R Is for Roses

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Peace roses after rain back garden May 2017


Though this blog mostly features the fruits and veggies I grow, and the dishes Jean makes, our roses could be the focus of the blog–if I was as interested in nurturing them and experimenting with them as I am with the food plants. Of course, to say that I’m not as interested in them would be to ignore that fact that they actually take more of my time and regard than most of the other plants do.

After all, one can’t have a rose garden without spending time with the roses pretty much every day.

In our climate, the roses grow year-round. Oh, they’ll bloom little in December and  January; in the the July heat the brilliant flowers will fade more quickly–but there is never a time during the year when at least a few of the bushes won’t have buds and some blooms. So it’s not as if the plants will die if I neglect them.

In fact, to show their heartiness, I tried my best a month ago to pull out a bush in a corner of the back garden that was in pretty deep shade and had never bloomed much over ten years. Besides, its thorniness made it almost impossible for me to get at the wisteria and the Western lilac in order to trim back their lusty growth.

So I trimmed off all the branches, and I chopped off as much of the roots as I could reach, almost a foot below the surface. That was that, I thought. Then, two days ago, what did I see but a little six-inch shoot staring up at me.

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The Come-back Kid, July 2017

“Please, sir,” it said, ” don’t try to kill me again. You’d just be wasting your time.* So, like the soft heart I am, I’ll follow my usual pattern, and just see what happens. Two days later, it’s a foot tall and leafing generously. I guess I can let it grow for a while and then cut it back, after it blooms.. But I won’t let it get between me and my wisteria trimming! I promise, plant: you hear me? “Thank you, sir. That’s all i ask.”

Our Roses: A Little History and Geography

Almost all of our rose bushes, about fourteen of them, were here when we moved in a decade ago. I’ve planted only two or three. Indeed, one of the plants that was here, a cute little pink variety by the back fence, the former owner took with him, because it had been a favorite of his mother, who had passed on. I still think of that when I see the space where it grew, currently the home of a tomato plant. on which fruit is ripening.

When we moved in, I was already in love with the roses: their variety of color and size, their heartiness, their often prodigious growth. Because the design of the former owners’  property was to have a lawn surrounded by fruit trees and roses, I was able to keep all the roses where they were, as I gradually eliminated lawn in order to plant veggies.

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Rose bushes along the back fence, April 2017

Therefore, some of the rose bushes were along the back and side fences, while others hugged the house walls under windows. We didn’t think to ask at the time, but we’ve thought that part of this design would ensure that anyone who wanted to break into our home through some of our windows would have to contend with thickets of rose thorns.

But a pleasanter thought is that when we look out these windows, we have the splendor of seeing rose blooms most of the year.

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A thicket of blooms and thorns, May 2017

Rose Care: What I Don’t (or maybe once in a while will)

If you’re looking for detailed tips on insecticides or blight sprays or fertilizing schedules, you won’t find it here. After we first moved in, I did some spraying for black spot and aphids, but I always worried about what else I was killing, and I wasn’t even too keen on killing the aphids, especially when I saw ladybugs appearing and the aphids soon disappearing. So I’ve not applied any spray for about nine years on any of the plants. None of the plants has died yet, and the photos can tell you how well they are doing.

I will occasionally give some rose food to the plants that appear to need a boost, but a schedule? No. I may put down some rose food about once a year for some plants, but I wouldn’t swear to it.

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Two visitors to two white roses, May 2017

What I Do for the Roses

I make sure they are regularly watered during the dry months (May-September). Most are on a drip system; some I hand water. During the hottest months, the drip goes for 15 minutes twice a week. From mid-October to early May, the wet months, the roses get only what falls from the sky.

The most consistent work I do is dead-heading (trimming off the spent blooms). Because the plants are so many and so prolific, this is a weekly chore for me. Any given plant may need tending once or twice a month. Don’t hold me to a schedule. I do it as needed, by eye-balling the plant.

The dramatic work is trimming the vines. Now every plant is somewhat different in this regard, depending on how fast it grows and on what I want it to look like. For example, the massive yellow rose bushes (below left) I let grow early in the year until their first explosion of blooms rises to more than midway above the window sill. When the blooms fade after a few weeks, I deadhead the bushes, then I trim back the vines so that they are just above three feet high.  New buds appear soon and the cycle goes on.

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Yellow rose burst May 2017

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Pinks by side gate, May 2017


In contrast, the pinks by the side gate (right, above) live in a shade cast by the ceonothus (Western lilac) and so the plant regularly puts out a mix of buds not far from the stem, plus long, sun-seeking vines that often never bud. I cut off the long runners and let the buds bloom.

In further contrast, the thicket of tiny white-pink roses and large salmon roses (three panels above) is made up of five bushes that I let expand up and out in the large space next to the nopales (see N Is for Nopales). The salmon bushes can get up to 7 feet high before some blooms open, and that’s fine with me. But once the blooms are done, I chop them back to about four feet and the cycle starts again.

Meanwhile, when the clusters of white-pinks are done blooming, I chop back those bushes, and that cycle goes on….until January. In January, the big trim takes place. I chop all five bushes, both little white-pinks and big salmon, back to no more than one or two feet high, so I can clean out the space–and get it set for the big spring push. In January 2017 (see J Is for January), we had so much rain that the big trim was put off until early February. But no problem. With all that rain, the roses came back stronger than ever, with even (as you can see in the photo) the red root-stock roses blooming.

Why deadheading and trimming back?

Roses grow fast, and, in the years I’ve been tending roses, I’ve seen that the ones I have grow in a couple of ways, depending to some extent on the variety. One way is to send out new long shoots from the ground. The other is to send more shoots out from existing shoots. In either case, buds often don’t appear until the new shoot is several feet or more from where it started. This means that the plant rapidly expands in shoots, but this means there may be no new blooms except far out from the center of the plant. Only by trimming back the shoots once the blooms have finished can you keep the plant of manageable size–and keep new blooms coming out fairly close together.  The rose bushes you see brimming with close-together blooms in professional gardens only stay that way with lots of regular trimming back–and lots of tender loving care.

More TLC, alas, than my idiosyncratic methods allow. But I’ve been gloriously happy with how the roses have given us so much joy and color all year round. Enjoy the display below. (If there’s no caption, let your cursor rest on the image until a short explanation appears.)

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Multi-rose display, kitchen, April 2017


Corner display, Oct. 2015


White rose cluster, side garden, Oct. 2015


Buds, bee, and yellow rose bloom, Oct. 2015



Q Is for Quiet

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Boom! The North wall and upper floor of our house shook for a moment, as something large crashed–and startled us in mid conversation. Not knowing the source of the sound, and fearing that something upstairs had fallen or broken, I raced upstairs and found…nothing disturbed. Jean, meanwhile, had opened the patio doors and rushed around to the North wall, and found…that a massive fruit-laden branch of our neighbor’s peach tree had broken off high above and had crashed to the ground against our chimney. Dozens of unripe peaches still clung tightly to the many small branches that sprang from the large limb that had cracked off. But dozens more peaches lay along the path and by the fence between our houses. The limb itself had not broken the fence in its fall–a miracle, given the sound.

I write about this now because I’ve been thinking about the quiet of the garden. Right now I’m listening to the summer breeze gently percuss the green leaves of that same peach tree outside my window. I watch the branches play hide-and-seek with the afternoon sun. This is a quiet breeze today, the kind that makes me feel cool, as if I were outside in the shade of the tree and feeling the soothing touch of the wind on this 90+ degree July day.

Quiet in a garden does not mean without sound.

I don’t know if I’ve ever felt absolute silence in our garden. Would I want that? I don’t think so. No, the quiet of a garden is that mix of soft sounds that together bring quiet of the mind.  The gentle waves of wind in the trees, bumble bees in the lupines, honeybees in the roses and orange blossoms, the tick-tick of the hummingbirds and the whirr as they scoot past, the three-note cooing of the collared doves, the constantly changing soprano arias of the morning mockers and warblers, even the skree of the grumpy rock jays, and even the crunch-crunch of the mulch and leaves beneath my shoes.


We do not live in a quiet place, even though it is quiet-ER by some standards. The interstate is only a mile away, and its waves of rushing sound never disappear, night or day. The street right outside too often serves as a fantasy strip for motorcyclists and teenagers in over-powered pickups or old coupes. Freight and commuter trains come through our town hourly night and day, and their engineers conscientiously blast their symphonic horns at every intersection. On weekends, some of my fellow DIYers use table or chain saws as their tools of choice, while gas-powered trimmers and leaf-blowers are also always popular.

I’ve lived in louder places and quieter places, city apartment buildings vs. suburban cul de sacs far from freeways, factories, and freight rail. In the two places in my life where I have been fortunate to have a wooded, green space, I have relished the soft concerts of birdsong and breezes in the trees. Only in my current space, so late in my life, have I had the luxury to build a garden, to watch it change day by day, year by year; to attract the skilled musicians who can put a morning concert together extempore and make it always fresh, always soothing–despite the surrounding noise.

The garden is not silent, but it is quiet–garden-quiet, a kind of quiet not like anything else. A quiet that can even include the winds that blow down fences in January (see J Is for January) and even the occasional crashing branch of a peach. On summer mornings like today’s, it sounds pretty much like the following. Give a listen.



P Is for Peppers



((NOTE: See July update, at end of entry))

The great thing about hot peppers is that a little goes a long way. Which has been fortunate for me, as I’ve not found some peppers to be especially easy to grow in profusion.  This may be less true of the hot varieties, because we now have bags of Serranos and Red Chilis keeping their heat dormant in the freezer. But I’m not pleased about the lack of volume in the mild peppers that I’ve tried to grow each summer for the past few years.

As the photo above shows, every year we have a fine display of red hots in roomy pots, and we’ve put them to use in chili dishes, frittatas, soups, sauces, and stews. Some of these little fellas are so potent that Jean needs only one or two per quart or two of the dish to give us a nice warm mouthfeel per spoonful. We chop the rascals up into bits to spread in the dish, or sometimes she will put them whole into the slow cooker to spread the heat gradually. Pictured below are Chris’s tomato and green veggie sauce with serranos for spice, and Jean’s tomato, zucchini, and herbs stir fry, spiced by red chilis. Almost all ingredients come from our summer garden.


Tomato and green veggies sauce


Tomato, zucchini, herb stir fry

We both like a good number of dishes to have a forceful kick, but neither of us is into competing for a fire-eating prize, so we don’t try to up the ante by throwing in more chilis.

To save the rest for later use, Jean’s favorite method is to bag them for the freezer, It’s been remarkable how they keep their potency even over several years. Part of last year’s crop of inch-long red chilis I couldn’t resist displaying like this:

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They loved showing off, and didn’t mind being bagged for the freezer:

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We promised them they’d be liberated eventually so they could do their picante thing, and we’ve kept our promise, chili by chili.

I promised Jean this year that I’d not add to the freezer population by growing more hot peppers. But, alas, I like the look of them so much in the summer garden that I snuck in one more plant, a Thai variety. Here it is in late June, next to a mild purple variety. Both are popping out white blooms, and should be producing green fruit in another week or two.

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In Ground or in Pots?

Meanwhile, I’m experimenting this year with growing three pepper plants in the ground in one of the raised beds, Whereas the hot varieties have done great in the pots for several years, I’ve been less happy with the performance of the mild varieties in the same medium. I’ll typically get about six green, yellow, or purple milds per plant over a summer, but they tend to be much smaller than the large beauties you can get in the store. I figure the pots–which are valuable for keeping away the snails and for their portability–restrict the growth areas for the plants, and so I’m hoping the in-ground plants will grow taller and wider, and produce more and larger fruit. We’ll see.

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Right now, in late June, here (above)  is the trio–(R to L) one shishito, one yellow, and one “Big Bertha” green. The “Big Bertha,” which I planted earliest, in mid-April, is already much larger than any of my pepper plants in earlier years, and has three green fruit heading toward decent size (see below). The shishito, planted in mid-May, has four small fruit in process. Equally good news: no sign of snails.

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I’ll keep this entry updated as the summer proceeds. As with all the other residents and visitors in our garden, every day brings its changes to the peppers. Here is a shot of two pot-grown pepper plants, a serrano and a mild green, from October 2015, to show something of what may emerge, as summer moves into fall.


July 2017 Update

As promised. It’s only three weeks since I posted the entry, but there have been peppery developments. It’s been a hot July, with many days over 100 and none below 90. I’ve been trying to stick to my regimen of every-other-day watering of the veggies, despite the scorching heat, with mostly positive results. The Big Bertha green pepper plant has been a steady producer of large fruit, and the shishito (below) is brimming with fruit. The potted Thai is thick with tiny green firecrackers, a couple of which have turned red. All in all, a successful experiment, with lots left of summer.

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The Big Bertha and the shishito contributed to my latest stir fry (below). along with some of the grape and cherry tomatoes that have been getting red by the dozens each day in the garden. I toss in several of the varied herbs that have also been thriving in pots (thyme, marjoram, chives, Greek oregano, purple and green basil, sage), and we’re ready to go.

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O Is for Oranges


Bowl of lemons and oranges January 2017


While I was wary of the nopales when we moved here a decade ago (see N Is for Nopales), I was really looking forward to having an orange tree. What could be more California than fresh oranges from your garden? Well, if I’ve come to be a friend of the nopales over the years, I’m even more in love with the orange than I was at first sight.

Unlike the Meyer lemon that I grew from a seedling seven years ago, the orange tree was here when we arrived, and with a few late season oranges still on the branches.  The variety is the most popular in California, the Washington navel, which derives from a mutation of the Selecta orange that occurred between 1810 and 1820 in Bahia, Brazil. Cuttings from the mutation were brought to the US in the 19th century, specifically to Washington, DC, hence the name. The Washington navel came to California in 1870, to Riverside, where the California orange industry was born.

What makes navel oranges special is that they are seedless, as you probably know. By being seedless, the tree is sterile, and new trees come about only by grafting onto rootstock. That means that all navel orange trees are clones from the original tree in Brazil.

The “navel” of the navel orange is actually a small second orange attached to the larger orange. The stem attaches to this navel, which in some oranges can make up to a third of the entire orange, as you can tell by slicing the orange in half and observing. In other navel oranges, the navel makes up just a tiny portion inside the orange.

A Year-round Season

As with so many of my plants, our orange tree has taught me much. Among the most amazing features is that the season for each orange may last more than a year, with the new buds appearing while some of the previous year’s oranges are still ripe and luscious on the tree, as the photo below shows, taken in March 2016.


New buds, with “old” oranges still on the tree, March 2016

The oranges move from bud to blossom to tiny green fruit over about a month–from March to April in our region–then enlarge through the summer and into the fall, staying a deep green.

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Honeybee in orange blossom, April 2016

Into the fall, the color changes from green to yellow and finally to the orange we know so well, by early December.

The early December orange oranges are edible–more tangy than sweet–but I’ve learned that the delectable sweetness of these navels gets more and more intense through the Northern California winter, so that by February they are at their peak of flavor.

But miraculous to me is that the oranges left on the tree into March and even April can maintain their sweetness and juiciness–even as the buds for the next year’s crop are popping forth all over the tree. I love to contemplate the silent, complex chemistry of each brilliant globe, which, even as the months grow warmer, can keep the juice and sinews inside supple and cool and steady. (See the three pictures below for the stages of the fruit).

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New green fruit, April 2016

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Green orange with peaches in background July 2016

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Laden orange tree with nopales early December 2016

And then there’s the two-year cycle…

Early on in our life in California, I attended some classes on caring for orange trees, and I learned, among other things, that oranges will not grow on the same spot on the tree two years in a row–in effect, each area of the tree has a two-year cycle, one year on, one off. Which means that a bumper crop one year will be followed by a meager crop the next. In 2014-15, for example, we had a very large crop–two hundred oranges or more–despite our having had a very poor rain season that year. In 2015-16, with a better rainy season, we nevertheless had far fewer oranges–fewer than 100–and elsewhere on the tree than in the previous year.

Then, in 2016-17, my expectation of a large crop was dwarfed by reality. The size of the crop is indicated by the pictures above, especially by the pic of the new white buds in March 2016. The tree was covered by white in March and then by many hundreds of tiny green fruit in April.

The Rains of January. Then, in late fall of 2016, with hundreds of now orange fruit on the tree, the rains began (as I’ve recorded in the entry “J is for January”), by far the heaviest in our years here, and the highest in the region sine 1982-83 (45 inches for the ’16-’17 season, more than twice the average). By January 2017, our daily effort to bring in ripe oranges was competing each day with rain-pelted oranges falling to the mushy ground, where they would rot with amazing rapidity. Nevertheless, we enjoyed at least 200-250 delicious fruit, as described below.


Our one-tree orange grove, January 2017

The upshot? Well, following the pattern of year on, year off, the 2017-18 season promises to be a very light one indeed, given the 2016-17 bumper crop. As predicted by the very meager showing of white buds in March, the next year’s crop may be our smallest in the years we’ve been here. One year on, one year off.


Ripe navel orange clusters in December, 2016

A Tip on Pruning. If you’ve followed this blog, you know that our orange tree grows between the dangerous nopales and the friendly peach tree, with some branches of the orange and peach intermixing. Early on in our California years, the orange tree grew more heavily toward the nopales side (Eastern exposure), so much so that, when laden with fruit, the orange branches on the heavier side hung almost to the ground. I used notched wooden slats to hold up the branches.

By pruning the tree substantially on the nopales side, I was able to coax the tree toward balance between the sides, and I’ve had no need for branch support in the past four or five years–even as the tree has grown larger overall.

Also, during the summer, when the tree puts out new leaves and the branches extend, the gap we need for walking between the orange and the risky nopales narrows. Fortunately, trimming back the new growth on both plants poses no risk to either plant, so the walk can stay open.

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Fresh squeezed March 2017

Oranges in the Kitchen

With oranges and meyer lemons in abundance from December through March, our citrus needs are fully or substantially met, depending on the size of the crop. Our major use of the oranges you can see in the photo above, and there’s nothing tastier than fresh orange juice, fresh lemonade (with sugar added), or the two mixed together.

But oranges just off the tree, sliced in quarters and devoured, are great, too. Besides, what’s more warming than a sunny display of freshly-picked citrus in the winter kitchen?


N Is for Nopales

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Baby nopales May 1


During all our years in the East, would I ever have imagined having a large cactus in my yard? How about two? Yes, I’d grown small succulents in Virginia, like portulaca, and we had a few tiny ornamental cacti indoors, but all I knew of the big guys was from pictures of the Sonoran desert and very infrequent short trips to the Southwest. Arizonan Jean swore to me that saguaro, ocotillo, and prickly pear were beautiful, but I just had to take her word for it. All I could think of was hot, dry, dusty, and spiky.

So it was with suspicion that I looked at the two large prickly pears that stood menacingly in the back yard of our new home in Northern California a decade ago. Oh, they were just minding their own business, sitting there dull green and thick in the sun. But I was wary of getting too close.  Jean had told me that prickly pears (“nopales” in Spanish) got their Anglo nickname from the many, many tiny, almost invisible hair-like spines that covered the so-called “leaves”–which looked to wary me more like fat, oval, weird branches (sort of). And the tiny. hairy spines, she said, hurt like the dickens when they got into your hands–or onto other body parts should you be dumb enough to brush against them. What was not to like, right?

But I wanted to get down and dirty in this new place, and that meant getting friendly with the nopales–or getting them out all together, if I really couldn’t stand them. In either case, I’d have to get up close and take my chances.

Growing fast, wide, and high. I quickly learned a few more facts about nopales. For one, they could grow fast, especially if they were watered at all. The nopales (each “leaf” or “paddle” is a “nopal”) would fatten with water and put out new “baby” nopales most of the year. Because our nopales were surrounded by plants (including roses and the orange tree) that needed watering in the dry season, our nopales got way more water than they needed to survive. So I soon found myself having to cut off the new growth, unless I wanted the nopales to take over their portions of the garden.

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Nopales amid the roses in May

Trimming (chopping really) new growth. Yes, I quickly became pals with the nopales. I found that my long-bladed hedge trimmers were ideal for trimming off the aggressive new nopales that were making the plant grow higher and wider. To keep from getting impaled by the hairy spines, I deftly developed a technique for pulling our veggie-waste toter right under the area to be trimmed, then chopping off the unwanted growth so that the severed paddles would fall right into the toter. If a severed paddle missed the toter and hit the ground, I turned the hedge trimmer into a sort-of sword, by which I’d stab the paddle and lift it into the toter. Since some of the severed nopales weighed five to ten pounds or more, lifting the paddles took some dexterity, which I’ve developed over the years. Most of the time, I can do all of this without getting close to those nasty spines, but not always. The minimal cost of doing business with nopales.

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Nopales: High, wide, handsome, and prolific

I also learned that nopales can be self-destructive gluttons (we have a lot in common). The more water you give them, the more they’ll take in and just grow and grow. Whereas the roots of many plants will rot with too much water, the roots of the prickly pear/nopales will efficiently take in all the water they can get. But, just as with gluttonous humans, the added weight can make the plant awkward and unwieldy. Three times in my years with nopales, I’ve gone out on a summer morning to discover a large mass of connected, engorged nopales–sometimes fifty or more–lying beside the plant like a major branch of a tree–and silently accusing me of having caused the catastrophe. So I bring out the trusty toter, chop the fallen “branch” into manageable pieces, and vow to give the other plants even less water. So far, this plan has always turned out well. These nopales incidents are one reason why our water usage in summer keeps going down–with no detriment to the plants.

Third, I learned that nopales flower and fruit from early summer on and into the fall. While the Spanish name “nopales” refers to the leaves of the plant, the Anglo name “prickly pear” highlights the fruit, which are juicy and green-to-reddish and known in Spanish as “tuna.” The herald of the coming fruit are the bright yellow flowers that appear any time from early summer (late May here) through September.


Nopales flower in September, heralding the fruit

Fourth, the nopales themselves, as well as the flowers and fruit, are edible. Such was my ignorance of nopales during my long time in the East that I did not know until my first year with nopales in the California garden that they bore delectable fruit and beautiful flowers. It was not until a few years later that I learned that the prickly nopales themselves are edible and can even be delicious to a narrowly-educated palate, as mine had been before I moved West. What had begun for me as a fear-shrouded suspicion of these cacti when we first arrived here was gradually becoming an appreciation and fascination.

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Tuna (prickly pear fruit) in late May 2017

Cooking and Eating Nopales

In our part of the country, grocery stores routinely carry Mexican food products, and so prepared nopales are frequently found.  The nopales have been prepared by being sliced into strips (called “nopalitos”), then boiled, pickled, and jarred in a light brine. The nopalitos are delicious cold in salads or heated in egg dishes and as part of chili recipes. They are mild, green, and have the taste and texture of pickled al dente green beans, asparagus, or green pepper strips.

If you have nopales and want to try cooking them yourself, there are two main concerns:

(1) avoiding the spines, and

(2) avoiding the viscous fluid (AKA slime) that oozes from the nopales during cooking.

I’ve yet to get the knack of making my own nopalitos, but I will no doubt keep trying…. Here I am trying to cut away the spines from two nopales. Note the gloves, the tongs, the long-sleeved shirt, and the sturdy knife:

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And maybe one day I might convince Jean that making our own nopalitos would be worth her effort, despite the easy availability of the tasty supermercado version! But I won’t ask her until I’ve succeeded. I’m relying on several websites that give step-by-step illustrated instructions, and that you may want to try, also; here are two such sites:



Preparing and Eating “Tuna”

And here are two sites that show and describe how to prepare and serve the fruit:


You’ll note how happily all these cooks talk about the precautions, the work, and the results. Even if you decide that making nopalitos and preparing tuna are not for you, I hope you’ll come to regard the nopales plant as appreciatively as I now do.
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Three lovely tunas in our September garden

M Is for Muffins



There is no “M” in our garden or kitchen so marvelous as the muffins Jean makes. So…


Yes, I love making muffins.  Both Chris and I are breakfast people.  Either you are or you aren’t.  My daughters aren’t.  They rush off to work, with coffee for the older one and without for the younger one, but neither wants to bother with breakfast in the morning, at least not during the week.  Chris and I don’t understand this.  If we haven’t eaten something pretty substantial by 9 a.m., such as on mornings when we need to go for a fasting blood test (or colonoscopy?), we get light-headed and can think of nothing but food.

We love all kinds of food for breakfast.  For me, the ideal breakfast would be a brunch buffet, attended by a barrista and a bartender (no barristers).  I love to have a selection of both savory and sweet.  However, we try to limit the full hot breakfasts with eggs, meat (bacon for Chris, sausage for Jean), toast and what-have-you for special days once or twice a week.  The rest of the time, we attempt (more or less unsuccessfully) to manage our weight by having only oatmeal or cold cereal with berries and low-fat or almond milk.

There are days when I just want something a little more special than cereal but not as calorie-packed as the full-fat, protein-heavy breakfast.  On these days, I know I can whip up some muffins that will be ready in less than an hour.  Perfect when I am up a little early or suspect Chris will sleep a little late.  I know he will enjoy waking to the smell of muffins baking.   The best thing is that they fill our craving for something a little sweet and special without busting our “diets.”

I love making muffins because they fit my main criteria for enjoyable baking:

(1) the recipe itself isn’t crucial or finicky; I can play with infinite varieties, making it up as I go along and;

(2) I can swap in healthy ingredients for more questionable ones.

That’s the thing about muffins.  Like bagels, they get a bad rap as diet-busters, and they certainly can be.  Some versions have cups of sugar and fat, as well as white flour.  But the great thing is that THAT IS NOT NECESSARY.  Muffins don’t have to be dripping with oil and rolled in white sugar.  We’ll talk about some of my favorite substitutions, but first you need to pay a little attention to the basic structure of a muffin.

The basic structure

Muffins typically require about half as much liquid as dry ingredients by volume, as opposed to pancakes, which are closer to a 1:1 ratio.  Pancake batter is looser, in other words; muffin batter should be thick but fluffy, aerated by the leavening even as you scoop the batter into the muffin cups.  Once you are familiar and comfortable with that texture, you will find you can make any number of changes and turn out muffins that are good every time.

You have to have some sweetness, some fat, some salt, and some leavening, but beyond that, you can play with both the wet and dry ingredients and the add-ins, like fruit or nuts.  Just pay attention to the amount of wetness or dryness that a particular ingredient may add.  Fresh fruit, for example, will add much more liquid than dried fruit does.

Wet ingredients

The moisture in a muffin may come from several sources.  Eggs provide moisture, as does fat, which we’ll talk about later. Some recipes use dairy products–milk, buttermilk, sour cream or yogurt, but dairy is not a required ingredient if you object to it.  Muffins are so flexible that you can find a way to tailor them to your own dietary preferences.  You can also tailor a recipe to what you have on hand.  If the recipe wants a cup of buttermilk or sour cream and you don’t have any or all of the amount requested, add a tablespoon of lemon juice or vinegar to fresh milk.  Fresh or canned fruit or even jams can provide enough moisture to substitute for dairy.  Get creative and use vegetables as well–grated carrots or zucchini, pumpkin puree.  These provide lots of moisture, fiber, and nutrients without raising the sugar or fat content of your muffins.


The traditional bakery muffin may have a lot of oil.  Keep in mind that oil has about 120 calories per tablespoon.   Even butter may have fewer calories.  Starbucks does us the favor of showing the calorie count of its bakery items, which deters me from ordering most of them, which are generally 350-400 calories each.  Let’s look at the blueberry muffin on their website:


You can see it is high in total fat (16 grams), high in carbohydrates (53 grams), including 30 grams of sugar, and low in dietary fiber (less than one gram).  I don’t claim to have any magic answers for weight control, but I think we can all agree those numbers are quite discomfiting.

My recommendation is that you use your own sense of what amount and type of fat is acceptable.  Maybe you believe in the benefits of coconut oil.  Use it, but limit it since the calorie load is about the same as most vegetable oils.  The usual problem with low-fat is that trading sugar for fat may not be beneficial in any way.  However, from what I understand, fresh fruit may be the best substitution nutritionally because it doesn’t spike blood sugar as much as processed sugar.  Thus, I believe in the substitution of pureed or mashed fruit for most of the fat and sugar in a muffin recipe.  If the recipe calls for a half cup of oil or butter, use the same amount of applesauce or mashed banana, plus perhaps one tablespoon of your favorite oil for the entire recipe, which typically makes a dozen muffins.

I can’t provide an accurate calorie count for all the substitutions I’m talking about, but most recipes I see online that make even some of these substitutions say they have about half the calories and carbs of the Starbucks muffin we looked at before.  So this is worth doing if you want to eat muffins on a fairly regular basis.

Dry ingredients

A lot of the carb-load in muffins comes from the flour, which is just as guilty as sugar in spiking your blood sugar levels.  I’m not sure that swapping whole wheat flour for all-purpose white flour improves the situation nutritionally.  If you believe, as some are saying, that wheat in any form is the devil, try a variety of other grains, as little processed as possible.  For safety’s sake, I generally keep about a quarter to a half of the white flour in any given recipe and substitute whole wheat, rolled oats, oat bran, gluten-free flour, soy flour, almond flour, or a combination of these for the rest.  The goal is to increase the fiber and protein content of your muffins, and decrease the gluten.  Some substitutes of these may smell funny, or they may change the moisture and structure of your muffin, but generally I have success if I don’t go too far in any one direction.  I keep a number of these on hand and combine them as I see fit on a particular day.

I’m not sure if sugar is considered a dry ingredient because sometimes it is added to the dry ones and in some recipes it is first combined with the oil and eggs.  In any event, and with most any recipe, you can safely reduce the amount of processed sugar called for, particularly if you are adding any form of fruit.  I also keep on hand some form of less processed sugar, like turbinado sugar.  It may look darker or smell stronger, but if used in moderation, you won’t notice this in the finished product.  I don’t believe in artificial sweeteners, so I’m not recommending those, but I’m not stopping you if you like them.  You might want to swap in some Stevia, for example, for part of the sugar.

Also consider the use of spices as part of the dry ingredients.  Cinnamon, cloves, ginger, whatever you like, in addition to vanilla.  These add flavor and may boost metabolism and digestion without adding calories

Experiment.  If  you are more organized than I am, keep track of the amounts of various types of flours you used when you were particularly pleased with the results.

On top

Cut out those sugary streusel toppings.  I know, I love them, too.  But instead, I recommend throwing on a handful of nuts or seeds.  These may raise the fat and calorie count, but they add good oils, protein and other valuable nutrients.  They are also satisfying in a way that may make you less likely to look for other less healthy snacks throughout the morning.   They toast while the muffin bakes if left on top, and the flavor is wonderful.

A Test Case: Applesauce Oatmeal Muffins, Plus…

Want to walk through a test case?  I started this week with this recipe for applesauce oatmeal muffins from Epicurious.com:


First I measured all the wet ingredients in a two-cup measure.  (I dirtied fewer measuring cups and the pour spout made it easy to add the wet to the dry ingredients when I was ready for that step.

I had a little Greek yogurt but not half a cup, so I finished filling the half cup with some 2% milk and some almond milk.

I melted some coconut oil in place of about half the butter.

kitchen muffin mixture in measure - 1

For the 1-1/2 cups oatmeal, I used one cup regular rolled oats and half a cup of oat bran.

For 1-1/4 cups flour, I used half a cup of white flour, half a cup of whole wheat, one tablespoon soy flour, one tablespoon Brewer’s yeast, one tablespoon flax meal and one tablespoon Chia seed (okay, these are the types of things I buy when I’m on a particularly healthy kick or just on a whim while shopping at Trader Joe’s; muffins are a terrific opportunity to use some of these)

For sugar, I used one quarter cup of brown sugar and one quarter cup coconut palm sugar.

Here’s a peek at the dry ingredients:

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While gently folding the wet ingredients into the dry, I added blueberries and chopped walnuts in the last few turns, and then popped some walnut halves on top.

Here’s how they turned out:

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And what Chris thought: “Delicious, as always! Moist, flavorful, and crunchy from the walnuts. Not too sweet, so all the flavors come through. Just how I like them! And the blueberry inside is a tangy surprise. Great for breakfast or anytime.”


Remember that muffins freeze very well and are easily brought out and warmed up on another morning when you are either in a rut or in a hurry.  If the recipe makes too many, tuck some away and surprise yourself and your mates by finding them and bringing them out again some other day.

I love muffins.  I bet you do, too.  Make them  your own signature healthy breakfast treat.  Don’t let other people (not even Starbucks) make these decisions for you.  Your waistline will thank  you.  And if anyone else you bake for isn’t thrilled with the results of your experiments, they can slather the finished product with butter and jam and still have a yummy experience (with more fiber and protein than they would get with most muffins).

L Is for Lemons, Lilies, and Lilac (and Lemon Pie)


Lilies. We planted the calla lily in the side garden ten years ago, just after we bought the house. I added a second plant in the back garden just three years ago. Each March, after they have drooped, browned out, and shrunk from the heat of summer through the cold of winter, both plants come back bigger and more beautiful than ever.

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Calla lilies early April back garden 2017

Lemons.  I planted the Meyer lemon six years ago, and for three years it stayed tiny and produced no more than three small lemons per year, one year none. It was shaded by a hearty Western redbud that grew more and more dominant (and which was also crowding the peach tree on its Eastern side). So, alas, I took out the redbud. Since then, the Meyer lemon tripled in size each year until 2016, then doubled this past year. And each year since 2014 it has produced  a hundred bright yellow lemons, each about the size of a large egg.


Meyer lemon bush January 2016

Lilac. I planted the ceanothus (AKA Western lilac) ten years ago, about the same time as the first Calla lily. While that Calla lily may now be the largest of its kind I’ve ever seen, the lilac has become the alpha plant of the side yard, a tree that has spread its boughs upward and outward across the side yard and into the neighbor’s. Its thousands of clusters of tiny lavender blooms each spring make our garden a honeybee haven that thrums with the buzz.


honeybee on Western lilac April 2015

At the same time as the Western lilac blooms, so does the pale lavender wisteria, and together these prolific bloomers draw honeybees and bumble bees by the hundreds. The numbers who arrive vary from spring to spring. In 2015, the bee festival was small, and I feared the consequences of Colony Collapse Disorder (CCD). But in 2016, the reunion was the largest I’ve seen. This spring, 2017, the fiesta is again down, but much better than in 2015. Here is a video I took of the party in April 2016.

Lilies. This winter’s prodigious rains (more than 40 inches so far, twice normal) were great for the Calla lilies and the Western lilac, as the water table rose and meant they’d be ready to take off when the temps warmed. Both lily plants were a couple weeks early in showing new growth, and now in early April are richly green, prolific in new shoots, and ripe with those large white vase-like blooms.

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Calla lily and Western lilac side garden April 2017

Lilac. With its branches spreading farther than ever before and festooned with flower clusters, the two-trunked lilac tree is bending in the water-rich soil away from its berth beside the wall of the house. The pale grey-green trunks are slender, though 6 inches thick, and I can bend them back toward the wall. This species usually doesn’t last much beyond ten years, so I worry that my tree may be coming toward the end of its days. Still, it looks bloomingly healthy, and I will soon–after its clusters have fallen petal by petal to form a lavender carpet in the garden–trim away the ends of the long branches. Not only will this bring some sunlight back to the majestic white rose bush that now is covered by the lilac branches, but it will lighten the load on the aging trunks and, I hope, bring them back to their upright, youthful posture.

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Lilac tree and calla lilies, side garden, April 2017

Lemons. Growing food plants has opened my eyes to their life cycles. Did I ever before think of broccoli flowers, or of garlic’s tasty leafy shoots above ground, or of oregano looking like dead sticks in winter only to leaf out in many new stems come spring? Sure, I’d enjoyed orange-blosson honey, but had I ever seen an orange tree covered in fragrant blossoms and the tree aswirl with honeybees? Our amazing Meyer lemon, that took so long to reach its beautiful adolescence, has given up its hundred yellow fruits and now, in April, is covered in red-and-white buds, who are just beginning to open. The tiny fruit beneath each bloom will appear when the blossom falls and will slowly, slowly grow and slowly, slowly ripen through summer and fall, until the yellow suns are ready once more when the weather has grown cold and the rains have come again.


For the Lemon Lover: Lemon Meringue Pie

Most families have a lemon-lover.  No matter how many other fruity or chocolatey desserts you prepare, these people secretly (or loudly) still prefer lemon bars or lemon meringue pie.   Chris is a lemon person, so I was not surprised that he requested a lemon meringue pie for his birthday this year.  I admit that I do not make these for him as often as I should.  The main reason is not that this pie is particularly difficult to make, but rather that there are conditions.  We’ve had a wet winter, and the weather is one of the conditions.  You don’t make lemon meringue pie when it’s very humid  or raining because the meringue won’t set up right and will “weep” more.

During a nice dry spell between storms, I decided to revisit this pie.  I started making lemon meringue pies many years ago, living in Arizona, when Sunkist was a leading citrus distributor.   This is what my Sunkist cookbook (1968 ed.) looked like, as available, at least for now, on eBay:


There are both older and newer versions available from different online sellers.  I recommend any of these, not only for the lemon meringue pie recipe but for other recipes highlighting lemons and other citrus fruits as well.

These days, the Sunkist website has a somewhat modernized version of their traditional recipe, showing a way to prepare and serve individual lemon meringue pies, which helps deal with the problems related to the preparation and serving of the meringue that covers a whole standard pie.  Check this out:


Baking the Traditional Whole Pie


Lemon meringue pie for Easter 2012

Assuming you want to make a traditional-looking whole pie, you need to break out the steps and think about each of them before you start, so the whole thing comes together pretty quickly.

The crust

I haven’t set out the recipe because the recipe is pretty simple, and the secret to good lemon meringue pie is not in the recipe but in the manner of preparation.  First, you must bake a single pie crust, and you can do that in any way you like, using grocery store bake-at-home pie dough if you don’t have a favorite pie crust recipe.  The most important thing here is to make sure the sides of the crust stay as high and even as possible, to hold in the filling and provide edges to attach the  meringue to.  It helps if you refrigerate the dough after fitting it into the pie pan and if you use beans or beads to make sure the sides of the crust don’t slip down the sides of the pan.  It’s okay to use high heat to try to set the crust before it gets a chance to warm and melt down the sides.  (I think a well browned crust tastes great, as well as holding together well.)

The filling

While cooking and cooling the pie crust, you can make the lemon pie filling either on top of the stove or in the microwave.  Yes, it’s that easy.  I found this recipe for microwaved lemon curd that should work just as well for a lemon pie filling.


The Betty Crocker website provides both classic recipes and techniques and modernized options such as using the microwave.  See

https://www.bettycrocker.com/how-to/tipslibrary/baking-tips/perfect-lemon-meringue-pie-from-scratch  and


While lemon meringue pie necessarily involves separating eggs, I like the fact that the filling and meringue between them use all the yolks and whites you separate, so you aren’t left with one or the other to use before they spoil.   Get started on this process while chilling the uncooked pie crust so that the eggs can come to room temperature.

The meringue

The important point here is to be ready to put the filling into the pie crust and the meringue on top of the filling while the filling is still hot, so you must have your egg whites brought to room temperature and ready to beat (or have a helper beating them while you work on the filling, if you are lucky enough to have one).  You can also set the egg whites beating in your stand mixer while you work on the filling, since the beating of the meringue takes a while.  As long as you are aware of this condition starting out, you can figure out how to make it work.  Not overbeating or underbeating the egg whites is another of the “conditions,” and if you lack experience at doing this, you can find a number of tips online.




The other important factor is to make sure the meringue completely covers the filling, sealing it tightly to the pie crust all around the edge of the pie.

I am always looking for ideas for making a higher or more stable meringue and can’t say that I have found one that works.  I have tried adding powdered egg white powder to the raw egg whites but haven’t noticed that it helps.  Some say that a Swiss or Italian meringue is better than the one we traditionally use, just like they say that Swiss or Italian buttercream icings are better than “American” buttercream, but that hasn’t induced me to make Swiss or Italian icing or meringue.  They involve heat during preparation and seem more like cookies or pavlova than meringue pie toppings.


It’s up to you how high you want to swirl and brown the whorls on top of the pie; that’s more decorative than structural.  As you can see from the photo below, mine is rather smooth and evenly browned on top because I think it may weep less that way, but you should feel free to experiment with your own balance of design and practicality.  Keep notes somewhere–in your favorite cookbook, your recipe box or notebook, or in your online blog as to what what worked best for you.

kitchen whole lemon meringue pie - 1


The real key to enjoying a good lemon meringue pie?  Let it cool completely (a couple of hours) before trying to slice it, but then eat it fast.  Don’t leave it sitting around (I think it lasts best in the refrigerator if covered) for more than 2-3 days or it will disintegrate, no matter how well you made it.  Who has a problem with eating their LMP quickly?  Not us!

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Lemon meringue pie, March 2017

K Is for Kitchen

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Looking Out on Our Back Garden, Early March


Our kitchen looks out on our garden, and for us one is the extension of the other. From the kitchen sink we can peer through a window into the garden, or let the air and birdsong in. Two large glass sliding doors make the boundary of kitchen and garden transparent and open. Many trips per day join these spaces, whether to bring in oranges and lemons, chard and arugula, herbs and roses, or to take out orange and lemon rinds, banana peels, potato peels, and onion skins to the compost bin, or move recyclable packaging and old newspapers out the doors and around the corner from the garden to the blue toter.  Jean can see me puttering in the garden as she makes miracles in the kitchen, and wonders if this time I’ll remember to take off my garden shoes before I step onto the clean floor.

The open design means that most of the indoor space along the back of our house is shared by two concepts: “kitchen” and “family room,” but there is no obvious divider of the two ideas.  One end of the open space is obvious kitchen:  stove and microwave, refrigerator and sink, tiled counters and wooden cupboards. A tiled, cupboarded “island”sits in the middle of the floor at this  end of the space. (As I write this, I can hear Jean cutting veggies on the island, while our cat grumbles for her attention.)

The other end of the space is obvious family room, as that concept has become standard in U.S. house design over the past several decades. A fireplace, with mantel, at the far end, and a built-in niche for a TV and “entertainment center.” Plus room for a couch and a couple of soft chairs. This end, too, has its windows that let in the garden sun and colors.

More Kitchen or More Family Room?

It is in the several feet of luxurious undetermined space between the two ends that we could decide: “more kitchen or more family room?” For us, a no-brainer. Our six-chair kitchen table, which doubles as workspace and eating area, commands the space beyond the island. Two bakers racks, one on either side of the room beyond the sliding garden doors, proclaim “Kitchen!” in what usually might have been part of the family room. One of the racks holds Jean’s cookbook library and extra cups and dishes. The other rack holds serving platters and bowls, plus the coffee and tea mugs we’ve collected over the years–and serves as the blender, mixer. and food processor station. This morning, while I was squeezing oranges and lemons into the juice pitcher on the counter near the sink, kitchen oranges being squeezed - 1she was blending a smoothie of coconut yogurt, almond milk, strawberry jam, banana, and honey for our breakfast. By claiming family room space as kitchen, we manage most of the time to navigate around the room without getting in each others’ way. Most of the time….

In contemplating this space, I realize the irony of its two ends. At one end, the gas oven/cooktop and the electric microwave. At the other, a fireplace. We use the contemporary tools at the one end every day of the year, several times a day. We use the fireplace as “fire place” maybe once or twice a year, to build a crackling, decorative fire for the holidays, from the fallen or trimmed branches we’ve collected from the big sycamore in our front garden. But we would never think of this fireplace as essential for daily living, as long as the gas and electricity stay connected.

The Basic Meaning of a Home

For most of human history, and in many parts of our country and throughout the world today, the “place for fire” has been the heart/hearth of the dwelling. Most homes in the world have been essentially “places for fire” (whether produced by wood, coal, electricity, gas, or some other fuel) surrounded by cramped quarters, often just one room, for people, their food, their few goods, and perhaps their animals. Indeed, what is a home, basically, but a frame that can hold in the warmth generated by the fuel that is needed to cook the food and warm the space?

The central engineering problem for home design over the ages has been how to solve a huge contradiction: to keep the space warm and cook the food, while, amazingly, opening the space (1) to let out the smoke from the fire so that the inhabitants can breathe, and (2) allow in enough air to provide oxygen. The more heat that goes up through the smoke hole (AKA chimney, stovepipe, and so forth), the more fuel we have to burn to get the same amount of heat, and the more smoke we produce.

The Kitchen: the Real Family Room

Is it any wonder that even today, when homes for the affluent contain many more rooms than that which holds the fire, people still find the kitchen the central gathering place? That is where the food is prepared and served–and where the good smells draw people from all over the house. That is certainly true for us. When family visit or guests come for dinner, the kitchen is where we inevitably gather. Fortunate we are that we have the space to make that kitchen as large and useful as we have.

The Kitchen Is My Playground


I’d rather be in the kitchen than anywhere else in the house, except for those moments when I am immersed in a good book, a movie or TV show, or a hot bath.  The kitchen is my playground.   Like most playgrounds, it is not especially neat.  Chris gets nervous when it’s messy, but I just need to know where everything is and be able to reach things easily.  There’s a basic order to the way I have stored my bowls, pans, and kitchen gadgets, and I just get upset when I can’t find them where they belong when I need them.

I’ve learned from artists that they love their materials and tools almost as much as the creative process and the end results.  That’s the way I feel about cooking and my kitchen, although I am not an artist.  A good chef loves the look, smell and feel of good ingredients, and respects the amazing things good kitchen implements can do with them.

Cooking, for me, like writing, is about inspiration.  I don’t do well when it’s just a chore.  When I’m on fire with an idea, things usually turn out great.  The idea can come from anywhere–a dish I saw demonstrated on TV, described in a newspaper column, or pictured in a cookbook, or simply from a tool I want to use, like the “spiralizer” for making strands like spaghetti noodles out of vegetables such as zucchini.  Sometimes it’s a single ingredient–an untried vegetable from the farmer’s market, or simply a hunk of meat or fish I got at a good price that week.

Here are two recent dishes, fish and pork, that Chris particularly loved:

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Panko-crusted red snapper and low-country rice for Valentine’s Day

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Pork chop, apples, asparagus, grapes with egg noodles for Chris’s birthday

People who are not good cooks, I find, are suspicious of food, like the woman I know who said “Where do you buy your meat?” in a tone that implied there is something inherently suspicious and harmful about meat so it must be purchased only from the most fastidious of sellers.  I’m not sure I want to put my faith in fastidious sellers.   Sure, I love to get organic, free-range, drug-free meat whenever I can, but I don’t think the other is going to poison us, and I’m not sure all those claims of superiority can be trusted.  My point is merely that people who are so wary of their ingredients can seldom get off the ground with cooking.  In my opinion.  In my experience.  I could be wrong.

Now, this week my inspiration was chicken thighs.  I bought a big package of 12 or so, boneless and skinless, no promises regarding the health of either the chickens or ourselves.  Then I bought a smaller package of organic, free-range chicken thighs, bone-in and skin on.  The extra fat and marrow makes for good eating.  Then I just had to look for recipes.  Here’s one using the chard from our garden:


In fact, here are enough ideas to last a month.  I can’t get enough.  I’ll try whichever ones I happen to have the ingredients for.


J Is for January


Chard, meyer lemon, Bibb lettuce, and new shoots of iris in the January garden

Usually our coldest month and often our rainiest, January in the Northern California garden seems sleepy, but offers a lot of life and new growth to charm gardeners and keep them busy. January 2017 brought extreme rains to our area that challenged home gardeners, including this one.

In the 6th consecutive year of drought in the state, January’s rains–more than 16 inches as measured at our closest airport–were great enough to have the state weather experts declare Northern California no longer in a drought condition, at least temporarily. Not only the rains along the coast and in the Sacramento Valley, but, more crucial, the 20- and 30-foot snows in the Sierra brought this confidence to the weather analysts. To us, the steady and often pounding rains caused the spontaneous pond on our back terrace to creep within a few feet of our sliding doors, even as nearby roads were closed by flooding and venerable trees crashed throughout the area. The wide floodplain of the Sacramento River, known as the Yolo Bypass, looks today like a vast lake stretching many miles, as authorities opened the floodgates, known as weirs, to ease the huge muddy burden  on the river itself.

Our most dramatic event occurred on the night of the 18th, when the strongest winds we’d felt in our ten years in California (60 mph) pummeled our walls and windows. The next morning we looked out to see that our back fence had blown down and lay in our neighbor’s yard.


Well, the fence did last twenty years…

Fortunately, a year and a half ago, in response to some heavy Fall rains two years earlier, we had had a local landscaper regrade our side and front gardens to forestall flooding near the house. We had also added downspouts and improved our guttering. Hence, we have had so far no pools form by the house.


January is usually the month when I cut back the 17 rosebushes that partially ring our back garden and that hug our side and front windows. That job is only partly done this year because of the lack of sunny days, but I have managed to  trim back almost to the ground the five fountain grasses and the five Mexican bush sage plants that annually grow wide, high, and luxuriant in the front and side gardens. The January cold turns the feathery pinkish-tan and green fountain grasses to straw-like shoots, while the deep purples and greens of the bush sages have grown dull. But once the temps begin to warm later in February, the trimmed-back grasses begin to take on color and the new shoots begin their steady return to grandeur. Meanwhile, the rose trimming will get done over the next month, and so the spring and summer will see the booming, multi-hued blooms that our well-soaked soil has promised.

New Plantings in January–and the Steady Regulars

Even in our coldest month, with many mornings just below freezing, we start a few new plants outdoors, while our winter vegetables keep growing and producing. Meanwhile, the citrus trees–the navel orange and the meyer lemon–whose bountiful fruit grew ripe in early December, continue to keep the fruit supple and fresh despite the slightly frosty conditions.

The steady, heavy rains and wind did bring down more oranges and lemons than in previous winters, and the heavy water on the ground meant that those that fell would more quickly turn to mush, if I wasn’t on the spot to gather them. But I continue to marvel at how the trees, and the fruits on them, withstand the onslaught and stay virtually perfect in their stately silence. Every day I am thankful for the opportunity to behold these environmental miracles, for that is what they are, day by day, morning and night, through all kinds of weather.


Navel orange tree stays strong through January rains and winds

Our newest planting this month is culinary garlic, shown below. We have flowering garlic in our front garden (the bright pink flowers are subtly garlicky when tasted), but when Jean, who was making a stew, handed me three store-bought cloves that had just started sending out tiny green shoots while in a dark ceramic container, I took it as an opportunity to try growing the culinary kind. The web sources on growing garlic recommend planting the cloves two inches deep in well-drained, composted soil, with the cloves spaced eight inches apart. They also recommend a slight covering with mulch to maintain moisture. Garlic hates sitting in swampy soil, so there’s no need to water a lot.


As you see in the above photo, taken a week after planting, it takes little time for the buried cloves to extend those green shoots into the sunlight and air. As the shoots grow higher, they can also be snipped and eaten; but, of course, letting the shoots grow will ensure that the real treasure, the buried clove, will multiply and form the large bulb that you are familiar with from the grocery store. I can’t wait to see that happen in my own garden!

Winter Veggies in the January Cold and Rain


This winter’s other new veggie for me has been broccoli (photos just above). It will become an annual winter favorite, along with the invincible chard and arugula, and one or more lettuces. (See “G Is for Greens” for more on these favorites.) When I planted the three broccoli plants in October, the leaves were initially attacked by cabbage leaf worm, a typical pest for them. Rejecting sprays, I occasionally treated the leaves with a fine coating of cayenne pepper, which helped ward off the critters. But what really worked was that the weather got colder, and as it did the plants flourished. Three months after planting, all three had produced large heads, shown above, ready for harvesting. Next year, I’ll plant more, as the tasty florets and stems go so well with many dishes, like Jean’s crabcakes and her hearty broccoli and potato soup, both shown below.


Epilogue: On to February

A new storm is on its way in two days, but then that will be February. A new fence is going up to replace the one that blew down mid-month. The broccoli has been picked, but the chard and arugula go on and on, as do the lettuces and the citrus trees. Before we know it, the fuzzy baby apricots will begin to appear. How high will the garlic shoots have grown in another month from now?

I Is for Indoors


Back garden with meyer lemons early December


This is the time of year, late November through December,  when I devote the least time to the garden. Oh, I’m outside at least a few minutes every day to check on the lettuces, the broccoli, the beets, the onions, the arugula, the chard, and the couple of herbs (marjoram and parsley) I recently planted. And since the oranges and meyer lemons are just about reaching their peak of ripeness, I check the trees for fallen fruit and bring in those that are in good shape. Continue reading