The spikes of multiple flowers are wonderful in the vase, but also a great show in the garden. Used as a focal point in the perennial bed, as a Derby Day sentinel at the gate to the terrace or in the cutting garden, you can’t go wrong with a good thrifty clump of lupines.

Lupine (Lupinus species)

By Eric Larson 

The Lupine in one of our Iris beds is a structural entity in the garden, even when not in bloom, and when, as now, it IS in full bloom, it is indeed magical.

As a member of the Pea family, Fabaceae, it’s also useful. Lupines can be grown as soil-nourishing cover crops, and they’re helpful companion plants when intercropped with cucumbers, squash, broccoli and spinach.

Not all lupines are edible, but the ones that are have a full range of essential amino acids and can be used as an alternative to soybeans. Those of you who like me thought that Lupine seeds were poisonous may be surprised to learn that lupini dishes are commonly found in the cuisine of many Mediterranean countries.

The “sweet” varieties of Lupinus, those that have no bitter-tasting,  unsalubrious alkaloids, are grown commercially in parts of Europe and are used for everything from vegan sausages to flour. [Such products often wear warning labels because -  also like soybeans - lupines can provoke allergic reactions. L.L.]

Among the three hundred (or more, authorities differ) Lupinus species there are a few outlying woody trees and shrubs, but most are herbaceous plants, including the handsomely flowering lupines of ornamental horticulture.

Although most ornamental lupines are technically perennials, many gardeners treat them as biennials because of their tendency to flower the second year and then start declining right away. Full sun and well-drained, average fertility soil are essential to longevity, and “unimproved” species often last longer than the gorgeous hybrids featured in catalogs.

Not many pests bother with your Lupine but aphids will sometimes cover it. If they do, insecticidal soap or one of the beneficial insects will likely take care of them. Lady Beetles work wonders, but I wouldn’t recommend the purchase of same: they tend to be too mobile to do the gardener much good. That being said, the sight of a Lady Beetle larva eating an adult aphid is a sight to behold: they pick them up and eat them just like you and I would eat an ear of corn, moving down the length and turning it slightly to get the next row. Fantastic!

Flowering lupines are fairly easy to start from seed  - my preferred method – but if you are in a hurry for flowers it’s nice to know potted plants old enough to bloom the first year are widely available. Be sure to ask the seller about expected bloom season; seedlings too young to perform their first year  are also offered in spring.

Depending on the species and variety, the flower color can range from yellow to blue, salmon pink to purple and almost red.  Most of the types available as horticultural specimens are in the cooler range of purple to violet. The height is in the two-and-a-half to three-foot range when in flower, with multiple flower spikes emerging over a ten day to two-week period.

These are close to ideal cutting stage

The flowers are not the longest-lived cut flowers, but I have found if you cut them when no more than a third of the flowers have popped open (they open from the bottom of the flower working upwards), then they will last for several days in the vase. They are an unbelievably striking focal point in a large vase with just some fern leaves around the bottom.

The genus name Lupine comes from the root word lupinus, Latin for wolf.  Lupine as an adjective also means savage, ravenous and predatory, all connected with the wolf. This may have something to do with the propensity for some species to become invasive, as on the South Island of New Zealand,  where Lupinus  polyphyllus has covered stream banks and roadsides.

The native Bluebonnet in Texas( fittingly, L. texensis ) is also on the aggressive side, but of course its predominance is welcome there as part of the spring display and indeed a deserving focus of festivals, tours and other events.

One last note here about the writing of this column. If what Lao Tzu said in the 71st chapter of the Tao Te Ching is correct, then I am well on my way to enlightenment.  “He who regards his intellectual knowledge as ignorance has deep insight.”

The more I learn about gardening and horticulture, the more convinced I am about how much I don’t know. I reckon I could come up with a pseudo-Sino saying here about how long the road is, each step is an adventure, the path is winding and steep in some places, and broad and flat in others, but really, I much prefer the role of ‘guide on the side,’ to that of ‘sage on the stage.’

So let me just say that I am humbled every day in the garden, and if your observations differ from mine or you have anything to add to the discussion, I would truly appreciate hearing from you in the comments. Contributions are anonymous unless you want your identity – or website! – to be revealed, so there’s no downside to sharing more widely.

INVITATION: We will be having an open house here at the garden on Friday May 25, from five thirty to eight o’clock.  I have emboldened that time frame so that you will notice it is a change from our previous events which I mercifully cut short at seven so as not to bother people with my feeble attempts at explaining the miracles  of plant life, evolution and adaptation.  But this time we will keep  the neighbors whining deep into the evening, providing tours of the glass houses, light refreshments and our usual array of live musical talent.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

View from a roadside that’s near my house but could be almost anywhere in coastal Maine when it’s lupine time.

Our lupines are right up there with lighthouses and lobster boats for iconic Maine sights-to-see, and although there are both good and “bad” years, there has never in my four decades of residence been an early summer when they didn’t show up.

This has led a great many people to assume they’re native wildflowers. They’re not. Or usually they’re not. Most of the time they’re the same invaders Eric described conquering New Zealand, L. polyphyllus, a parent of many well-loved hybrids, which is only  a native wildflower in the Pacific Northwest.

We do have a native blue lupine, L. perennis, but the bigger, more vigorous, mullti-colored L. polyphyllus is driving them out. This is not an entirely good thing, however spectacular visually, because the native species is an essential food for the larvae of a highly endangered native butterfly, the Karner Blue.

There are a number of reasons the butterfly is threatened with extinction; the fact that they don’t like L. polyphyllus (or are poisoned by it, depending on which source you consult) isn’t the only problem. But it certainly isn’t helping.

Total Ramp tart. Similar to quiche, but with with less custard, more ramp (and crisper crust).

Having recently worried around at the ethical questions attendant on promoting wild foods to all and sundry,  I offer this post with mixed emotions.

On the one hand, Have Ramps Will Cook. We are lucky enough to have access to several large patches; the spirit of experiment springs eternal and besides, people have been asking.

On the other hand, providing recipes is – I hope! – an invitation to use those recipes, so there we are with the ethics again, along with  another reservation,

namely that ramps are at their most delicious when most simply prepared. Recipes that play around with these fleetingly available wild pleasures may be very tasty, but they have an unfortunate tendency to reduce the star ingredient to a supporting player.

But then on the third hand (something I often wish I had in spring garden and foraging season), some ramp recipes have components that work with other ingredients too. The tart shell below, for example, can be used for all sorts of custard or mousse based pastries, so there’s a bit of redeeming social value that has nothing to do with the marquee vegetable.

Ways to Use Ramps

RAW:

• In a green salad vinaigrette, made with two thirds to three fourths Romaine and the rest roughly chopped ramp leaves, with a modest number of chopped ramp bulbs for crunch and punch (they’re not as garlicky as they smell, but if they’re freshly harvested they’re not shy, either).
• Chopped and mixed with mayonnaise moistened sandwich fillings like tuna, chicken and hard boiled egg.
• To make Ramp Butter. Finely mince a few, using both bulbs and leaves, put the result on absorbent toweling and squeeze out any free liquid, then mix the greenery with an equal to slightly larger volume of softened salted butter. Chill tightly covered for up to 10 days or freeze. Use as a topping for grilled meat or fish, baked potatoes or winter squash, on steamed asparagus or as a finishing fillip for milk based chowders. Spread it on slices of toasted baguette to get a pretty upgrade on the usual garlic bread.

COOKED:

• On their own as a green vegetable. Cut them up, keeping bulbs and leaves separate. Cook quickly in butter or olive oil, giving the bulbs about a minute head start on the greens. Eat. Heat makes ramps even sweeter while making them less pungent. Plop a poached egg in the middle, it’s dinner.
• In mixed vegetable stir fries – add the chopped ramps after you turn off the heat.
• In Pasta with Asparagus and Herbed Ramp Hollandaise, Roasted Ramps with Morels and New Potatoes, or Endive Wraps with Chicken and Roast Vegetables, all available on this post  (Where I promised a recipe for ramp-wrapped meatloaf without stopping to remember I never make meatloaf the same way twice, so it never showed up. The recipe is: make meatloaf – I’m pretty sure the one in the picture was mostly venison. Form it into a fat cylinder, wrap the cylinder in a double layer of ramp leaves and wrap the whole works in foil. Bake on a shallow pan, peeling back the foil for the last 15 minutes or so.)

Total Ramp Tart

Conveniently made without a tart pan (or pie plate). It was inspired by this Rustic Ramp Tart but differs in having a lot more ramp in proportion to egg, in being innocent of cheese, in being more like a main dish than a snack, and, I have to confess, in being a bit more of a production to make which of course I think is worth it. The finished tart is very good hot, but even better at room temperature.

Bonus aspect: Shaping the crust with a double raised edge produces a deeper shell than just rolling up the perimeter, but it’s still flat enough to pre-bake blind (unfilled) for maximum crispness, without the whole “ line with foil, fill with beans, etc.” routine. That means you can fill it with a modest amount of anything that needs a pre-baked shell from quiche mixtures to  pastry-cream lined fresh fruit tarts. Just in time for strawberry season!

For an 8.5 inch tart, 4 main dish, 8 appetizer servings:

• Pastry for a one-crust pie (this one is fine if you don’t have a favorite)
• 1 beaten egg
• (a pizza stone, if available. It makes a crisper bottom crust but is not essential)
• approximately 2 dozen good-sized ramps
• 1 egg yolk
• 1/3 cup cream
• ½ tsp. kosher salt
• 1 tbl. butter

Make the crust:

1. Place the pastry between two sheets of waxed paper and roll out a little thicker than you would for pie crust – 3/8 inch, if you were measuring which please don’t bother. Put the whole works on a flat sheet and refrigerate or freeze.
2. Use a toothpick to trace around an 8.5 inch template (overturned plate, bottom of spring form, cake pan). Remove top sheet of waxed paper and cut the circle on the marked line. Cut another line about ½ inch in toward the center. Re-cover and return to the fridge.
3. Remove top sheet of paper, pick up the ring of crust, put it on a flat pan and refrigerate.  Set aside the ragged outer edge of pastry in case you need to make repairs, then replace the waxed paper and roll the circle out until it’s about 10.5 inches in diameter and probably no longer tidily circular. No problem. Back to the fridge.
4. Remove top sheet of waxed paper and replace with baking parchment. Flip pastry and peel off other waxed paper. Brush outer 3 inches or so with the beaten egg, apply the chilled circle of dough, then roll the outer edge up over the ring, crimping as though for a conventional pie. Into the fridge once more while oven heats to 375 (with the stone on the middle shelf).
5. Bake for 10 minutes, then check. If bottom of shell is rising, prick just the top layer with a sharp knife point to deflate. Continue baking until the shell is completely cooked, well browned all over, 15 to 20 minutes more. You may have to cover with foil near the end to keep the rim from over browning but this is less likely here than with blind-baked deep shells.

Make the filling:

1. While the crust is baking, cut bulb ends from the ramps. Halve the long way, then slice across thinly. Set aside. Chop the tops coarsely. Set aside. Beat the leftover beaten egg with the yolk, cream and salt and set that aside.
2. When the crust is almost done, just a couple of minutes away, melt the butter in a wide skillet over medium high heat. Cook the chopped bulbs until translucent, about a minute, then add the chopped greens and keep cooking, stirring constantly, until they’ve wilted and darkened, about a minute more. Object is to reduce mass and drive off extra water without cooking any longer than absolutely necessary, and to have the ramps hot when they get put on the crust.
3. Spread the greens on the crust and slowly pour in the egg mixture; it’s basically just enough to glue the greens to themselves and the crust and there should be room for all of it, but if not, stop before overflow. Return tart to the oven, lower heat to 350 and bake just long enough to set the egg, about 8 minutes. (Extra filling, if any, can safely be poured over the top after about 4 minutes.)

Serve warm or at room temperature, neither hot nor cold. And don’t try to reheat it in the microwave; extra liquid will be forced out, making the tart runny and soggy…As you can tell, I tried it.

Our garden is big. Yours doesn't have to be to yield lots of great food and flowers

I did not hear this in person. Bill did (on Marketplace Money on NPR last Friday). But he couldn’t resist telling me about it, chortling loudly the while.

As well he might. According to him, a garden advisor – whose name he didn’t catch – had pronounced that “if you can’t keep your room swept, you shouldn’t try to garden.”

This struck me as so wildly improbable I thought he must have heard wrong, so I looked it up.

Sure enough, there in the synopsis:

“…not every budget-conscious person can make a garden grow and save money. Meg Favreau of WiseBread.com says that if you can’t keep your own room clean, most likely, you won’t be able to take care of a garden. Just go grocery shopping. But for those of who (sic) can maintain a clean living space…”

Arrgh!!

In extenuation (please see update below), the interview was about frugality, not horticulture, and Ms. Favreau was presented as an expert on all things frugal, rather than as an expert at gardening, or, for all I know, housekeeping.  But still. There may be a few personality traits that would get in the way of successful gardening – hating the outdoors comes to mind – but a deficiency of tidiness is emphatically not one of them.

A few reasons cleaning the house and caring for a garden have nothing to do with each other

1) No amount of housecleaning will create some new piece of furniture or decorative object that was not there before. But if you plant an inexpensive 6-pack of baby zinnias, you could have great bouquets for months.

2. No amount of housecleaning will create something to eat. We hold this truth to be self-evident.

3. Cleaning what does exist in your own room may improve the looks of that thing, but not transformatively. There is no way that dusting a steel clamp light will turn it into a crystal chandelier. Tend to a little tomato plant, on the other hand, and more likely than not it will become a great big green vine dripping with delicious crimson fruit.

4. Cleaning indoors may be good exercise, but opening the windows won’t make it exercise in the open air. Even the most benign cleaning products do not smell nearly as nice as newly-mown grass or blooming lilacs or the warm earth all by itself.

5. There are degrees of uncleanliness, but basically a room is either tidy enough to occupy pleasantly or messy enough to inspire discomfort. In the garden, no such dichotomy exists. Instead, there’s a huge spectrum of imposed order from maintained-to-the-max to utterly overgrown, and there will be recognizable benefits just about everywhere along the line.

6. With maintained-to-the-max we arrive at the most important reason Ms. Favreau’s analogy is bunk, and (because of what it implies) dangerous bunk at that. The one thing that will doom you as a gardener is being a control freak. Doing the work, yes. Good idea. If you put plants in the right place, weed, water, fertilize and similarly help Mrs. Nature to the best of your abilities, you will greatly increase the chances of reaping rewards from your garden. But you cannot for a minute assume that you are in charge. You’re not.

That’s one of the things that’s most wonderful about the whole untidy, ever changing, always productive process of gardening. It’s always a partnership, and the gardener is always the junior partner.

Some posts that might be especially useful for food gardeners just starting out (try the Garden dropdown menu for more)

High Return Vegetables

Tips for Success with Vegetable Seeds

How to grow Garlic

How to build simple, easy trellises for tomatoes, peas and beans

* Update: Ms. Favreau‘s gratifyingly mild-mannered mother wrote in (see comments) to point out that the synopsis was by no means the whole story and that she didn’t discourage gardening and I should give a listen instead of simply relying on the retelling from NPR. Fair enough, and I do apologize; you’d think I’d know better in a political season full of dubious out-of-context quotes. So listen I did and so can you if you click the synopsis link. As it happens, I don’t particularly agree with her suggestions for how beginners should get started, but that’s a whole different post and a far less emphatic one.

Yet all that said, post-listen (not surprisingly, she was analogizing room-tidying to weeding) the gist of  it remains and I still think the message was unfortunate. There are indeed reasons that food gardening may not be a money saver  - again, a different post – and there are crops that will fail unweeded: carrots, onions and others with small tops that are easily crowded out, but one of the great things about gardening is that you can still get a lot of food if you don’t weed very often. For instance, once her recommended zucchini – and other squash – plants get going, their giant leaves will shade out weeds and you won’t have to worry about them.

A bud cluster on our old Viburnum carlesii, cultivar unknown, just about to open and prove its worth to the world.

I usually agree with Eric about the plants he chooses as pets, but sometimes we really think as one and this is one of those times. Viburnum carlesii is a must-have shrub if you are moved by fragrance. There are other viburnums with lovelier forms, with handsomer leaves, with added fall interest from bright berries, but no other plant in the genus can hold a candle to its perfume.

Fragrant Viburnum (Viburnum carlesii ‘Aurora’)

By Eric Larson

Fragrant Viburnum is well named. In early April, the red buds open to pink flowers, which change to white as they mature, releasing along the way one of spring’s most intoxicating aromas.  These flower clusters are not the only reason to plant ‘Aurora’ Viburnum, but that one would be enough.

The genus Viburnum gets its name from the classical Latin name for one of its roughly 150 species, the European Viburnum, V. lantana. Our particular plant’s specific name is from W.R. Charles, who collected the species type where it is native, in Japan and Korea.

Viburnums are members of the Honeysuckle family, Caprifoliaceae, and all are either shrubs or small trees. Some species have been decimated by the Viburnum leaf beetle, but not our plant. In fact I can’t think of a more carefree shrub, since V. carlesii has no insect or disease problems to worry about.

If you look for the variety ‘Aurora,’ you don’t have to worry about pruning, either. The straight species will grow to 10 feet, but this selection stays nice and well-behaved, growing slowly to six or eight feet with a spread of four or five.

Another aspect of ‘Aurora’ that I truly appreciate is its fall color. It has a really nice wine-red to burgundy glow in October. Much more vibrant than the species’ typical dull red.

Plant Viburnums in full sun, in well-drained average garden soil. You can for sure count on fragrance from any V. carlesii, but fall color is pretty variable. This argues for choosing your plant at the local nursery (the species is widely available in the trade) in the fall, when you can see its “true colors.”

That said, you can plant in fall or spring, but make sure it’s near the garden or house entrance, where the fragrance will encourage visitors and family to stop and sniff.  They are good cut flowers as well.

This five foot shrub is eight-years old, so it is very well-behaved. Interplant with Narcissus species and perhaps some Grape-Hyacinth, and you’ll have a very nice mid-spring combination.

The 3 1/2 inch flowers above are clusters of small individual flowers, changing from pink to white as they mature. Intoxicatingly fragrant!

The Venerable V. carlesii at Leslie and Bill’s house.

This 8 foot shrub is we don’t know how old. It was about this size when we got the place 20 years ago. I do prune it, in a halfhearted “meant to do that” way, and if I pruned it more it would  bloom more, but although it’s hunkier than ‘Aurora’,  it does, as Eric says,  more or less take care of itself. Incidentally, the fall color is totally blah; I’m sure it was purchased in the spring.

We’ve had mixed success using ours as a cut flower. Sometimes the blossoms wilt almost as soon as the stems are cut, but these branches perfumed the living room for almost a week, to everybody’s delight.

To see and hear Eric holding forth on and in the garden, head on over to Gardenclips.com.

Magnolia in usual late April mode

The pattern itself is always the same: 1) multi-week warm spell, 2) magnolia blooms, 3) seasonally-appropriate frost comes, 4) flowers turn brown. But it used to happen between late April and early May. Then the whole sequence moved back to April.

In 2012, all March. Bloom started around the 10th and was thoroughly whacked when the temperature dropped to 25 degrees on the night of the 26th.

April 18th, three weeks and change after the frost - just a few late-opening dots of pink.

Meanwhile, the combo of February and March was the 3rd driest on record and April is not shaping up well.

I could go on, among other things airing the usual caveat that this is weather, not climate. But I’d rather cut to this not-climate’s effect on the maple syrup industry, as described in the crop reports written by Arnold Coombs, a seventh generation maple syrup producer and packer in Vermont.

Full disclosure:  The 2012 crop report abbreviated below was originally sent to me by the farm’s publicist, who thought it might provide a story about the connections between maple syrup and climate change.

Indeed it does. Especially when combined with Mr. Coomb’s reports from 2009 (best crop in the last 75 years) and 2010 (production dramatically below average).

Up, down, up, down, way hot, way not, dust-bowl dry and then hundred-year flooded, the globe is on a violent weather see-saw that is not well described by “warming,” a word that usually evokes something pleasant. “Climate change” is a little better,  but not by much. Change isn’t always pleasant, but it’s beneficial at least as often as it is harmful, which cannot be said about the see-saw.

The search for a term that is both scientifically defensible and sufficiently horrifying is ongoing. As is the phenomenon the term will describe. Here’s an on-the-ground look at one early shape of the agriculture to come, and following that, links to a few recipes. Maple syrup shortages and price hikes are probably inevitable, but they’re not likely to be crippling, especially given that our local, sustainable sweetener is not only delicious but also, for what it is, inexpensive.

2012 Preliminary Crop Report

By Arnold Coombs  (edited and condensed by me)

Following a huge crop like 2011, the 2012 crop had a tough act to follow.  The winter weather was most unusual with temperatures well above average. In southern VT and NH we had only two significant snow storms with the biggest being in October.

Because of the warmth and the lack of snow, getting around in the woods was much easier. Most sugar makers were ready to start producing early, but then in the week of March 19th, temperatures hit the 70s for four days in a row and ended our season prematurely.

This year, half of last year’s record amount seems to be normal, which translates into about 70% of an average crop for some, less for others.  We estimate the final US production at 18,000,000 lbs. compared to over 30,000,000 lbs. last year. Canadian production looks to be similar. What does that mean for prices? They will be going up. How much? That is still to be determined…

The farmers’ union in Quebec increased the base of syrup price 3% and with other costs rising (what isn’t going up?) we see a minimum increase of 5%…. pricing usually settles down by Late May or early June.

Due to the warmer weather, this year’s crop is running darker than usual, (last year the crop was 30% Grade A Light Amber and this year it is 5%) but the flavor is still quite good and we have plenty.

Personally, I’m delighted. As long it isn’t “buddy” (off-flavored because the tree has started to leaf out) I like the darker grade B better anyway.

Recipes:

Yes, it's dessert. (Carrot cake for pie-preferrers, albeit without raisins.)

Assorted maple tarts (carrot, apple and wild rice), and Downeast Company Coleslaw are here.

Crisp Crust Maple-Walnut Pie is here.

Les Grandperes (French Canadian cottage pudding, aka biscuits on syrup) is – or I suppose are – here.

Ramps (Allium tricoccum) at home in typical habitat

We regularly hunt for and pick them, trying to be responsible about it. We frequently  cook and eat them  in season, trying not to be too piggy about it. And I, at least, have two sub-questions:

1. Is the worry about over-harvesting* justified? And
2. Is it possible to formulate a general rule for the ethical enjoyment of foraged wild foods?

Given our intense involvement with wild mushrooms, you won’t be surprised to hear I didn’t start thinking about this the day before yesterday. It’s been at least 15 years since morels entered what might be called the upscale mainstream, and at least 10 since a host of other wild mushroom species started popping up in retail markets.

Ecologically, mushrooms and ramps are very different. Fungi are not plants and mushrooms are not fruits, but the mushrooms we eat are like fruits in function. Their purpose is purely reproductive, so they can be harvested over and over without damaging the parent fungus. Ramps, on the other hand, are entire plants, ** and they are plants that grow slowly. The trip from seed to harvest size can take three to five years.

But for the purposes of this discussion, wild mushrooms and ramps are very similar: both are foraged foods that have only recently become popular with a wide range of consumers, even though they have long histories of culinary use.

Traditionally, most foragers were country dwellers who gathered these foods recreationally from places nearby, for themselves and their families and, on occasion, for sale or sharing at local festivals.

These amateurs are still around, but now that there’s an expanding market, there is also an expanding group of professionals,  foragers who gather wild foods to sell, who do this work full time and who may move from place to place with the seasons, following what is for them a primary source of income.

Regrettably, many professional foragers are not professionals in the sense of having respect for the long term health of their industry. They have no interest in conservation – either of the target comestible or of the environment that sustains it -  and because time is money as surely in the woods as anywhere else, the more they can harvest from any one place, the better.

As a result, large swaths of territory can be so thoroughly stripped that the valuable product – whatever it is -  cannot regenerate. And if the land is so badly torn up that other species become collateral damage, well, tough darts.

In view of these problems, it might at first seem as though the rule is easy, an extension of the currently fashionable idea that one should slaughter the animals if one wishes to eat meat: do it yourself or don’t do it. If consumers don’t buy wild foods, heedless harvesting will not be an issue.

All very well and good (about the wild foods, I mean, please don’t get me started on the meat). But there are a few little problems:

1. Not all commercial harvesters are full time, and not all of them are pros-come-lately. I may be particularly sensitive to this because I live in Maine, where foraging has been a way of life for many since time out of mind, but I think most people would hesitate before suggesting an end to, for instance, blackberry picking. And there are a lot of reasons why telling clam diggers to stop it sounds like a bad idea, right up there with saying all lobster boats should be converted to sport vessels.

2. Also because I live in Maine, I’ve seen first hand how a niche product, in this case sea urchins, can quickly go from ubiquitous nuisance to species at risk, complete with licensed harvesters and very short, tightly regulated harvest seasons. It took about two decades.  But regulations did get adopted before it was too late; the urchins appear to be recovering. I suppose there’s no point in hoping a lesson was learned, the tragedy of the commons shows no signs of going away. But it may not be too farfetched to hope a more organized industry could be a sustainable one.

3. Although there are examples of local near-extinctions, there’s not much hard evidence that foraging is endangering wild foods to any significant degree. And it’s becoming clearer and clearer that – if you’re talking about the survival of an entire species – over harvesting may be  less of a threat than loss of habitat. Urchins, for instance, are very sensitive to things like pollution and water temperature. Ramps can grow in shady back yards, but not under streets and houses.

April 1, 2012 (no fooling). You can just see the tips of the ramp leaves below the sign. The much smaller lettering says “Good for salads and pesto!”

* For a decent, albeit tip-of-the-icebergy overview of the endangerment issue, see When Digging for Ramps Goes Too Deep, by Indirani Sen, published last April in the New York Times.

** One conservation-minded suggestion, made by me among many others, is to harvest only leaves and not too many, so  that the bulb below will be able to regenerate. This is fine as far as it goes, but it doesn’t go to the root of the problem, which is that the bulb is the tastiest part.

Ramp photos by Bill Bakaitis

In some ways this is really Part One, because although Bill’s set of instructions for  building your own wood burning oven is  thorough enough, the inspirational ovens of his childhood got only fleeting mention when he wrote it.

Now, thanks to the comments section, the story has its start. A simple query (from a fellow Lithuanian) has summoned those missing memories: of the outdoor brick ovens built by the southern Italians on Bill’s mother’s side, and of his apprenticeship with Willie Orban, his Lithuanian Godfather, who ran “the largest and the best bakery in town.”

First, the (abbreviated) query:

Hi Bill… I have a winter place in south west Florida where I plan to build an oven, however the clay belts are in the panhandle!!! Are you aware of an alternative to raw clay? I was thinking of using clay bricks which I can get readily get for free. I think baking bread is in the genetic code of all Lithuanians. Thanks much, Stan.

Next there should be a thanks to Stan from me, because here is Bill’s reply:

Hi Stan,

Well free is the way to go, isn’t it?  Although father’s side of the family, and hence my name, is Lithuanian, it was from my mother’s southern Italian side that I learned about home made bread ovens. There were several in our neighborhood (in Washington Pennsylvania, just south of Pittsburgh) and all were made from clay brick.

As I recall, and as old Angelo de Francesco described it to my uncle, the process consists largely of laying in a circular course of brick, leaving room for the door, and raising this course for a foot or so.

Then begins a gradual reduction in the diameter of the circle, by setting the successive courses not directly on top of the previous course, but somewhere between 1/3 and 1/2 of the brick width inward. This process is carried on until the constriction of the wall meets at the top. I think this is called a corbelled vault in brick-laying parlance.

The bricks must be laid with mortar/cement and are, of course staggered along their length, no two successive courses having seams directly overlaying one another.

I recall at least one smaller oven which was built using a wooden barrel as a form over which to arrange the bricks.

In some of these ovens, the entire outer wall was cemented over, thus making the ovens stronger, more efficient (due to the greater thermal mass), and relatively water and weather proof.

In others the geometry of the corbelled brickwork was unadorned, and these were protected from the weather by a shed roof.  I think one oven was double walled with rubble/gravel between the inner and outer brick walls.

As I recall, all were built upon a waist high base, all were domed, and all had but a single door. And I think all of the bricks were red, probably coming from clays mined just down the pike; the entire area was known for its pottery industry.

As I say, I learned about building these ovens from the Italians in the neighborhood. You will be pleased to know, however, that I learned baking from Willie Orban, my Lithuanian Godfather. Willie ran the largest and the best bakery in town.

We had several large electrical geared mixing bowls that were capable of handling 200 pounds of flour at a time, several proofing and retarding boxes, each working full time, and a large gas-fired oven with 20 foot long Ferris-wheel revolving shelves.

I would show up for work somewhere around midnight, commence to mixing the bread and set it to rising using pound sized bricks of gray, squeaky bakers yeast. As this ferment began I had just a half hour to mix up the sweet doughs for the pastries. Then began the successive pinching off of the dough as it aged, each fifty pound pull to be cut and kneaded into distinctive shapes.

As these rose in the pans and trays and the remainder of bread in the mixing bowl continued to work,  I/we had just a jot of time to roll out the sweet dough into buttered layers for the pastries, then pull off the second fifty pound batch of dough for the crusty loaves. Somewhere in between, the first batch of breads would go into the oven; the pastries cut, filled, proofed and then set into the oven; cake batter made; a second and third batch of dough mixed and set to working; dinner rolls mixed, proofed, cut, rolled and proofed again; cakes baked; cookie dough mixed, chilled, cut, filled and baked; large bread loaves weighed, cut, kneaded, braided, seeded, proofed and baked off; cakes cooled, cut and layered/decorated; goods coming from the ovens moved to cooling racks, the sweet ones dipped or drizzled with fondant. Meanwhile, doughnut batters were mixed, aged, proofed, fried, and glazed or filled;  puff shells baked and then filled with creams; fruit pie dough mixed, chilled, rolled, filled and baked…

And then the cleaning up, washing of the pans, sweeping of the floors, maintaining the machines, delivering the wedding cakes to the churches, hard rolls to the VFW, pastries to the Bar Mitzvah or Rotary Club.

There was never time to eat, never time even to stop and pee, but then again there was never a need; food was everywhere and the heat and work caused constant sweat to seep from the skin.  Time, meaning, horizon all dissolved into a blur.

It was great! Like living in New York City. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, but would never want to do it again.

I did this as a skinny teenager and then went on to college. For Willie it was all he knew. He was trapped there, strong as an ox but with no teeth, aching joints, high blood pressure, a bad stomach, crippling arthritis and the paranoid world view of a mind pumped to the limit by fear and adrenalin, finally eroded to half its potential. The last time I saw him he was glued to his TV set watching endless reruns of the Pope’s visit to what looked like a ball field. He wanted me to watch the reruns with him, share the vision, the glory, marry and put a baker’s dozen in the wife’s oven…

I begged off and walked across the road to the spring near my grandmother’s house, passing my granddad’s bread oven on the way.

Yes Stan, go with the free bricks. You can make a very good oven with free bricks and a little mortar. And the smoke of the fire puts such a splendid color and taste in the crust of the bread. You won’t regret it!

best of luck,

Bill Bakaitis

Billy and Willie @ 1950

This picture (taken at Adams, in Poughkeepsie, NY) is actually a bit of a cheat - I buy almost all of my seeds online, from too many favorite suppliers.* But it does say "time to think about starting seeds” in an unmistakable way.

This year’s gigantic assortment of seeds has finally arrived, bringing with it the usual gigantic dose of buyer’s remorse. I had firmly decided against bulbing onions, for instance, having concluded that purchased plants  -  also available mail order, in convenient bunches of 50 to 75 -  do much better than the plants I start myself.

Yet somehow, mysteriously, here is a packet of heirloom Australian Brown storage onion seeds, roughly 700 incipient plants. Here also are 8 kinds of peas, most of them the kinds that require poles. We cut way back last year and they were sorely missed, but this does not explain where the hell I’m going to put them all. As usual, too many tomatoes, but on the other hand I’m not going to start any eggplants.

I had no intention of getting into cardoons again, either, but then there was this nice packet of Gobbo di Nizza in one of those racks (well, you have to at least look), and a facebook friend had just assured me they really could be delicious and before I knew it, two dozen little green sprouts, each capable of becomming a bush 4 feet tall and almost as wide.

Even if you don’t eat them, cardoons are great in bouquets, especially in late fall when most other home grown beauties are no more. This Thanksgiving arrangement also includes Redbor kale and Bright Lights chard.

I’ve given individual pots to only 6 of the strongest-looking, but even that modest number will be eating too much precious seed starting space by the time it’s time to start the tomatoes.

And thus we arrive at When Is the Right Time to Start the Seeds? The chart at the end of the post provides some guidance and many seed packets have suggestions too, but the truth is it all depends.

SOME THINGS SEED STARTING TIME DEPENDS ON

* First and foremost, LIGHT. Outdoor plants do not cope well with the restricted light of indoors. A greenhouse helps, obviously, and grow lights can be almost as good. But if all you have is a windowsill it’s best to start only a very few things and to do it only a few weeks before they can start spending at least some time outside.

Tomatoes, for instance, are typically started 8 to 10 weeks before the last frost, but windowsill seedlings will be stronger if started no more than 6 weeks in advance. They’ll be small, but they’ll catch up, and they’ll catch up more rapidly than they would if they’d been stressed by two more weeks of low light.

* How dependable is the weather? All timing for seeds started indoors is calculated on the basis of distance to last frost. You can use a calculator like this one from NOAA to get a probable last frost date, but “probable” is the best that predictions can do. In places where there’s enough frost to worry about in the first place, spring weather is often unsettled. Balmy days can be followed by cold ones so blustery it is below freezing if you count the wind chill; and sometimes it’s just plain below freezing – late cold snaps can never be completely counted out.

On top of that, most tender plants prefer genuine warmth, in the air and in the soil. Forty five degrees is far from freezing, but if you’re a tomato it’s also far from warm. Short version: even though I have a greenhouse that lets me start early, I count as though “last frost” will be ten days later than predicted. If warm weather comes promptly, the seedlings will be a little smaller than planned, but that’s better than having them too big. (Seedlings that outgrow their pots get root bound, which sets them way back. )

*What’s the weather like indoors? A tomato seed may germinate in anywhere from 5 days to 2 weeks, depending on the temperature of the soil. (75 – 80 is ideal, but anything over 60 or so will work, eventually). This obviously affects how much of the allotted time the seedling is actually growing.

* How crucial is it that the vegetable, fruit or flower get a big head start? Plants that must make good growth in cool weather (delphiniums) and plants that are ruled by day length (onions) must be about 12 weeks old when planted out in early spring, no matter how long the growing season may be. Plants that just need three or four months of warmth after they hit the garden (tomatoes, peppers, daturas) have a lot more leeway – at least in places where the first fall frost doesn’t come until mid October or later.

* Some favorite sources for seeds , with a brief excursion into heirlooms and hybrids

More on seeds and seed starting:

Is seed starting really essential?

Organic seeds, starting off on the right foot

A Seed-Starting Timetable

(slightly adapted from one provided by  Kitchen Garden Seeds)

Counting back from last frost:

Vegetables

Four Weeks: Winter Squash, Melons, Cucumbers, Nasturtiums

Six Weeks:  Fennel,  Shallots, Tomatillos, Basil, Echinacea  and St. John’s Wort.

Eight Weeks: Eggplant, Tomatoes, Chiles, Sweet and Bell Peppers, Chives, Sage, Stevia and Thyme.

Nine Weeks: Broccoli, Cabbage and Kohlrabi (transplant out four weeks before the last frost date).

Ten Weeks: Celery, Celeriac.

Eleven Weeks: Leeks and Cauliflower (transplant out four weeks before the last frost date).

Twelve Weeks: Artichokes, Cardoons and Brussels Sprouts.

Flowers

Five Weeks: Alyssum, Calendula, Marigold, Zinnia.

Six Weeks: Balsam, Cutting Ageratum, China Asters, Celosia, Cleome, Coleus, Catmint Nepeta, Echinacea, Euphorbia, Forget-Me-Nots, Dahlia, Nicotiana, Scabiosa, Snapdragons, Stock, Thunbergia.

Eight Weeks: Baby’s Breath, Black-Eyed Susans, Milkweed, Coreopsis, Gaillardia, Globe Amaranth, Helichrysum, Hibiscus, Hollyhock, Heuchera, Nigella, Phlox, Platycodon, Statice, Yarrow.

Ten Weeks: Dianthus, Digitalis, Lobelia, Heliotrope.

Twelve Weeks: Datura, Salvia, Verbena, Viola.

Eric’s young ‘Rainbow’ leucothoe, currently about 18 inches high with a spread of two-and-a-half feet, but already showing the graceful lines and drooping branches that add architectural interest to the shade garden.

Our friend Eric has what sometimes seems like an undue fondness for woody evergreens. But as he mildly points out from time to time, he likes to write about the plants he’s experimenting with as manager of Yale’s Marsh Gardens, and that means a lot of emphasis on plants of special value to Northeasterners. Even though New Haven is quite a bit warmer than our part of the Hudson Valley – or Maine – there’s still a lot of winter to contend with.

Variegated Dog-hobble (Leucothoe fontanesiana ‘Rainbow’)

By Eric Larson

Leucothoe is named for a Greek mythological female, although exactly which one is not entirely clear (see the Bonus Goddess Roundup at the end of the post). The plant itself, however, is a North American broadleaf evergreen, native to the southeastern United States, with a range that may extend to stream-banks and shaded wet areas here in Connecticut.

It is a member of one of our favorite plant families, the Heath or Blueberry family (Ericaceae). There are about 45 species in the genus, native to Asia, the Americas and, somewhat surprisingly, Madagascar.

Dog-hobble (so called because it is indeed poisonous to dogs, cats and all warm blooded animals) is really a work horse in the shady landscape, useful primarily for its colorful evergreen leaves. It also provides spring flowers  – white to cream-colored, fragrant in an ‘interesting’ sort of way – and is ideal for filling the mid-level niche that can develop under mature shrubs.

You know how some of them tend to get that leggy look, like they just got off the runway at a fashion show, wearing a poofy top?  Well, cover up those unsightly bony bottoms with Leucothoe, which tops out at around five to six feet, but can easily be pruned to keep it at three.

The graceful, arching branches make the architecture of leucothoes very useful as well, especially in contrast with the stiffer more phlegmatic plants like Yew, Rhododendron, etc. It grows comparatively slowly but in time encompasses a three to five foot circle, further extended by those outreaching branches. ‘Rainbow,’ today’s star cultivar, is just one of many varieties that can show a range of foliage color from white to red to silver to pink,  as well as the common deep green.

Leucothoe works well as a mass planting to hold stream banks, in the shrub border to cover those leggy plant knees and as a source for cut flowers (actually the cut foliage, which is good as a ‘filler’ in the vase).

Rainbow’s brightly variegated leaves show why it is worth growing in the shade garden. On this cloudy day, in the shade of the foundation of our greenhouse 1b, this plant lights up the landscape around it.

Growing Leucothoe: If you pay attention to the native habitat of a plant, you can more easily choose the best location for it in your own landscape. In the wild, Leucothoe grows along shady stream banks, so shade, adequate water and rich soil are part of the happiness quotient. As one could guess from the rest of the family, an acid soil is preferred. If these minimum criteria are met, you will find that Leucothoe is a carefree, pest-free garden denizen.

The First Peoples used Dog-hobble as a poultice or infusion rub for ‘shifting pains,’  rheumatism, itch, scratches and ‘languor.’ They also applied the root ooze to mangy dogs, though I am not sure if that was to cure the mange or to put the dog out of its misery.  As always, check with your dermatologist, physician, witch doctor or homeopath before using any of the cures mentioned in this article.  I don’t want to be responsible for sudden baying at the moon or other maladies that may strike because of my interest in past uses for these plants.

Leucothoe can be found at many stand alone nurseries around here, including VanWilgen’s and Broken Arrow, so there’s no reason to even think about a Big Box Store. In fact, I think local nurseries are the places to shop no matter where you are. Their bathroom facilities may not be that great, and they aren’t usually open at all hours of the day and night, but these minor inconveniences are more than made up for by the knowledgeable plant folks, the dollars kept close to home and the sense of place that distinguish local establishments, some of them in operation for generations.

Bonus Goddess Roundup

What myth are we going to believe?  Besides the fables that get broadcast on television and radio, there are myths that helped create who we are. If the Greeks gave us the foundations of democracy, they also gave us a mystifying array of tales, including many where the gods intervened in the lives of humans.  Usually this was in the form of seduction of a human female, to the point where I imagine young women were more afraid of gods than Visigoths.

Leucothoe was one  or all of the following:

* A gentle lass whose sister was jealous of the attention that the god Helios (Apollo) paid to her.  This mean-spirited sister dropped the dime, as it were, on Leucothoe, telling the father, King Orchamus, about the god’s visits to the maiden’s chamber, disguised as the mother to get past the guards. Angry beyond belief, the old king had Leucothoe buried alive. It didn’t go so well for the sister either.  Clytia was unsurprisingly not forgiven by Apollo, and as a consequence she withered and died, and was turned by the god into the Sunflower, which follows the sun (Helios) every day.

* One of the 50 Nereids who traveled with Poseidon in his perambulations around the oceans. They were often friendly and helpful to sailors, especially when bad weather and heavy seas made life miserable. Obviously they don’t seem to embrace Italian cruise ships with the same gusto, or perhaps they have long since retired.

This one, formerly known as Halia, bore Poseidon six sons and Rhode, a goddess whose lineage lists several possible mothers – just to complicate things a bit. The sons were driven mad by Aphrodite in retaliation for an impious affront, and after assaulting their sister were confined to the under world by Poseidon. Halia threw herself into the sea, and became Leucothea (an alternate spelling for our genus).

In the Odyssey, the goddess appears to the shipwrecked Odysseus as a gannet, a sea bird, telling him to abandon his cloak and raft, and to trust her gift of a veil to save his life and achieve landfall.

In a sanctuary in Laconia, she answers questions about dreams put to her by adherents.  This form of oracle is singular to her.

* Ino, daughter of Cadmus, Queen of Atharnas,  and in this version we  find the subject in question having cared for the newborn Dionysus and thus attracting the ire of Hera, who drove her mad. She grabbed her son Melicertes and dove into the sea, where both she and her son were immortalized by the Olympian gods as Palaemon and Leucothea.

Perhaps I don’t need to add after all this that the Greek gods seem to be a temperamental and fickle lot, repaying kindness with madness and death, then making the poor victims part of the game by giving them stature as gods. But ours is not to judge, only to report. Our Judeo-Christian story is replete with mismanaged human resources, to say the least.

A classic bouquet of violets, tightly bound stems, galax leaf frame (no doily, however)

If that sounds more than a little old fashioned, that’s because it is. The song is only in my head because my father used to croon it to my mother and whether he ever bought her any I do not know. They did court in New York City in the late ‘30s, when nosegays of fragrant violets were still a staple of winter romance. But by the time I grew up the whole tradition – along with the violets – was long gone.

Or make that almost gone.

Sweet violets (Viola odorata) grow in my garden; I could force them in winter if I wanted to. And if we were almost anywhere else, I probably would.

But as we are in the mid Hudson Valley, I don’t need to go to the trouble. Just up the road in Rhinebeck there is still a tiny fragment of the now vanished industry that once made the town “The Violet Capital of The World.”

Big claim, possibly not true. But maybe. When violet mania was at its height in the early 20th century, there were over 400 violet houses in the area, bringing close to a million dollars to the local economy (almost 23 million if you adjust for inflation).

The story of this floral rise and fall  is recounted, briefly, in The Violets of Dutchess County, and there is a new documentary about it, Sweet Violets, that I’m beyond eager to see and will try to report on shortly.

Meanwhile, hankering for the real thing, I bought the nosegay in the picture from Battenfeld’s, formerly a major player in the Rhinebeck violet biz. Its greenhouses are now devoted to anemones, with some ranunculus and lilies thrown in to keep things interesting.

They don't mention the violets because there are so very few

The last violets are over against one wall of one greenhouse, in a bed that’s 100 feet long but only one foot wide.

It looks like hell… as it needs to for maximum flower production. All will be restored to health when the cutting season is over.

Depriving mature violet plants of food and water scares them into producing flowers as a survival strategy. Plants that fear death put maximum energy into blossoms as a last ditch attempt to make seeds.

Come early spring, these unhappy creatures will be divided and moved outdoors for regeneration. By the time they must come in again next fall, they’ll look like these

Violet plants that landed in clover (aka an anemone bed), happily watered and fertilized, responding to their cushy situation by making a ton of leaves and very few flowers.

The plants giving flowers today are directly linked to the past. They’ve been going in and out, divided and divided and divided again for well over 40 years, said the company’s fourth generation owner, Fred Battenfeld, who welcomed us and showed us around  — on of all days February 13th.

I bought only three bunches of violets, which was probably a good thing. There were just two left in stock and he picked the third one as we talked, perhaps not inadvertently illustrating why this labor intensive flower may have trouble making a commercial comeback.

The hands of Fred Battenfeld, in front of the last strip of Rhinebeck’s greenhouse violets. (Go visit or get the film to see the rest of him; we didn't bug him for a portrait and the candid ones didn't come out.)

GROWING FRAGRANT VIOLETS

The sweet violet (Viola odorata) likes cool, moist, slightly acid to neutral soil in partial or dappled shade. It’s fairly tough, but not as cold hardy as the common or wild blue violet (V. papilionacia). Most authorities rate it ok to southern zone 6, though mine have been doing fine for years in zone 5b.

What mine are not doing is spreading, though V. odorata is normally willing to multiply freely. That’s probably at least in part because they’re at the end of their range, but I’m sure the intense competition isn’t helping. Unlike the common kind, fragrant violets aren’t particularly pushy.

In my experience, they aren’t particularly fragrant, either, unless your nose is in the immediate neighborhood. Bouquets on a side table waft perfume as far as an adjacent chair and a boutonniere rewards its wearer with a steady, subtle sweetness. But outdoors the scent doesn’t travel far.

Maybe it’s different in England, where V. odorata is a native ground cover frequently praised for warranting its species name. Here I’m thinking the best place for them would be up closer to to the passer-by: on an embankment beside a walkway, or carpeting the surface of a big planter that housed a small tree or vine draped tuteur. Or maybe in a giant pot on a pedestal…

But then the giant pot would probably have to be brought in  for the winter and then there we would be again with things that must be brought in about which I have sworn several vows. Also, if I’ve got to bring it in (to the unheated but brightly sunlit barn, for instance), I think I’ll go whole hog and plant a few Parmas.

GROWING PARMA VIOLETS

The Parmas are the prima donnas, most fragrant, most double, most finicky of scented violets. Although opinions differ on their region of origin and their correct species affinities, everyone seems to be in agreement that they came from someplace warm and were introduced to Europe through Italy, sometime around the 16th century.

They need more or less the same conditions as odoratas, but slightly more fertility and quite a bit less cold. Plan to bring them in if you’re anywhere north of zone 9.

Sources include

Select Seeds and Bluestone Perennials

More on Parma violets: Matt Mattus’s What’s Old is New Again Maybe.

Listen to Frank Sinatra sing I Bought Your Violets For Your Furs