Fleur-de-Puff

When I moved back to State College 10+ years ago, the Centre County Master Gardener group gave me a ready-made community. Sure, I miss my Lehigh Valley MGs, but I still keep in touch and it was nice to expand my MG connectedness locally.

Norm at home in his Magic Garden

At one point along the way I was invited to dinner at the home of Pam and Norm with my mom and another MG. Norm is a master vegetable grower and we traded garlic bulbs and vegetable stories in my early years of returning to State College.  Sorry to say I can’t remember the meal Pam prepared, but I remember the conversation. One of Pam’s favorite stores was my mother’s gourmet kitchenware shop, The Country Sampler in Boalsburg.  She talked to my mother about her memories and favorite recipes from the shop.

Pam and Norm live on several acres and a beautiful home not far from Colyer Lake, one of the most scenic spots in Central PA. They moved there from Park Forest (which gardeners disparagingly call “Dark Forest”), a neighborhood in State College that challenges even the best vegetable growers. 

Now they have Sun, with a capital S. Wide-open views. Soaring birds of prey. And their closest neighbor, neigh-neigh, is Magic the Horse.  

Norm planted apple, pear, and cherry trees. Not far from his patio, he has an 8-foot-high chain-link fence (to keep the deer out) around a vegetable garden that’s the size of a tennis court. The patio is a staging area for transplanting seedlings from cold frames and seeding trays.  There is another vegetable plot along the road in front of their house, Norm’s “low-rent” garden.

The closest Pam gets to any of Norm’s vegetable gardens is when she’s on the lawn tractor, mowing the grass that surrounds the beds. Once the vegetables are harvested and brought into the kitchen, that’s another story. Pam takes over. 

For years Norm has grown vegetable plants for giveaways to Food Bank customers as part of our MG Homegrown Project, which Norm and my friend Jan co-chair. But what about the actual vegetables grown in Norm’s garden, the excess that Norm and Pam can’t eat or preserve? Well, for a few years several Food Banks made produce pickups at Norm’s place.

Fast-forward to spring 2021. Norm and Jan create a hybrid called the Food Bank Farm Team.  The FBFT was initiated to assist Norm with the planting, weeding and harvesting of crops bound for local food banks. Norm is the vegetable production brains; Jan is the Sign-Up Genius brains. She recruits and juggles the womenpower assisting Norm in the garden, makes sure each bin and box is weighed or counted, and generally organizes everything.  Norm calls her “The Countess”.

Meanwhile, what does the rest of the team do? A little bit of everything. 

Norm’s Golden Rule of Soil Care: Don’t step on the planting beds, that’s what paths are for. Even leaning on the soil in a bed with your hand is verboten.  Norm has a 4-foot-long plank to lay between rows especially for that purpose.  Norm’s Magic Garden is his pride and joy, the soil fueled by well-aged and abundant horse manure, courtesy of Magic.

Early on I bragged that my specialty was pushing the wheelbarrow, after years of caring for ponies and horses, llamas and chickens. So, I steer the barrow filled with garden debris to compost piles. When the wheelbarrow is filled with hefty butternut squash or pumpkins, I let Norm take the lead.

We transplant romaine, oak leaf and Bibb lettuce, and then plant some more. We weed around garlic, carrots, and peppers. Over the summer I probably pulled my weight in purslane, Norm’s No. 1 weed. And, no, I did not give The Countess that number. We pick tomatoes, beans and eggplant; pull up red onions, white onions, and blueish-black skinned red beets.

Pam, bless her, welcomes us to use the house bathroom (despite our garden crud), and treats us to snacks of Melitzanosalata (Greek eggplant dip) on toast, coffeecake, or Sungold tomatoes. 

We make it fun. Norm cuts off heads of cabbage and lobs them over the 4-foot-high fence surrounding the low-rent garden.  I catch and stack them in the garden cart. Barb tugs a tangled web of cucumber vines as she recalls teaching English in Hungary when the Berlin Wall came down.

If I notice a wimpy lettuce seedling in the garden, I tease Jo that she must have planted that one. (Jo is an interior decorator; she normally plants for blossoms, not for vegetables, and doesn’t mind a little ribbing.)  Hours spent side-by-side with Jan, Phoebe, Lisa, Sharon, Chris, Kate, and Laura are as colorful as the monarchs that balance on the Tithonia and the goldfinches that snack on sunflowers.

Throughout the summer we see the garden ABCs: apples, broccoli, cantaloupes, cherries, cauliflower, and cabbages, ah, Norm loves cabbages. All the way to the end of the alphabet and into fall, three of us spend two hours stripping and unweaving pole bean vines from the X, X, X’s of the chain-link fence. WhY, I got a lot of Zzzz’s that night!

After one work session, Pam came out of the house and mentioned they had weekend visitors and she made my mother’s “Puff.” 

What a rush of memories. My dad would pour coffee from the French press into Hadley mugs while my mother brought The Puff to the atrium, placing it in the middle of the white wicker dining table.  She made The Puff in a fluted brown Dansk casserole.  Daughters, sons-in-law, and probably a handful of toddling grandchildren were ready for breakfast. The Puff was more than a dish, it was entertainment, as my mother squeezed a lemon inserted with a spout over the puffy golden pillow dusted with powdered sugar. 

A quick email to Pam and a recipe arrives electronically. To commemorate The Country Sampler’s 25^th anniversary my mother gave packets of favorite recipes to her customers. More than 25 years later, Pam still has hers.  I’m sure my mother is smiling. Laurie Lynch

Norm’s the Man: To mark the end of our season, we gave Norm one of my old Fleur-de-Lys Farm slates. “What a man needs in gardening is a cast-iron back, with a hinge in it.” by Charles Dudley Warner, 1870. On the flip side we wrote: “And the Food Bank Farm Team FBFT” with each of us signing our name.

Pam’s the Star: On my last visit with members of the FBFT, I brought Pam a special treat.  One of my homegrown Meyer lemons to squeeze on her next Puff.

The Countess Countdown: This growing season 4,500 pounds of produce from Norm and Pam’s place were packed into pickup trucks driven by Food Bank volunteers, bound for Philipsburg, Port Matilda, and Centre Hall.

The Laurie Countdown: Besides his vast knowledge, Norm shares his garden bounty with helpers.  Among my favorites are a personal-size Savoy cabbage, asparagus, rhubarb, and knobby gourds for fall décor.  He also gifted me with calla lily bulbs for containers, and lupine seed pods, and black-eyed Susan, Sue, and Suzannah, for next year’s flowerbeds.

Happy Thanksgiving

Fleur-de-Mast

I’ve known the term mast year for a while … but I didn’t know—or knew and forgot—the definition of mast.

But that’s the great thing about life, we’re always learning.  Or re-learning. 

After reaping the benefit of my neighbor’s Lodi apple surplus (and spotting apple trees all over Centre County chockful of apples), noticing the oak tree on my walk with a good 50 gallons of acorns, and spying conifer branches dangling with an abundance of golden pine cones, I decided to take a closer look at the word mast.  

In a mast year, we get bumper crops on certain trees. And mast, it turns out, is the collective term for fruits and nuts, just as livestock is the collective term for cattle, sheep, goats, pigs and horses. Depending on the species and probably a lot of other things, mast years occur every 5-10 years.  Although this increased production of fruits or nuts slightly stunts the growth of the tree, it does provide extra food for birds, squirrels, chipmunks, deer and other wildlife.  Most importantly to the tree itself, a mast year increases the chance of offspring—slender apple, oak or pine saplings—getting a foothold in the yard, orchard or forest. 

In one sense, I could boast about having a mast year with my Meyer lemon tree, but I don’t know if that is necessarily correct.  You see, this is the first year she has borne any fruit to maturity, so I don’t know if 10 gorgeous, plump Meyer lemons are par for the course or a bonanza. 

My potted Meyer lemon (ML for short) was a gift from my son Richard, several years ago. Citrus x meyeri, as botanists would say, is native to China, a hybrid thought to be a cross between a lemon and a mandarin orange. The Meyer lemon fruit is said to be sweeter than other lemons and I’ve read that the peels are tasty and great for cooking. 

We were living at my mother’s house with a beautiful, sky-lit atrium filled with tropical plants, sunshine and a tile floor with a drain for easy, hose-held watering. ML was in paradise. She filled the room with the fragrance of her tiny white-smudged-with-violet flowers.  And, with or without Laurie and her Q-Tip, many of those blossoms evolved into teensy green fruit (the size of a lemon seed), and then they would disappear.  I blamed it on the long, wagging tail of Sandy 3, but I have no scientific evidence.  Further reading led me to realize that it takes several years for a Meyer lemon to successfully fruit.  Sorry, Sandy 3.

The end of 2020 came along and ML decided it was time to set fruit.  The house was sold.  In early 2021, I bought a home in Pleasant Gap. The moving van came but ML rode safely in my car, fruit intact. Easter weekend she moved into my new kitchen, on a small table under a window. Pleasant Gap, nestled along the Nittany Mountains, can be temperamental in early spring. 

By Memorial Day ML was still holding onto her fruit. I couldn’t believe my luck. I moved her to the sunny deck in the front of the house with pots of petunias, flowering tobacco, a pair of Tithonia, rain lilies, and chocolate mint. 

In June and July, Sandy 4.0 established his favorite passageway from the deck to the herb planter by squeezing between the rain lilies and ML.  True, Sandy’s nub is about 3 inches of wagging fluff, but no fruit fell. (Like other citrus, the fruit’s skin and leaves are toxic to dogs and cats.  I guess that’s why my genius dog was never tempted with his front end.)

ML’s fruit grew, starting to look like large limes by mid-August. 

“Are you growing lemons?” my sharp-eyed neighbor Sonja asked.  Besides keeping track of my vegetable garden, I guess she took a fancy to my front deck container plants. 

“Why yes, they still look like limes though. How did you know?”

Sonja just smiled, her eyes twinkling. 

By the end of September, ML’s lowest hanging fruit started turning … lemony yellow. 

I kept a kept a constant eye on evening temperatures.  ML remained on the sun-drenched deck until mid-October, when I relocated her to my living room. (We had our first hard frost night before last and the oak and maple leaves are fluttering down.)

Citrus fruit only ripens on the tree, I read. The sign for when a Meyer lemon is ripe is when it turns egg yolk yellow in color (ML sure picked the right Momma, I certainly know my egg yolks!) and is slightly soft to touch.

Yesterday, I carefully used a small paring knife to harvest my first homegrown Meyer lemon. I went outside with it cradled in my hands. I walked across the yard to Sonja’s front door and rang the bell. When she opened the door, I handed her ML’s first golden fruit. In my head I heard a childhood (maybe Brownies?) song: “Make new friends but keep the old, one is silver and the other, gold.”  Laurie Lynch

Nine to Go:  The rest of the fruit are gradually pushing out the last of the green.  Sonja’s brother (Mr. Lodi Apple) will get No. 2.  Nos. 3 and 4 are going to Pam and The Puff.  You can read about Pam and The Puff in my next blog post. 

Latest Read:  While I share cucumbers, beans and tomatoes with Sonja, she supplies me with books to read as well as Pleasant Gap history.  Sonja has read all of Nicholas Sparks’ 20+ books.  I just read my first, “The Wish,” courtesy of Sonja. She always laughs when I tell her I was up all night with one of her pass-along books. Hurry up retirement! 

Re-Learn History:  You think you know all about Johnny Appleseed?  Pick up a copy of Michael Pollan’s “The Botany of Desire”.  Pollan takes a refreshing look at apples, tulips, marijuana and GMO potatoes. His research and insight will make your head spin.

Fleur-de-Borrowed

A fellow bike lover’s homage to the season.

If I’ve learned one concept in my years as a gardener and homeowner, it is this: Enjoy your borrowed landscape.

I was at my cousin’s new house the other day.  It overlooks a golf course, with rolling hills and green, green fairways. “What a beautiful view,” I exclaimed, “and you don’t have to mow it.”

From my front porch I see a slice of the Nittany mountains as the trees start to turn their fall colors. But I won’t have to rake up a leaf. 

Since the day I moved in, I have enjoyed the wild cherry branches that drape in front of my bedroom windows, first their blossoms, then their tiny fruit. But the tree is in my neighbor’s yard, and he’s the one who has to prune it.

All around Pleasant Gap, when Sandy and I take our twice daily walks, I can enjoy the efforts of the neighbors who go all-out for seasonal decorations. My feeble attempt stands at the gate, a recycled slate from Fleur-de-Lys and a minuscule butternut (and the only one) grown in my garden. Sandy likes it well enough; it is his first lift-leg stop of many on our strolls.

Sandy’s spot

One of my favorite houses in Pleasant Gap is a stone beauty, one of those rambling houses that would be great for a growing family—not for my life as it is now.  A magnificent oak welcomes everyone to the front stoop.  It wasn’t until the other day that I truly appreciated the borrowed landscape of this property.  It’s a joy to see, to walk past, to admire.  But there, in the driveway, were assorted leaf bags and 10—yes, TEN—5-gallon buckets of acorns! 

I grew up in “the country” with several oak trees and we never once raked up the acorns.  We let the squirrels and chipmunks get ‘em. I guess when you live “in town” there is a different standard—and that many acorns littering the sidewalk couldn’t be safe for us pedestrians.  Not a chore I want to borrow in this lifetime. Laurie Lynch

The Borrowers:  One of Marina’s and Richard’s favorite series when they were growing up was The Borrowers, about a tiny family that lived in the walls and under the floorboards of an English house. Author Mary Norton’s characters would “borrow” items and repurpose them to survive. We had a “Borrowers” house on Hottenstein and Richard wrote a story about the Hottenstein Borrowers for a school project.  He came home after turning in his creation, dejected.  His story was supposed to be fiction, he told me, “and the Borrowers are true.”  

Well, here it is, many, many years later, and my adult children are still Borrowers. Over the years they have borrowed and adopted a new country—Belgium.  In 2021, they both became Belgian citizens. They still, of course, retain their U.S. citizenship.

Still a Small World:  Last week Richard was walking through Ghent’s central square, the Korenmarkt, when he ran into an old friend he met in Brazil.  Kim, who lives in Brussels, was a Rotary Exchange Student in Brazil the same year Richard was (2009-10). Her boyfriend is directing a play in Ghent.  Kim ended up inviting Richard to be her guest at the play that night.

Halloween Borrower:  Halloween is a fairly low-key holiday in Belgium compared to how it is celebrated in The States. But that doesn’t stop my granddaughter Lais from indulging.  She will be a witch at her school party—the cutest one I’ve ever seen—if you will let me indulge in my grandmotherly prejudices. 

Halloween 2021

Fleur-de-Beds

I told a Master Gardener friend I was creating an Elder Bed.

“Oh, so you’re going to raise it up so you don’t have to bend?”

Ah, no. Not that kind of elder. Elder as in Elderberries. 

Elder comes from the Anglo-Saxon word aeld, meaning fire, as the stems were commonly used as kindling. The botanical name, Sambucus, comes from the Greek sambuke, a musical pipe. The hollow shoots of the shrub were used to make flutes or panpipes.

I have made neither pipe nor fire from elderberry, but I love mixing and drinking batches of elderblossom cordial. So much so that I’ve made it on two continents, using the creamy white, flat clusters of flowers of Sambucus nigra in Belgium and Sambucus canadensis in Pennsylvania

While living at my mother’s home, I planted several elder bushes but the deer mowed them down to stubs. To procure elderblossom cordial each year, I made a deal with a fellow on Branch Road with a huge elderberry bush I often biked past. If I could pick 20 flower clusters from his shrub each summer I’d supply him with cordial for his freezer. After a few years he sold the house.  The new homeowner thought I was suffering from heat stroke but allowed me to pick 10 flowers, which was plenty for a half recipe. 

I moved to Pleasant Gap with a frozen, partial container of elderblossom cordial, which is now history. If you use the blog’s recipe search bar on the bottom right, you will find the recipe. I simply scoop out a spoonful of the “slushy” cordial and add it to a tall glass of ice water. It gives water a little oomph. (After hours, a teaspoonful of elderblossom cordial makes a glass of Prosecco extra special.)

So, in my Elder Bed, I planted two young shrubs of Sambucus canadensis, one called “Scotia,” which is said to have sweeter fruit, and a tag-less, name-less variety.   I surrounded these with orange, lemon and a creeping red thyme, lavender, Agastache (hummingbird mint), and three Doronicum orientale “Little Leo”, a gift from a fellow Little Lion, although Little Leo is actually in reference to the larger mother plant, Leopard’s Bane, not a lion. I’m also leaving room for sage and another friend’s promised starts of rhubarb and Welsh onions come spring.

The opposite bed, anchored by Amelanchier laevis (serviceberry) is a mixture of plants from our home in Coplay where my kids spent their early years: lupine, dianthus, and black-eyed Susan; Fleur-de-Lys: plumbago, blue wild indigo, Dainty Swan anemone, and Jerusalem artichokes (held captive in a pot); and new-for-me natives: Clematis viorna (vasevine) and Conoclinium coelestinum (blue mistflower).

In the shade bed, Cephlanthus occidentalis (button bush) and Hydrangea arborescens (wild hydrangea), both new to me, are surrounded by ferns and variegated Solomon’s seal moved from my mom’s house, transplanted pulmonaria from a friend’s place in Lemont, and Heuchera “Forever Purple” to jazz up the corner.

After all these years of gardening, I must say the creation of these beds was the easiest ever, true Elder Style.  No double digging or rototilling.

In August I filled up my car (twice) with sheets of cardboard from work (all of our sheet metal is delivered wrapped in cardboard for protection). I placed the cardboard, sometimes double or triple thickness, over the area that I wanted to transform from lawn to garden. I used slates, rocks, tiles, bricks, container plants, even my upturned wheelbarrow, to keep the cardboard from blowing away.  

Last week Bobby, handyman extraordinaire, arrived.  He has a gas-powered edger to cut professional bed lines. Then he and a helper spread 3 inches of compost over the cardboard.  For the next few days I placed the potted plants where I thought I wanted them, second-guessed myself, made adjustments. 

On planting day, I used my spade to pull away the compost and slice through the cardboard to reach native soil. Then I unpotted the selected specimen, teased apart its roots, and planted it in the hole and moved the compost around the base. Repeat, repeat, repeat.  Then, I watered well. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Originally, I must admit I was a bit miffed by the comment implying my elderhood. But after planting 30+ plants in three new garden beds, my lower back is so sore that a bed (with a mattress on top) is my best relief. Perhaps she was right. Laurie Lynch

Good Read:  Although he didn’t include any of the plants mentioned above, including my lovely elder, Jonathan Drori’s latest book is a keeper: “Around the World in 80 Plants”.  Drori combines cultural and ecological aspects of 80 plants with amazing storytelling and British wit.  A great follow-up to his earlier “Around the World in 80 Trees”. Can’t wait for subsequent Around the Worlds in my mind: herbs, flowers, vegetables, weeds, bulbs, grains, succulents …

Fleur-de-Sumac

 Years ago, I planted cut-leaf Staghorn sumac (Rhus hirta or typhinia) on the hill between the house and barn on Hottenstein.

I thought its suckering nature would keep the bank intact, provide beauty with its torch-like burgundy berry bunches, brilliant fall foliage, and, perhaps most importantly, eliminate mowing on a treacherous slope. Never did I think of making sumac-ade. 

Sure, over the years I’d read about making sumac lemonade, but the thought didn’t appeal to me. Sumac has hairy berries.  The young branches are also hairy, like the velvet on deer antlers, thus this sumac’s common name: Staghorn. 

Then I read about a (live, in-person) foraging series at the Arboretum at Penn State.  One of the classes was How to Make Sumac Lemonade. Time to branch out.

Now, before you poison sumac worrywarts get too excited, telling the difference is simple. Poison sumac has berries of white, quite a fright; its harmless cousins have edible berries of red, let pink lemonade fill your head. Still, a cautionary note:  All sumacs are members of the Cashew Family (Anacardiaceae), which also includes mangoes. If you are allergic to cashews or mangos, best to steer clear of sumac-ade.

Sumac often grows at the edges of fields and roadsides throughout the country, but you want to harvest berries from plants you know haven’t been sprayed with pesticides.  For my class, we ventured into the arboretum’s Childhood’s Gate Children’s Garden with permission to pick sumac berries. The berries start turning red in August and September and persist through winter into spring. 

Use the finger test to see if the berries are worth picking. Gently run your finger across the fruit and then lick your finger. If it tastes sweet and tart, that is the berry cluster to pick.  Remarkably, it is the hairs that give the berries their flavor.  If you went out the day after Tropical Storm Ida dumped 5 inches of rain on Centre County, chances are the hairs, and flavor, were washed away.

Gently break apart berry clusters from the twigs, rinse to remove insects or other plant material, and then place in a jar. Pour cool water over fruit and allow it to sit overnight. The next day, strain the fruit, pouring the liquid through cheesecloth. Add a few ice cubes, and enjoy your Sumac Lemonade. If you like it a bit sweeter, add honey to taste. Laurie Lynch

Pottery lizard (by a much younger Marina) and spider plant guarding my cold brew.

Hot Sumac Tea: You can also make a hot brew and it will be a brighter red than the cold brew.  Follow the same instructions above but pour boiling water over the berries and let steep for 20 minutes to an hour, press fruit with a wooden spoon if you like, and then filter. DO NOT boil the berries in water because they will release bitter tannic acid.

Sumac Surrounds Us: Native Americans used Staghorn sumac not only made tea from the berries but various parts of the plant were used as medicine and fabric dyes, and the leaves were mixed with tobacco and smoked.  In the Middle East,  Za’atar is an herbal mix (containing the hairs of sumac berries) used on vegetables, chicken and olive-oil dipped bread.

Looking Back: This year’s garden was a last-ditch effort.  When I bought the place, the raised bed garden in the side yard was buried in snow. But I was able to plant, despite the move.   Six months later, what makes me glad I did? Green Zebra tomatoes, Sun Gold tomatoes, Poona Kheera cucumbers, basil, basil, basil, tarragon (moved from my mom’s home), Shishito peppers (MFMMH), chocolate mint, and pole beans (trellis MFMMH). 

Yet to Come: A Meyer Lemon tree that is chock full of green-waiting-to-turn-yellow Meyer Lemons. Richard gave me the plant years ago. It flowered and wafted its wonderful fragrance through the atrium, but the teensy fruit always dropped off.  This year, despite a change in location, the plant and fruit are thriving on my front deck. Fingers crossed that they’ll ripen … or else I’ll make Meyer Limeade! Ha, ha. 

Yet to ripen Meyer lemons and my favorite rain lilies.

Fleur-de-Lodi

The house smelled of applesauce for days. 

“Almost heaven, Pleasant Gap…” I’m singing in my best John Denver voice.

I’ve mentioned my neighbors Jack and Sonja. They not only fill me in on local history, but they’ve taken to perching in their chairs overlooking my raised-bed garden.

“There’s a big, green bell pepper ready for picking.” (“I’m waiting until it turns red, it’s called Scarlet Knight.”)

“Either you missed three beans high up on the vine or they grew huge overnight.” (“Well, they do grow quickly but I probably missed those.”)

“So, you dug up some potatoes already?”  (“I was hungry for potato salad.”)

“We saw some white butterflies near your squash.” (“Hmmm.”)

In the meantime, I’ve shared lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, tried to share garlic but they don’t eat it, and neighborly life goes on.

Then, one day while taking Sandy for a walk, an octogenarian ambled toward me from his yard. 

“Do you want some Lodi apples?  They make great pies and applesauce. I’ve seen your garden when I visit Jack and Sonja.”

This was my formal introduction to Stellard, Sonja’s brother. He handed me a beautiful yellow-green apple that Sandy and I consumed on our walk.

“I’ll pick some more when it’s not so hot.”

The next day Stellard left a peck or more of Lodi apples at the side door, under the carport. 

Then, the work began.  Lodi apples are not good keepers, I read, so you won’t find them in a supermarket. The early season apples were developed about 100 years ago by the orchardists at the New York State Agricultural Experiment Station who crossed a Yellow Transparent with a Montgomery Sweet.

Temperatures that day reached the mid-90s, so all of the windows were closed and the AC turned on. My mom’s gifted handyman, Bobby, was at the house for the morning, attaching a second railing at the basement stairs, fixing a leak under the kitchen sink, and fiddling with the bathroom shower and vanity light.  

So, as he fixed and I pared, cored, and sliced, we chatted and caught up.  His third child is due next month. Besides building his wife a greenhouse, they also have goats, chickens, guineas, ducks, and soon, turkeys. Midway through the morning, a certain four-legged thief stuck his head in the bag of apples, grabbed one in his mouth, and ran into his “cave” under the bed.  We followed him.  Bobby dropped to the floor on both his good knees, pulled Sandy out and pried the apple from his mouth. There isn’t much Bobby can’t or won’t do.

Soon it was applesaucing time. 

By then, Bobby was off to his next job and I was alone in the kitchen, almost afraid to turn on the flame for the gas stove on such a hot day, but I didn’t want the apples to spoil either. 

I had prepared 25 apples and had the following recipe for applesauce: 

1/2 peck (5 pounds) or about 16 Lodi apples
1/2 cup water
Pinch of salt
1/4 cup sugar, plus more to taste

I adjusted for the extra apples, which I placed in a large soup pot with a pinch of salt and 3/4 cup of water. This doesn’t seem like a lot of water, but it worked perfectly. I turned the heat to medium, and cooked the apples, stirring frequently with a long wooden spoon.  As the apples softened, I kept stirring to keep them from sticking or scorching. After about 25 minutes I brought out the heavy-duty equipment: a metal masher. I pressed the larger slices into sauce, stirring the rest, and then mashed some more.  I like lumpy applesauce, so I didn’t go crazy.  Within 30 minutes from turning on the stove, I had a batch of applesauce. I turned off the flame, added ¼ cup of sugar and a little more, and let everything cool to room temperature.  Then I ladled the applesauce into containers and packed them in the freezer. 

The next day I still had Lodi apples left in the bag, so I made two Norwegian Apple Pies (a simple, no-crust recipe from my sister Lee Ann), one for Sandy and me, the other for Stellard and his wife. Laurie Lynch

Name Double, Almost:  Stellard was named after his father, but Sonja is not sure where her father’s name came from.  When I was a youngster, I found a telegram to my mom (from when she was pregnant with me) sent by her father. If the baby is a girl, he asked, please name her “Stella” (after my mother’s mother). Obviously, my mother did not take the suggestion, and Laura, it was.  As a kid, I was always thankful. It seemed like such an old-fashioned name. But now, I kind of like it. Heck, it’s Latin for “star”.  Stellard is certainly my Lodi Star.  

Starry Night:  The other night I was a ticket-taker at an Acoustic Brew concert. Van Wagner, a PA-raised environmentalist/teacher/singer-songwriter, was the featured performer at the Boal Mansion Museum’s outdoor amphitheater. He ended the evening with a sing-along, “Goodnight, Irene”, first sung by Huddie “Leadbelly” Ledbetter and then The Weavers, and through the years, many others.  It is a folk concert favorite and my mother and I often sang it to each other.

If you’re not familiar with the refrain: “Irene goodnight, Irene goodnight. Goodnight Irene, goodnight Irene. I’ll see you in my dreams.”

Guess who made a guest appearance in my dreams later that night? Not Irene—Marie.

Fleur-de-Settled

I’m less than 10 miles from where I grew up, but in many ways, it is another world.

The clouds are closer here. They throw shadows on the mountains, sometimes sliding down to tickle the treetops. There is less foreground.  Mountains frame every view.

I walk below pines and oaks and maples on the mountainside.  I smell the glorious Russian olive (Elaeagnus angustifolia) in bloom, its fragrance transporting me to Eagle Point Road, driving the kids to school, windows down on warm spring mornings. My brain knows it is an invasive pest, crowding out the natives, but my nose does not.

On the trails above my house, Sandy the Mop picks up tufts of white fuzz, dragging them with his rear haunches. I remember a fellow telling me that scientists are fairly unimaginative when it comes to naming nature’s cast of characters.  A fall webworm is the wormy, larval stage of a moth that hatches in webs in the fall.  The red spotted newt is a red newt with spots. Peach leaf curl is a fungal disease that curls peach leaves. There must be 100 species of trees on this Nittany Mountain range but I knew we were walking under cottonwood (Populus deltoides) trees once I spied the cottony clumps hitchhiking on Sandy.

Walking around my neighborhood of cozy bungalows, Sixties ranches, and Victorian painted ladies, the blossoms of redbud, dogwood, and rhododendron give way to lilac, rose, and bearded iris.  Temptation at every corner.  Visions of what to do with my front yard, a grassy, treeless plot fenced in by white picket and a lonely boxwood.   

Prints and paintings are finally hanging on the walls. A mix of mine and my parents’. Photographs of Marina at the Palace of Versailles, Richard floating on a river in Brazil, Lais’ first birthday portrait (she turns 7 next month).  A pastel of Marie in a pink and ferny gown, and the wicker loveseat she posed on. Projects from Kutztown high school art classes and a flock of sewing roosters and hens.  My neighbor’s peonies burst in bloom in a vase blown in a Fleetwood glass studio—color echoes.

The raised vegetable beds in my side yard, hidden in snow when I bought the house, are already producing.  Spinach and radishes sown Easter weekend fill the refrigerator bin. Garlic buried in pots at 101 are sprouting with scapes at 110.  It is starting to feel like my home.  Laurie Lynch

Newest discovery:  Expandable hoses made of flexible latex, not hard rubber, are all I talk about these days of temps nearing 90.  The hoses are lightweight, compact (they expand when filled with water), and they don’t kink or tangle.  Do yourself a favor and buy one today. 

Good Read:  Buzz, The Nature and Necessity of Bees by Thor Hanson.

Written on Slate: “My grandfather always said that living is like licking honey off a thorn.”Louis Adamic, an author born in Blato (what is now Slovenia) in 1899. He came from a family of farmers and immigrated to the U.S. as a teen-ager. Books:  The Native’s Return, Cradle of Life and Two-WayPassage

WordPress has changed again … always something new to learn.

Fleur-de-Samaras

The last time I moved into a neighborhood, I was a newlywed.  Now, I’m nearly retired.

My Mrs. Sacks from Coplay, who taught me lessons in gardening and friendship, has been replaced by Sonja, also with hair of white and a wealth of local lore (in 1960 her father built the house I live in.)

We live on a quiet cul-de-sac called Milmar, named after Millard and Margaret Schreffler, who sold the land to Sonja’s father and used to live in the BIG white house on Main Street across from the Methodist Church. 

Yesterday the main event on the circle was watching the West Penn Power guy ride his bucket lift up to change the bulb in the street light.  This morning, it was trash and recycling collection. Last week, it was the drifts of samaras.

The woman who owns the house behind Sonja’s and mine has two multi-stemmed maples.  She’s still in Florida so she has no idea what a ruckus her trees are causing.  Sonja says the woman’s husband dug them off the mountain that shelters us in this Nittany Valley, a place called Pleasant Gap. (In my high school days, kids referred to our locale as Penn State, the State Pen (Penitentiary), and then, Pleasant Gap.)

Well, I was sitting in my home office.  I looked up from the computer screen and out the window, and saw a flotilla of dragonflies coasting over the clothesline and soaring up toward the roof. But no, not dragonflies. They were maple helicopters, aka ’copters, whirlybirds, twisters, or whirligigs. Botanically speaking, these winged seeds are called maple samaras.

They land on my lawn, the front deck, on Sonja’s and my driveways, and, smackdab in the middle, my raised vegetable beds.  Later, raking them carefully out of my raised beds, I spotted Sonja and sarcastically muttered, “I should start a maple plantation.”

“Years ago, I offered my grandkids a penny for each one they picked up off the driveway,” Sonja said, shaking her head.

 She didn’t have any takers.

So, each day for a few weeks she and Jack use a leaf blower to clear their drive. I use a push broom for the driveway and deck, not as often as they.  There must be a silver lining, I thought to myself.  And sure enough, I read an article that said maple samaras are edible—not just for squirrels, finches and chickadees—but people.

So, I gathered a half quart of the papery wings, sat down at the kitchen table, and squeezed the end until the nutlet popped out.  A good half-hour later I had about a third-cup of green seeds.

“They kind of look like small pistachios,” an uncharacteristically optimistic comment from my son Richard who spent several weeks helping his mom move too many boxes and crates into her new abode. 

Maple samaras are a good source of protein and starch, and, when boiled, kind of taste like garden peas, I reported.

So, I boiled my harvest, placed them in a custard cup with a spoon, and offered them as a side dish to dinner. 

We both tried some.

“So why do people eat these things?” Richard asked. 

“Because we can,” I replied. “They have a bitter aftertaste, but if you got lost in the woods, they’d do.” 

I considered sharing my culinary experience with Sonja but had second thoughts. I probably should live here a couple of months before I let her know how “earthy” her new neighbor can be.  Laurie Lynch

Fleur-de-Doves

My winter joy has been the view of the birdfeeder from my mother’s living room window.

It is a simple feeder—a repurposed baking tray from an auction in Kutztown many, many years ago. The bakery went out of business.  I use the tray to hold pots of seedlings so I can water without mess.  This year, no seedlings, so it holds seeds for the birds.  Behind it is a plastic pastry platter holding water (or ice) depending on the temperature outside.  Most of this winter, it was a skating pond.

The feeder has had its share of chickadees, wrens and finches, along with a lovely cardinal couple and a bossy blue jay.  But this week, there were new beaks at the feeder—a pair of soft grayish-beige mourning doves.

I didn’t realize, until doing a little research, that mourning doves migrate.  I’ve always enjoyed them around the house during the gardening season but didn’t know they left for the winter. Seeing them this week is my 2021 sign that spring is on its way.

The mourning dove (Zenaida macroura) has gone by many names throughout history, but the “mourning” is taken from its gentle, almost sorrowful, cooing.  The bird makes the soothing sound by puffing up its throat without opening its bill, according to the bird buffs at Cornell University.  It is commonly called the American mourning dove and the turtle dove, and was once known as the Carolina pigeon and the Carolina turtledove.

Zenaida macroura is a seed-eater, 99% of its diet. It is one of the most abundant and widespread birds in North America with an estimated population of 350 million.  Surprisingly, at least to me, it is also one of the most frequently hunted of birds—with 20 million shot each year in the United States.

In the Bible, Noah was overjoyed when a dove he released returned with an olive branch in its beak, symbolizing land out there beyond the floodwaters—hope and new beginnings. Native Americans believe the dove symbolizes opportunity for growth and encourages healing. 

The story I love the most about mourning doves is how the genus, Zenaida, was named. The genus is named after Zénaïde Laetitia Julie Bonaparte. Zénaïde was married in Brussels to the French ornithologist Charles Lucien Bonaparte (also her cousin). Her husband graced the dove with his wife’s first name when he created the genus. Her last name, and his, was already famous, as their uncle was Napoleon Bonaparte.  Zénaïde shares the birthdate of my granddaughter, Lais, (July 8) although Zénaïde was born in 1801, more than two centuries earlier. Nothing like a French-Belgian-American connection at a backyard birdfeeder.  Laurie Lynch

Nominative Determinism: I’ve always been interested in words, and in recent years have taken note of how sometimes a person’s name reflects their occupation.  I remember when I was in my early 20s, a friend’s father introduced me, Laurie Fedon, as “Laurie Feedin’-the-chickens”.  I guess it was his way of remembering how to pronounce my last name.  Then, 30 years later, I was actually feeding chickens.  Anyway … names and careers are something that click with me.  My niece Alicia told me about her daughter’s favorite cookbook, called Cooking Class, written by Deanna Cook, and all I could think was, “Of course.” 

Well, nominative determinism came into play recently here in Centre County.  I’m in the process of buying a house and needed to hire a mover.  My Realtor suggested Packer Up Moving, a company run by a fellow named Adam Packer.  Gotta love it!  I couldn’t resist. Turns out he’s a nice fellow to talk to and I’ve paid my deposit to get on his moving schedule. Time to pack her up.

My little dove Lais, chasing bubbles in Gent.

Fleur-de-BookClub

I guess it comes from living in a university town, but over the years I’ve listened with envy to women talking about their “book clubs”.

Well, late last year I had the opportunity to join my first book club, and it’s the smartest move I’ve made in a while.

Ours may be a little different. It has a distinct gardening focus with the emphasis on one of our Centre County Master Gardener projects, the Snetsinger Butterfly Garden at Tom Tudek Park. That said, the books we read may revolve around plants and pollinators, but they also touch on issues dealing with race, foster children, relationships, and millennials making their way in life.  And in the meantime, our discussions help us see into each other’s hearts, even over Zoom.

On Valentine’s Day we tackled The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh, a riveting novel tied in a bow with Victorian floriography, communicating by code using flowers. Most the time our “homework” is simply reading the assigned book, but for this month’s meeting, we also shared our favorite flower. Mine was lavender:

The first time I met lavender, I was working for a landscape designer, weeding gardens in the Lehigh Valley. After a day of work at the home of a CEO, I told my boss that I should be paying the CEO and his wife to be able to work around such a fragrant drift of plants.

The Victorians and The Language of Flowers say lavender is a symbol of mistrust.

Blame it on Cleopatra. The story goes that a poisonous snake struck and killed Cleopatra. It was hiding under a lavender plant. 

Lavendula is a member of the mint family, with 47 species.  Lavender repels insects and deer yet it provides nectar for bees.  For humans, it is a flower and an herb that delights all five of our senses.

1. Sight:  After a trip to Provence, fields of undulating rows of blooming lavender are etched in my mind.
2. Touch:  The velvety buds on the flower stalk or in a bath-salt infusion fill you with calm and wash away your cares.
3. Smell:  The fragrance of the purple-blue flowers and gray foliage shares a heavenly scent throughout the three seasons of the Pennsylvania garden.  And by weaving a lavender wand, you can brighten the winter blues for years.
4. Sound:  I needed help on this, and Lyrics.com provided assistance.  “Lavender,” the site reports, is found in the lyrics of 317 songs. Dating back to 16^th century England is the “Lavender’s Blue (Dilly Dilly)” lullaby. Centuries later Frank Sinatra crooned of giving his father “a most lovely lavender tie” (ok, that’s the color not the plant but I love listening to old lavender eyes) and The Kinks rocked out to wanting to live on “Lavender Hill.”
5. Taste:  There’s lavender honey, lavender tea and lavender kombucha, lavender scones,  and my favorite, a culinary memory from a courtyard café in Ghent—toasted country bread with a smear of goat cheese, sprinkle of lavender buds, and a drizzle with honey.

Trust this: Refinement, grace, purity, serenity, calmness … unforgettable lavender. Laurie Lynch

Bookworms Unite:  The other books we’ve read so far are The Language of Butterflies by Wendy Williams, Flight Behavior by Barbara Kingsolver and A Honeybee’s Heart Has Five Openings by Helen Jukes.  I recommend them all.