Transplanting lettuce

For a week, every time I walked past the lettuce, it yelled at me. It was all tangled and crammed together and needed to be transplanted, separated out so each plant could grow. More importantly, my wife and I have been eating store-bought insecticide- and herbicide-laced (not to mention, over-hyphenated) lettuce like rabbits

Yesterday, I finally transplanted some plants. Here are some photos to prove it happened.

Marvel of Four Seasons fighting each other for nutrients, moisture, and light.

 The Red Salad Bowl lettuce was a tangled mess.

To keep as much of the roots intact as possible, I wet the soil, then wiggled the plants lose...

then planted them in an appropriate container that we had saved in the past few months.

At first, the transplants were wilty and wimpy, but after a day under the lights and a generous helping of water, they've bounced back. Looks like we'll need more containers and more friends to help us eat all this lettuce.

Where I geek out about seed germination*

Seeds, those little dry things that rattle around in paper envelopes, seem pretty insignificant. We don't pay them much respect as they show up each spring in packets on the store aisle caps for a few months, then are gone. But seeds and the plants they grow aren't going away, of course. Seeds have grown yearly generations of seasonal plants since they were spoken into being at the beginning of time.

The process of germination starts as seeds take in water and expand. Pressure builds on the outer coating and eventually the seed bursts open and a root pops out. Most plants send up a fuzzy stem and two early leaves. Some plants, including corn, have only one or these rudimentary leaves. This leaf or leaves had been curled around the stored fats, carbohydrates, and proteins inside the protective outer coating. The seed's internal chemistry begins to change also—proteins and starches break into simpler compounds that the seed uses to shift into high gear.

Early leaves look the same plant to plant. It's not until the first true leaves appear that plants differentiate themselves. Here is a pic of a Large Red Cherry's first true leaf. You can tell it's a tomato plant just from that distinctive leaf. (Stay tuned for a future post on the Large Red Cherry.)

Large Red Cherry—every seed I planted germinated and grew true leaves after 19 days

Scientists don't understand everything about seeds. Some seeds remain dormant, refusing to germinate even when conditions are almost perfect and evolution can't explain the origin of seed-bearing plants. Even Darwin wrote that they are an "abominable mystery."

In the end, we know enough about seeds and their growing process to stand in awe and watch them work.

Slow but steady. This photo from two weeks ago shows plants that still have 
plenty of time—another month and before Central Ohio's last frost date. 

*Believe it or not, I'm not a biologist, botanist, or seed whisperer. I am a seed pray-er, however.

Know when to put down the book

Besides changing diapers, one of my new hobbies is reserving and reading books from the public library. Yesterday I cam across this quote in Alan Silver's How to Win Grants.

"Books, seminars, workshops, and the like are fine, 

but don't let them put off your day of reckoning."

Seems like good advice for almost any daunting process in life, including gardening.

Don't let books become your garden. Books and blogs are there to inspire and teach you, but there comes a time to put down the book and go outside and work your land. Make your own mistakes, learn about your own soil, talk to your neighbors to find out what varieties work well. The real learning, as you probably already know, takes place once you're in the middle of it, whatever "it" is.

Today I read through half of Jere Gettle's The Heirloom Life Gardener. The book's photos are a feast for the eyes and Jere's (I think it's short for Jeremiah) writing is smooth and easy to read quickly. He talks about getting into the garden while it's still cold to prepare the ground and plant cold weather veggies like spinach, lettuce, and potatoes.

The next two days' weather forecast looks nice--sunny and 40s. I have a long list: turning the ground, creating a new bed for corn, and planting several things. My plan for tomorrow is to spend less time inside reading about other people's gardens and more time outside creating the garden we want.

General Bidwell Melon

(Cucumis melo)

The casaba melon was named after the town of Kassabeh, near Smyrna, where melons are a big deal (Turkmenistan celebrates a national melon day each August). While the more popular and readily available Golden Beauty Casaba grow into eight-pound-spheres of white fruit, the Bidwell is a monster, reaching 16 to 20 pounds in an oblong football-shape. Almost everyone who plants and harvests the Bidwell raves about its taste, with Amy Goldman, author of Melons for the Passionate Grower, writing that it "tastes like heavenly orange sherbet."

Image credit: Nancy Leek

The Bidwell melon gets its name from John Bidwell (1819-1900) of Chico, California, who planted 10 acres (oh my goodness) and popularized the variety. Nancy Leek, who wrote the book on Bidwell, points out some wrong information in the Seed Savers Exchange's seed description. Leek says that Bidwell, a Brigadier General in the California Militia and U.S. Representative, received the casaba seeds from the USDA 1881. His first-year crop succeeded and he grew a (maybe literally) ton the following year.

We've done well with cantaloupe the past few seasons, but I'm not sure how Bidwell's melon would do in central Ohio. Maybe I should stop typing and order seeds right now so I can take my own photos of the fruit in August.

If you want to learn about 19th Century California politics, Leek's blog, nancyleek.wordpress.com, is the place to learn.

Waiting, or How to Garden in One Hard Step

My wife and I got serious about our garden this year. In years past, we planted some seeds in Styrofoam (gasp) cups and cleared a spot for them on a shelf in front of the south-facing glass door. We always got a late start and the plants would be only an inch tall when the time came to transplant them into the earth.

Over winter we read a lot, went on a date that included Half Price Books where we picked up some gardening books, and lit up the basement with fluorescent lights above newspaper pots filled with seed-starting soil. It was a lot of anticipation and I have high hopes, but so far, when I peek at those pots in the basement the only green I see is sprouting lettuce. Nothing is going on above the surface for any of our other plants. It's then that I remember that the hardest part of gardening is waiting.

Planting is the act of starting a process, then stepping back and letting the seed do its thing. From the human perspective, gardening is almost passive. It's the effort of clearing the way, eliminating both stones and weeds, providing the seeds and plants with the nutrients and water they need to grow.

Germination takes time. A seed is transforming from a dried lump of cells into a self-sustaining plant, able to gather what it needs from the outside world. I don't know much about being a seed, but all that growth and development seems difficult. Then, once the plant is out of the ground and begins growing out and up, we have to wait for the flowers to pop out. As summer draws on, we wait for the first tomato, the first small pepper. The first vegetables I pick aren't ripe—it's too hard to wait for the yellow tomato to slowly brighten to a fire engine red (or brown-red like some heirloom tomatoes). Once the fruit comes in, we wait for a few perfect specimens and save seeds to start the process again next year.

That growing process is what gardening is all about. Rather than only consume at the end of the cycle, a gardener allows himself to participate. Year after year, along with learning more about the soil in his garden and the specific needs for each plant, the gardener learns patience. And it's waiting that makes the cherry tomato taste all the more sweet at summer's end.

Brandywine Tomatoes

The largest sections in seed catalogs are usually for peppers and tomatoes, and for good reason. While tomato plants all look about the same, the fruit they produce varies widely in shape, color, texture, and taste. One could fill entire gardens with heirloom tomato variations and I suspect some do, but many people recognize the Brandywine tomato as the standard to which all others are compared.

Image credit: hardworkinghippy

Named after the Brandywine Creek in Chester County, PA where there was an important Revolutionary War battle, the tomato appeared in 1889 offered by Johnson and Stokes Seeds. The seed had originally come from a customer in Ohio. The tomatoes are large, some reaching 12 ounces, and the plants produce plenty of them.

There's a variety of Brandywine called Sudduth's Strain. Heirloom tomato champion Ben Quisenberry received seeds for this pink tomato in 1980 from Dorris Sudduth Hill. Hill's family had grown the variety for more than 100 years, according to Seed Savers Exchange, which now sells several of Quisenberry's tomato varieties.

Tomatoes of any kind are the perfect first plant for budding gardeners and no garden is complete without tomatoes. A flat of Brandywines is germinating in our basement; I hope to enjoy their sweetness in a few months.

People plant but don't 'grow' vegetables

"I planted, Apollos watered, but God was causing the growth."
Paul's first letter to the Corinthians chapter 3, verse 6

Today's post is a slight deviation from my previous writing; please let me know what you think.

So far, I've tried to refrain from saying that gardeners grow things. Instead, I've written how people "plant," "sow," and "garden." Sure, gardeners weed, remove rocks, water, plant, till, fertilize, compost, and harvest. Breaking ground and tilling is sweaty and dirty. Pulling weeds is back-breaking and knee-hurting. Watering is tiring and tedious. Gardeners work hard. And most of the time, they can taste the fruits of their effort.

 Image credit: chatirygirl

But the turbines in the cells inside the plant do the impossible magical hard work of actually growing the stem to steady the whole plant; multiplying leaves to suck in more sunlight; lengthening the roots to solidify the plant's foundation and take in more water; bearing fruit and seeds to plant the next generation and create compost for next year's garden. It's a Biblical perspective that science backs up—people work, but the growing itself is a hidden process.

  Image credit: Southern Foodways Alliance

I hope there have been at least a few times when you have stood with dirt under your fingernails in your garden as the sun sinks, then gone to bed only to look at the garden again in the morning to see visible growth since the last night. If you haven't seen your garden grow over night, I hope you see it this year. I hope you witness the ancient mysterious process of growth, one that the Bible can use as an illustration, science can explain, but only nature can carry out.

Orange carrots

(Daucus carota)

Purple, white, and yellow carrots may look like strange new hybrids, but ancient civilizations from Europe to East Asia cultivated yellow and purple carrots. Today's "normal" orange carrots likely didn't become popular until the 1800s.

Image credit: Hflournouy1

The French developed many of today's popular heirloom carrot varieties including Oxhart, Nantes, St. Valery, and Chantennay. As you probably know, some carrot varieties grow short, making them more suitable for hard, clay soils, while other varieties are tough and burrow deeper into the soil.

Image credit: LCBGlenn

If you're still interested in purple, white, and yellow carrots (honestly, doesn't every gardener want to pick these from his garden?), you can find Burpee's Kaleidoscope Mix of colorful carrots at your local ChinaMart.While these seeds are open-pollinating and organic, I can't determine whether they are actually heirlooms as they seem like new varieties of the ancient plants. 

One word of warning: don't plan to transplant carrots as this can give you forked roots. Sow seeds outside three or four weeks before the last frost and be patient. The hardest part of carrot gardening for me is waiting until they're ready for harvest—between 75 and 80 days after sowing.

Here's hoping your bouquet of carrots is as colorful as you dream it will be.

Thomas Jefferson's Pepper

(Capsicum annuum)

No occupation is so delightful to me as the culture of the earth, and no culture comparable to that of the garden

-Thomas Jefferson

Image credit: Mr. T in DC

To see Thomas Jefferson's writing, people have to visit a museum. To see vegetables from Jefferson's garden, people just need to plant them. Jefferson planted 330 vegetable varieties in his two-acre garden in Monticello and garden enthusiasts can purchase one of those varieties, the Bull Nose bell pepper at several seed retailers today.

Introduced to North America in 1759 from India, the Bull Nose became popular in the 1800s. Amelia Simmons mentioned the variety in American Cookery, the first cookbook written by an American.* The four-lobed pepper boasts a thick skin that ripens from green to red like most bell peppers, and has an interesting taste. The flat flesh is sweet while the inner ribs can be hot, but these variations of heat depend on growing conditions.

Image credit: Hozae

Several of these seeds are germinating and preparing for transplant into our pepper garden. Yes, I like peppers that much.

*I have to mention this quote about American Cookery from the Historic American Cookbook Project of Michigan State University: "The importance of this work cannot be overestimated. Its initial publication...was, in its own way, a second Declaration of American Independence."

Greasy Beans

(Phaseolus vulgaris)

First, they're not really greasy. They get the name from their smooth pods that lack the normal beanpod fuzz, then when they're cooked, they look greasy. There are something like 30 different varieties of greasy beans, mostly grown in the Appalachian Mountains in Kentucky and North Carolina.

Image credit: Hozae 

Greasy beans have interesting histories, from the Cherokee Greasy, still grown the the Native American reservation in Cherokee, NC, to the Lazy Wife, whose large beans grow in clusters, making them easy to pick. In 1907, the variety was the third most popular bean in the United States, according to Southern Exposure Seed Exchange. My favorite story about these beans is that Appalachian brides' wedding attire would usually include some seeds from their family's variety of greasy.

If you'd like to add a bit of hilltop heritage to your garden this year, you can find greasy beans at Secret Seed Cartel, an Ohio-based company, and several of the usual seed sellers.

For further reading, check out Hanna Raskin's entertaining article at Huff Post Food about greasy beans. Here are two of the great quotes:
"It's a muscular bean. When they're ripe, they just burst with delicious vibes."
"These are humble little hillbilly beans. But if chefs knew how to do something with them, they're feisty."

Chioggia Beet

(Beta vulgaris)

"Pre-1840 Italian heirloom, introduced to the U.S. before 1865. Named for a fishing town near Venice. Uniquely beautiful flesh has alternating red and white concentric rings that resemble a bull's-eye. A feast for the eyes; wonderful for fresh eating and pickling. Retains markings if baked whole and sliced just before serving." -Seed Savers Exchange

Image credit: Mason Masteka

Pronounced "chee-o-jah," this beet grows early and is known for its ability to compete with weeds. Its Italian name of Dolce Di Chioggia comes from its extreme sweetness—many people say these beets are sweeter than carrots. It's a popular seller and is widely available, listed in the three seed catalogs sitting on the table in front of me—Southern Exposure Seed Exchange, Sow True Seed, and Seed Savers.

Chioggia, Italy, called the little sister of Venice, seems to be a popular namesake for purple under-appreciated vegetables. It lends its name to a radicchio also.

Image credit: Andrea Sartorati

I've never liked beets, but when searching through the catalogs this season, I almost ordered this variety only in the hopes that I could pick one from our garden, slice it open and see those rings. Maybe next year.

Black-Seeded Simpson Lettuce

(Lactua sativa)

I planted my first heirloom variety four years ago, but didn't learn that it was actually an heirloom until a few months ago. Black-Seeded Simpson seeds were among the many plastic packets of seeds delivered to my wife and me by family friends who are expert gardeners one evening in spring 2009. I still remember how they backed down our driveway ready for action with their pickup full of horse manure and a rear-tine tiller.

Image credit: Kristen Bonardi Rapp

The father tilled our small garden bed (we've audaciously expanded it each year since) and gave us seeds for 10 or so varieties that had done well for them in their large garden. By "large" I mean that the family's annual Christmas letter always includes tallies of how many jars of each veggie variety the mother cans. The numbers are always impressive.

What's left of those first heirloom seeds given to my wife and me.

Anyway, one of the seeds they gave us was Black-Seeded Simpson, technically a loosehead type lettuce. That basically means that it doesn't form a head like Iceberg lettuce, but has delicate leaves that a gardener just pulls off the main plant. The neon green lettuce comes up fast, 40 to 55 days, and tastes great, not at all bitter. If you want fresh lettuce all summer, this is the heirloom for you. It grows so fast that a person could make himself a salad each day from one plant. This stuff is prolific—you'll likely end up with more than you can eat, so make friends with your neighbors. Burpee says the variety has been filling gardens for more than 150 years and I suppose that for many years into the future, friends will continue sharing the seeds of this easy-to-grow lettuce of yesteryear.

Why heirlooms?

Why talk about heirloom vegetables? Aren't there hybrid seeds overrunning the aisles in the local farm store and ChinaMart? Don't hybrid seeds produce a huge yield and tolerate chemical fertilizer? Yes. They also grow uniformly in size and shape, develop tough skins to help them survive long-distance shipping, and they have extended shelf life. So why heirlooms?

Image credit: USDAgov

"If you are only transporting a tomato from the backyard to the kitchen table, you don't need a thick-skinned, tasteless fruit like the ones you find in the supermarket," Benjamin Watson writes in Taylor's Guide to Heirloom Vegetables. "Granted, any variety of tomato tastes better when grown and harvested vine-ripe at home, but why should home gardeners have to settle for the same high-test hybrids as the large commercial growers, who expect so much more (and so much less) from their vegetables?"

When I grew hybrid tomatoes in my backyard garden a few years ago, I could have bought the same tomato at the store, but it's tough to find a store selling Brandywine tomatoes, or Golden Bantam corn. Scientists will talk about how heirlooms do the crucial work of preserving genetic diversity, and I suppose someone sees the benefit in that, but the simple fact is that heirlooms offer more variety than do store seeds. And you can save seeds from your heirloom and replant them next year, enjoying the entire process--both the frustration and joy--of the growth cycle.

We have too many seeds. I'll bet 75 percent of these are worthless and wouldn't germinate.

For me, growing heirlooms is more fun than growing hybrids because not many of my friends can say that they're growing Forellenschluss lettuce or Alisa Craig onion. Heirlooms give old-time variety that's still prized today.

What's an heirloom?

While "heirlooms" are family keepsakes that you can't throw away, there isn't a universally accepted definition of "heirloom plants." The broadest definition mandates that a plant variety meet three qualifications:

1. Able to reproduce itself from seed.
Most heirlooms are open-pollinated, meaning that they grow true to type from seed. On the other hand, seeds from hybrids are usually sterile or grow a plant true to one of hybrid's parent forms. The exceptions to the true-to-type rule are those plants that gardeners grow from cuttings or roots, such as potatoes, asparagus, onions, rhubarb, and garlic.

2. Must have been introduced at least 50 years ago.
Fifty years is just an arbitrary number--some heirloom lovers go by a 100-year rule.

3. Must have a history.
This is my favorite part of heirlooms. A variety of pole beans that may have been carried to America on the Mayflower, or cucumbers introduced in Philidelphia in 1928, or green dent corn planted by a pre-Columbian civilization in Mexico--these are heirloom plants. Plants that have a history.

Myself, I'm planting Bull Nose bell peppers this year. Thomas Jefferson planted them at Monticello.

 I need to give credit to Benjamin Watson, who wrote Taylor's Guide to Heirloom Vegetables, for most of the information in this post. The book is great and you should either buy it or check it out of your local public library and start racking up late fines.

Blue Jade Corn

(Zea mays)

I love looking at pictures of this corn. I mean, blue corn! How awesome is that? Now, we tried to grow Stowell's Evergreen corn a few years ago, but all we got was one small ear. The reason for our failure is that I didn't know anything about corn and planted one row of 10 plants. I didn't want to face failure last year so we didn't plant it. But I like sweet corn and I'd like to see an ear of blue corn on my plate and think that it grew in our garden. So I purchased a packet of seeds from Seed Savers this year and intend to plant it whenever the ground dries.


Image credit: tacobel_canon

One of the neat things about this heirloom is that it's one of the few sweet corn varieties that does well in containers. City folk with a balcony or fire escape can plop this outside their window and have enough corn for a barbeque. The plants remain a manageable size with the stalks growing to only three feet and according to the seed packet, each stalk will bear three to six ears. That seems optimistic to me, but until the seeds are in the ground, I'll remain optimistic. Judging from posts on various forums, pollination may be tricky, so we'll be planting in a block of about 75 plants, both Blue Jade and Golden Bantam. I'll also try to hand-pollinate the ears, just to help the chances of unwrapping blue ears.