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Let’s say you want to grow an apple tree in your home garden. You might think you simply plant a seed from a favorite variety. Who wouldn’t want a tree full of Honeycrisp apples just steps from the back porch? In reality it’s not that simple. A tree might well result from your planted seed, but due to the genetic mixing that takes place during pollination, its fruit would not be identical to that of your Honeycrisp any more than you are identical to your parents.
If you want to create an exact duplicate of the parent tree, a portion of that tree must be grafted onto a host tree, called rootstock. Bud grafting is one of several grafting methods, and is commonly used in commercial tree production to reproduce apple varieties.
In bud grafting, the scion, or top stock contains the traits of the tree we want to reproduce. These traits include flavor and storage characteristics. The rootstock, on the other hand, contains traits which control the mature size of the tree, its disease resistance, and soil preference.

New growth emerging from bud graft

Last July the Squash Blossoms attended a workshop on bud grafting presented at the Seed Savers Exchange annual conference and campout. We grafted three trees, and after waiting through the winter dormant period, we realized that they all took! After a couple of years of nurturing, we hope to be rewarded with many seasons of heirloom apples.
There are lots of online videos which demonstrate this and other grafting techniques. For more information check out the following sites:

Securing the base to keep cold air out

As every gardener knows, to garden is to experiment—with plant varieties, location, spacing, watering, whatever might produce a better yield.  We’ve tried all of those things, but in July we decided this was the year of the Great Winter Garden Experiment.  We always lament the end of the season here in the Midwest, which occurs around late October, so the season extension was a welcome project for the Blossoms.  We’d been learning about it from various sources, including Mother Earth News, and decided to give it a go.

Our intended winter plots were small enough to rule out the use of greenhouses.  Besides, we weren’t feeling ambitious enough to build our own structures.  Instead we opted for “mini” hoop houses, called Quick Hoops™, which were quick, inexpensive, and doable.

 

The tunnels turn white as condensation appears

The hoops were built in early December using #9 wire for the arches and Tufflite™ nursery clear greenhouse film for the covers, held down with metal staples and boards.  Under the greenhouse film and directly atop the crops, we used Agribon™ row cover.  With such a warm winter so far, the tunnels hadn’t been tested by significant snow loads.  But we’re guessing that we’ll need a more robust design next year.

Under cover are September-planted spinach, lettuce, arugula, carrots, beets, broccoli, and cauliflower.  We also placed a tunnel over the rainbow chard, which was planted back in April and has been feeding us all summer long.  This plant is a real workhorse.  Talk about “cut and come again”!

A couple of weeks ago, three of us spent an unusually balmy morning in the garden. When I pulled back the plastic sheeting, I expected to find the crisp, fresh vegetables I’d come to know and love.  Instead, I was greeted by the moist, moldy odor of rotting plants.  Once bright, colorful stalks of chard were now slimy, green, wilted, dying clumps.  We quickly learned that a 50 degree temps we’d experienced that week translated to a 70-80 degree air temp under the plastic covers as they sat in the sun.

Thankfully, there were still some emerging leaves that looked okay, so we knew the whole plant wasn’t a goner.  After checking the forecast, we decided to leave the plastic covers open for the next few days, to let the plants air out and prevent further cooking.  But we left the fabric covers, knowing that the chances of an overnight frost were still high.

Last week three of the Squash Blossom Community Gardeners taught a canning class in Unity Temple’s kitchen on Lake Street. We had promised our prospective students a lesson on putting up dill spears and hot-packed tomatoes, but we soon found out that the whole state of Illinois, including our own garden, was suffering from a serious case of Green Tomato-itist due to the extreme summer heat (so if your harvest is late or has stubbornly stayed green, don’t feel bad).

After several phone calls to farmers far and wide, we finally tracked down some crimson beauties in Michigan. Not wanting to distress our students with the thought of eating tough, metallic-tasting, commercially canned tomatoes until next season, we were ecstatic about our find and let out a collective sigh of relief.

If you have never considered preserving the bounty of your kitchen garden (or a farmer’s market farm), let me tell you now: you won’t regret doing so. It’s a terrific way to trap flavor, vitamins, and summertime in a jar. Break the seal on a gray, December day and watch the sunshine flood your kitchen and put a smile on your family’s faces.

The process is simple enough, just be careful to ensure proper acidity. To do this, add two tablespoons of bottled lemon juice or 1/2 teaspoon of citric acid to each quart jar of your tomatoes. You can also add a little salt to boost the flavor, but it’s not necessary.

After you blanch your whole tomatoes by putting them in boiling water for 30 seconds and then into cold water, the skins will slip right off. Put the skinless tomatoes in a pot, let them boil for 5 minutes, and then put them in sterilized jars, wipe the rims carefully to ensure a proper seal, put the lids on finger tight, and place them in the canner (gently boiling) to process for 45 minutes.

Let the jars rest in the canner for five minutes and then take them out to cool. You should hear a succession of pops as the lids seal during the next 10–20 minutes. Voilà! If properly sealed, those treasures are good for a year. If not, reprocess or put them in the fridge and eat them within seven days.

To learn more about canning, visit the Illinois Extension website for step-by-step easy directions. Canning is not nearly as scary and complicated as it seems. And, believe me, you will be glad you made the effort the first time you cook with homegrown tomatoes while the snow cozies up to your front door.

 

What the Frack?

Flammable tapwater in "Gasland"

If you are concerned about fracking (hydraulic fracturing) and what is being done about it—or you don’t know what it is and would like to—check out the screening of Gasland at the Oak Park Public Library, Sunday, August 28, at 2 p.m.

In this award-winning documentary, filmmaker Josh Fox sets off on a 24-state journey to uncover the consequences of the U.S. natural gas drilling boom. That’s when he discovers flammable tap water flowing from kitchen faucets; chronically ill residents of disparate drilling areas, all with the same mysterious symptoms; huge pools of toxic waste that kill cattle and vegetation; and well blowouts and gas explosions covered up by state and federal regulatory agencies.

A mix of verité travelogue, exposé, mystery, bluegrass banjo meltdown, and showdown, this film gives an inspiring and heart-wrenching account of ordinary Americans fighting against fossil fuel giants for environmental justice.

Don’t miss it.

Frank Lloyd Wright's Unity Temple

The Squash Blossoms will be delivering a lay-led sermon this Sunday at Unity Temple. With lots of fun music, inspirational readings, and a short sermon, we will describe–in Unitarian Universalist fashion–the sense of community, spirituality, and land stewardship we have discovered as a group of urban gardeners looking after 1,000 square feet of land behind a café.

Join us!

Date: Sunday, August 14

Time: 9 a.m.

Place: Unity Temple, 975 Lake St., Oak Park, IL

Heritage Farm

Earlier this month four of the Squash Blossoms attended the 36th annual conference and campout of the Seed Savers Exchange (SSE), a leading nonprofit organization dedicated to saving and sharing heirloom seeds.

This was our second pilgrimage to SSE’s Heritage Farm in Decorah, Iowa, the primary seed source of our garden, and we stuffed ourselves not only with locally produced food and beverages but also with valuable information and new ideas.

One of the more compelling keynote speakers at the conference was Woody Tasch. Author of Inquiries into the Nature of Slow Money: Investing As If Food, Farms, and Fertility Mattered, Tasch shared his vision for the potential of Slow Money, an organization he founded (and named after the Slow Food movement) that is bringing people together to talk about money that is too fast, finance that is disconnected from people and place, and methods that can fix the economy from the ground up—starting with food.

According to Tasch, a former venture capitalist, the trouble with today’s style of investing is that the flashing numbers on a stock ticker do not necessarily correlate to anything of tangible value in an investor’s local community. Billions of dollars zip through the world markets every day, bundled into intensely complex financial products, with the result that few investors really understand where their money goes or how it is used.

Speed is the issue, says Tasch. “There is such a thing as money that is too fast, companies that are too big, finance that is too complex. We must slow our money down—not all of it, of course, but enough to matter.” And what matters, he says, is investing as if food, farms, and fertility were a means to restore the economy and our food systems.

Big companies, and particularly big agriculture, cannot keep growing exponentially forever. Such a construct is not sustainable because too many resources are required and diversity is lacking. What we need, he says, is to “promote real diversity for long-term wealth and health.”

How to do that? Foster a “nurture capital industry,” says Tasch. “There is a new generation of entrepreneurs starting to rebuild local food systems, and the capital available to them is insufficient.” Slow Money’s goal is to have 1 million people investing 1% of their money in local food enterprises within a decade.

“If we want the capital to start flowing today, this year, this decade, if we share the belief that we don’t have another generation to wait for ‘them’ to figure it out or be pushed in this direction by disruption or collapse,” he says, “then we have to roll up our sleeves, sink our hands into the soil, and start planting.”

One way to get going, says Tasch, is to read his book and then form a discussion group surrounding the movement’s six principles (he advocates that members sign them), which propose to “enhance food security, food safety, and food access; improve nutrition and health; promote cultural, ecological, and economic diversity; and accelerate the transition from an economy based on extraction and consumption to an economy based on preservation and restoration.”

If joining a book group or signing a list of principles does not appeal, you can also visit the Slow Money website to find opportunities for local investing. If you’re looking for professionally managed funds, Slow Money offers a list of intermediaries and investment products (though they are not necessarily geographically targeted or solely focused on food). For those who want to make a charitable contribution, Slow Money recommends giving to the Soil Trust, which will invest your money alongside other Slow Money investors nationwide, “leav[ing] the financial returns in the trust to be reinvested for the benefit of future generations.”

Although the concept of Slow Money is appealing to many, some argue it is one born of utopian ideas that don’t translate into a viable retirement fund—with returns averaging 3–6% as compared to a potential of 11% with traditional investments. Even some farmers themselves aren’t eager to jump on the Slow Money bandwagon, saying that they don’t want to be bothered by investors with deep pockets wanting special treatment or, worse yet, a say in management decisions. And then there’s historian James McWilliams, author of Just Food: Where Locavores Get It Wrong and How We Can Truly Eat Responsibly, who argues, “We have to be wary of thinking small scale is the answer.” According to McWilliams, movements like Slow Food and Slow Money romanticize the locavore lifestyle as a simple fix to a very complicated issue.

But Tasch’s take is that we’re headed for a biological collapse if we don’t switch tracks soon, positing that genetically modified plants and organisms (GMOs) are like financial derivatives: “GMOs are like finance scientists trying to trick the yield on a piece of land. Sure, people will say I don’t know what I’m talking about, that these new GMO varieties of plants are crossbred for less risk because every wheat stalk planted is exactly the same genetically. But I don’t know. I’m not alone when I say that we’re headed for a biological correction similar to the financial correction we just had. Why? You can’t trick risk. The only way to mitigate risk is with diversity. Biological, cultural and economic diversity is the only answer for risk—meaning lots of small-scale, diversified things of all kinds coexisting in a healthy relationship. We’re talking percolation versus circulation; diversity versus monocultures, fertility versus profitability, and relationships versus transactions.”

As Ari Derfel, the executive director of Slow Money, put it: “You have to ask yourself, what kind of world do I want to live in?”

Growing Like a Weed

Hibiscus trionum

The garden is making up for a late start this season by turning into a virtual jungle. Our three sisters (beans, corn, and squash) are lush, with the squash leaves nearly as big as my head and the beans having run out of pole weeks ago. The tomatoes are recovering from being flattened by 70 mph winds last week, and the plants, three and four feet tall now, seem to be taking to the Florida weave. Other crops in the garden—namely, beans, peppers, and sweet potatoes—are slowly making a comeback after the nonstop nibbling of Peter C. and his pal. So far, we’ve caught one rabbit and relocated it to the other side of town. His buddy will soon be on the way, we hope. In the meantime, Sunny has become origami master of the chicken wire.

Luckily, these pint-sized gorgers don’t seem to cotton much (anymore) to my okra, eggplant, or potatoes, the crops under my care. Okra loves the crazy heat we’ve been getting—a reminder, no doubt, of its native West Africa. After returning from a road trip with the Blossoms to the 36th Annual Seed Savers Exchange Conference and Campout in Decorah, Iowa (where it was also an inferno), I was amazed to see the spectacular growth of the Lady’s Fingers (as the plant is called in other regions). One that looked different from the other two okra plants had really taken off. In fact, without my glasses on, it looked to me like it was already producing … something.

“Sunny,” I called out. “Take a look at this.” Sunny dropped the watering hose on the other side of the garden and came over to my bed to inspect the now two-and-a-half-foot-tall plant.

“What’s going on here?” I asked, showing her the delicate papery seed pods filled with tiny black seeds. Just days before these had been hibiscus-like flowers gently unfurling in the sun. Now their fruit looked nothing like a lady’s finger. Nothing like the green pods that make my gumbo taste so good. Instead, they looked like Japanese lanterns.

“Hmmm,” Sunny said. “I don’t know. Are you sure that’s okra?”

Then it dawned on us.

“I’ve been growing a WEED! Oh my god. My third year here and I still don’t know what a weed looks like, even when it’s three feet tall!”

“Well, it’s a pretty weed,” Anne chimed in from the tomato patch.

“It is,” Sunny said. “A weed is just a plant in the wrong place, that’s all.”

“It’s in the wrong place, all right,” I said as I stomped to the shed to get a spade to dig it out with.

“Are you going to take it out?” Anne asked.

“Hell, yeah. Those seed pods are ready to burst all over my bed,” I said.

“Aw,” she said and looked forlorn as I held the thing at arm’s length and threw it in the Dumpster to be extra certain its offspring couldn’t get anywhere near my okra.

Now, I’m sure some of you may be getting a good chuckle out of this. I did too. But in my defense, I will say that the hoodwinking weed was, in fact, a member of the mallow family, just like okra. I spent a good hour online looking for its mugshot and found out that it’s called flower-of-an-hour (Hibiscus trionum) because that’s about how long the bloom stays on the flowers before dying.

A native weed of the Mediterranean and southern Europe, the H. trionum was cultivated as a garden plant. In northern and central Illinois, it is primarily a weed of cropland. According to Dr. John Hilty’s Illinois Wildflowers website, “presence of this plant in a city may be an indication that the site was an agricultural field at some time in the past. Disturbed areas are strongly preferred.” Our area has certainly been disturbed, but I suspect any agricultural history lies in our trucked-in compost, not in our little lot tucked between an alley and storefronts.

However it got here, Mother Nature made her point again. Just when you think you know what you’re doing, you can rest assured that you don’t.

I appreciate the sense of humor, I really do.

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