; daughter, Judy (Tom) Turnipseed of Columbia, S.C.; grandchildren, Dodd Davis of Greenville, S.C., Paige Mathis of Chattanooga, Tenn., Jeff Turnipseed of Columbia, S.C., Jeny Mathis of Atlanta, Matt West of Sharpsburg, and Melisse Fetherston of Sharpsburg; beloved niece, Libby (Tommy) Blair of Chattanooga, Tenn.; nephew, Mike Powers of Savannah; sister-in-law and brother-in law, Dorothy and Earl Brooks, of Hilton Head Island, S.C.; and 15 great-grandchildren, Haley, Zack, McCay, Zack, Jackson, Sarah, Madeline, Davis, Brooks, Elliot, Sam, Lauryn, Gunner, Tate and Philip.  

Friday, Cyndy and I drove 3 and 1/2 hours
to Peachtree City, an Atlanta 

Suburb for the Visitation. During the visitation, I asked my cousins if they remembered the scary puppet that had been at Popmommy's house when we used to visit in Birmingham growing up. The puppet was green with a black cape and top hat and one giant tooth. My cousin Paige replied, "Oh Mr. Sweet Tooth" and told me that she has Mr. Sweet Tooth now at her home in Chattanooga, Tenn.

Friday night we drove 45 minutes to my sister's house in Atlanta and spent the night.

Saturday morning we drove 45 minutes back to Peachtree City for the funeral. All 4 grandchildren were asked to speak about Popmommy.

I talked about how I had named Popmommy as a small child (She lived with my grandfather, "Pop", so the name seemed logical).

I talked about how fun it was to travel to Birmingham as a child because TV shows came on an hour earlier there and I described Mr. Sweet Tooth.

Popmommy loved to tell stories and she loved to tell me about some little frog toy that creeped me out as a child. Apparently the frog felt wierd and toddler Jeff would shiver when he touched it. Popmommy loved to tell me how they used to make me touch the frog, repeatedly, and laugh at me when I shivered. Popmommy told me the story, again, the last time I talked to her and she, again, laughed at the memory of creeping out her grandson and watching him shiver.

When I finished speaking and was walking back to my seat, my Uncle Jim, announced,

"I will give $1,000 for Mr. Sweet Tooth!"

My cousin Paige's husband, Michael, raised his hand and shouted "Sold!"

The funeral ended at noon and we had 4 hours to make it to the interment at the cemetary in Birmingham, AL, where my grandfather, Pop, is buried.

Cyndy and I rode with my sister Jeny and her husband, Gil. Gil and I were pallbearers. There was much discussion about where to eat on the way to Birmingham and how much time we had. Gil was craving fried Okra and insisted that we had time to eat at Cracker Barrel and that Popmommy would have wanted us to cut it close on the time and have an adventure.

After stuffing myself with country fried steak and fried okra, I fell asleep in the car.

When I woke, the adventure was in progress, as we had just reached Birmingham and had about 15 minutes to make it to the cemetary. We made it with 5 minutes to spare.

When it was all over, someone said that they had heard that Bear Bryant was buried in the same cemetary. I walked up to the three guys in the truck that was parked in the distance waiting for us to leave so that they could bury Popmommy. They confirmed that Bear Bryant was indeed buried in block 30, but we never went to look.

We drove 3 hours back to Atlanta and then 3 1/2 hours back to Columbia, arriving just before midnight.

Popmommy always told me "You are never too old/big to love your grandmother."

These were my last words to her.

LESSONS FROM MY SON 1

You're never too old to play with your kids

Oops! 

  Edisto Beach 2005

LESSONS FROM MY DAUGHTER 1

Remember that great book by Robert Fulghum, "All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten?" If you have never read it, do. It is on my top 20 list, which I will talk more about in later posts. But I digress.

The reason I brought it up is because I could write a book like that called "All I Really Need to Know I Learned From Jeny." Jeny is my daughter who lives in Atlanta with Gil and Davis and Elliot and Junie and Martin. Davis and Elliot are her girls. Junie and Martin are her dogs. Gil is her husband.

Jeny often says things with great conviction.  She analyzes situations; declares her stand on things firmly and has strong logic for her position.  For instance, she said she was never going to have dogs because they shed on the furniture; they aggravated, perhaps even caused allergies; they were dirty and I don't know what all else.

This year she changed her mind.  The family rescued Junie.  They liked her. Jeny gushed, like all new parents do. 

She placed pictures of Junie all over her facebook.  She sent pictures of Junie to the grandparents--almost as many as of Davis and Elliot.  Junie had a birthday party with all the neighborhood doggies as guests.  No, really.  There are pictures.

Junie needed a little friend and they have now rescued Martin.  He is as cute as Junie is.  He looks at least as much like a bunny as he does a dog.

I believe that they will live happily ever after.

The lesson I learned from Jeny here is that, truth be told, Ralph Waldo Emerson was right when he said  "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds."  I love it when something I taught tenth graders in GREAT ESSAYS springs to life like that.

Jeny, you are so busted!