Spring Garden Shots

In case yesterday's written description of our spring things left something to be desired, consider a few pictures that might be worth a hundred words.

First, the four-fifths finished fence of Elk Cliff Farm.  The plastic-covered pile contains the poplar rails we hope will disguise the 4x4 goat wire.

The prime purpose of the fence is to separate the garden beds from these guys.  By the way, we're expecting a few dozen more in a month or so.

Before we go behind the new fence, here's a shot of what we call the "field garden," which is found in our field across the James River Road.  I mowed it today and covered the southwest corner with black groundcloths and a green tarp to kill the Johnsongrass.  I plan to rotate the cover across the garden, where I want to plant sweet corn, sorghum, and grain for the animals.

 

Now, through the new fence into the middle of the greenhouse, 6 varieties of lettuce in this bed are close to table-ready.

"Where is this bed?" asks Virginia, as if she doesn't know.  She's always thinking of others.  As I said, in the middle of the greenhouse.  My tomato flats with no sprouts yet sit on the lowest shelf, while broccoli, cauliflower and cabbage seedlings stand above at attention, anxiously awaiting their march to the outdoor garden.  The lettuces grow underneath these shelves.

  

Here's one of our winter wheat gardens, next year's flour.

More rows, garlic this time.

"Won't you please pick me this year?"  A few of last year's onions inquire.

 

Lettuce grows in a cold frame.

Shall we say goodbye to this year's maple syrup season?  For how we prepared our 3 gallons of syrup, please visit Karen's blog, "Maple Syrup Take Two," at http://holesinmyjeans-kpannabecker.blogspot.com/2011/02/maple-syrup-take-two.html.  

The Fence and Maple Syrup Duet

I smell maple syrup.  As I continued working on post holes, Karen and Susan began evaporating the 100+ gallons of maple sap we've collected so far.  I write "so far" for two reasons.  One, the buckets still hang on our trees.  Two, the result of today's evaporation will determine whether we drink the sap, offer it to someone else, or keep boiling it.  The answer to the boiling question alternated among maybe and no throughout the day.

The big problem is we don't have a proper evaporator.  A lot of the heat from the wood being burned rose around the too-small evaporating pans and warmed the atmosphere instead of the sap.  The women kept a fire going all day in the fireplace that's part of our outdoor kitchen.  We rarely use that grill, unlike the adjacent brick pizza oven.  Susan brought leftover lumber from her place and Karen gathered fallen limbs from ours.  Gradually, they learned to keep the fire the right temperature so the sap wouldn't simmer too slowly or boil too fast. 

I checked in now and then, hoping to smell and taste fresh maple syrup, and be a cheerleader.  Right, I probably doused more enthusiasm than I offered cheer as I grumped my way along the final 17 holes.  Each of the first 7 greeted me with 6 inches of hard, tight gravel mixed with clay.  After banging and twisting the tamping bar, the post hole digger rewarded me with tiny clumps.  Fortunately, it took me only an hour and a half to finish the last 10 after suffering 4 hours on the first 7.  Meanwhile, during water breaks, I noticed the sap gradually turning darker and darker, clear to yellow to tan to brown.

My mood substantially improved after the post hole digger returned to the barn.  Instead of lying in the sun, as I had dreamed of doing, I planted more peas -- Wandos and Laxton's Progress -- and shooed a few chickens that had creeped into my territory, soon to be enclosed by a fence.

I joined the fire-tenders for while.  The sun slid behind our mountain, Susan claimed a pot-full and took it home to finish, while Karen needed a flashlight to check the remaining sap's progress.

"So what's the answer?" asks Virginia.

I'm getting there.  I heated up some leftovers for dinner, then headed off to orchestra practice.   When Karen said, "I'll probably still be here when you get back," I had an inkling of the answer.  When she wasn't there when I got back 3 hours later, I thought I might have been wrong.  I opened the back door and the odor of maple syrup greeted me.  Karen was finishing it off on our indoor stove.  She offered me a taste and, if I heard correctly, she's not ready to let the rest of the sap go to waste.

Tapping Local Resources

We finally took Larry's advice.  We tapped some of our sugar maples.  Walk by a tree and you'll hear drip-drip-dripping until it gets too cold this evening.  It'll resume in the morning after the sun warms the trees.   We'll keep an eye on the buckets, empty them as they fill, and briefly store the sap in shiny new metal garbage cans.

Thanks go to Susan, who brought wood for the fire on which her pans will boil the sap down to syrup, and to Pat, who contributed a bunch of Fresh Step cat litter buckets.  Karen bought a few old-fashioned metal buckets and spiles with hooks, so a couple trees look classy.  She also cut a copper pipe and a PVC tube into 3-inch pieces, to go with the tacky plastic buckets.

They seem to work equally well, the tacky and the classy, as usual -- which reminds me of Burberry scarves for some reason.  Without a Burberry coat, what's a Burberry scarf?  Sort of like a Mercedes with a dent in the side or a broken turn signal lens -- proof that you can't afford the car.

This also reminds me, for some reason, of yesterday's blog ("Keep $$ Local"), which so far hasn't drawn anyone's wrath.  I'm serious, we could have a movement here.  If you're truly upset with giant banks, the kind whose failure could have a systemic impact on our financial system, and you think Congress isn't doing anything to stem their growth or continued existence, walk your money home.  If enough people did this, no bank would be "too big to fail."

"It may remind you," says Virginia, "but what possible connection is there?"

I guess whenever I think of harvesting maple syrup, I think of growing vegetables, milking goats, making cheese, and doing all those other things most Americans used to do at home.  Doing them these days is like money in the bank.  Back then, folks didn't send their money (they probably didn't have any to send) to faraway places and unknown people.  They'd either stick it under a mattress, earning about as much interest as banks pay us today, or trot into town to visit George Bailey.

[By the way, this is my 400th blog entry.  Should I continue?]