The Calm Phase
The vegetables have me cornered by the middle of August. Several sorts of beans, summer squash, zucchini, and patty pans, pickling and slicing cucumbers, lettuces, spinach, chard, cabbage, beets, broccoli, cauliflower, late peas and early carrots all show up in the kitchen waiting expectantly, or else grow to extraordinary size on their respective vines and stalks. Until now, between supplying our own table and that of customers, we have kept pace with the garden’s productivity.
One summer I instituted the practice of inviting my young relatives for supper a couple of times a week to “eat vegetables” in all-vegetable or nearly all-vegetable suppers to work our way through larger quantities of them, sometimes in silly configurations-one new potato and a handful of green beans next to the summer squash and pasta, sliced cucumbers, and a green salad on the side. This came about when they commented on their habit of working themselves to exhaustion at their various jobs, and then dropping onto the couch with a bowl of cereal and milk before falling asleep.
“Would you eat more vegetables if they were already cooked?” It turns out they would, and it is no trouble for me to cut up another squash. These good people turn out when needed to hang storm windows and take them down, or split wood, or lend a hand on some tasks around the house and garden, and our vegetable suppers give us a chance to catch up with what is happening in the community, at their work places, or to hear about good movies to add to our queue.
This is also a good time for us to entertain. Company suppers, consisting mostly of vegetables offered to summer people of whom we are fond who will disappear soon until next summer. If we don’t take advantage of the confluence of friends and vegetables now we will have to wait another 52 weeks.
By this time in the garden season, though, these strategies are insufficient to keep ahead of the vegetables. With two or three pounds of pole beans every three days or so, eleven pounds of cucumbers at a whack, and six or seven pounds of summer squashes pending, you can imagine my dismay when I see that the cauliflower has developed purple spots that show it is a bit past, or that the broccoli has a tell-tale looseness in the head. It gives me a tell-tale looseness in my head.
The Frantic Phase
Which brings us to the Frantic Phase of the Deluge where I think if one more bean gets into this kitchen, I will scream.
And then it does.
Having help to eat the vegetables is no longer enough. This summer we are selling quite a few of our vegetables and that does help, but not everything is equally desirable to cooks with kids and grandkids. Green beans and ripe tomatoes are always in demand but greens and odd-shaped squashes are slow movers. We give vegetables away but so do other gardeners so there is a little competition to find the bean-less household.
We grow testy. Jamie says it would be nice to have some beets. I say the beets will keep but this chard will not. It feels downright irresponsible to feast on carrots when the red cabbage is straining at its leafy cover and will split any day. When I finally harvest it, and apply the knife, the cabbage bursts open with a desperate crackle. Lettuce bolts, peas march towards pea soup instead of dishes full of tender little orbs.
If I have to go away for an overnight to give a talk or attend some event, if I break my vegetable cooking, pickling, freezing, and eating stride and come home to swollen seedy cucumbers and the dreaded zucchini base ball bat, I get panicky, and complain that I seem to be the only one in the house who understands about constructing salads. Why will that man eat a tuna sandwich with a measly leaf of lettuce and a mere slice of tomato when it is evident that so many vegetables need to be consumed? Vegetable hate and discontent.
This phase also includes the terrible responsibility to begin the storage process. The onions have lodged, and it is time to pull them and let the stalks dry until I no longer feel a cool dampness when I pinch the neck. But now I have to remember that the onions are outside in the sun, and if a shower comes, run out to cover them or haul them into the barn or woodroom. In our climate, dampened onions will tend toward mildew instead of drying out again. I check the internet for a long term weather forecast, hoping for a clear sunny spell until the onions can be strung, safely hung up inside where they are no longer on my conscience.
In the years where I have made more pickles than we would eat, simply because the cucumbers were so plentiful and so susceptible to pickle variations, I did tumble to the trick of picking them when they were tiny-cornichon size. Suppose I was foolish enough to want to take a vacation jaunt. If I pick the cucumber vines clean of the tiny cukes and make my jar of cornichon, then I get a breather. Getting vegetables when they are little is terrific way to prevent a deluge, or to stem the flow somewhat.
Still the whole point of the garden is to feed ourselves for as much of the year as I can, so I dig deep for the self-discipline to harvest, prepare and store summer squashes for freezing, to pick and dry herbs before they go to seed, unless seeds are the whole point, scheduling a putting-up day, trying to ignore the layer of dust accumulating on the furniture, the unanswered emails, the sadness of having missed a chance to see a friend in favor of being there for the peaches when the peaches were ready. Trying not to feel frantic and snapping irritably at Jamie when he announces warningly that the artichoke is ready or says reproachfully that there is broccoli getting awfully big or that the peas are going by.
If only vegetables were all that I had to do, the deluge would be fun. I could romp in the stream of beans, gleefully catch the squashes pouring down, lovingly pull the onions, always time the gathering just right. On good days, this happens and it is fun. If I am called away, the deluge can catch me unawares, knock me down, and carry me far from peace of mind. It’s not fun and I get cross. I feel responsible to the biosphere not to waste, to Jamie to honor his labor, to our health to catch our vegetable value when it comes. It is less heavy labor than constant attention, and sometimes I just want to goof off, be careless. Care less.
Sandy Oliver is a food historian and food writer who lives and grows food sustainably on Islesboro.