Growing Days

Tiny Miracles

2012-02-13T17:57:00.000-05:00

It was a stressful weekend in thegreenhouse.

I know. Sounds likes an oxymoron,right?

Trust me. Whoever thinks thatgreenhouses are a blissful respite of peace and tranquility neverowned a greenhouse for business purposes. Those calm,soul-rejuvenating glass structures are known as “conservatories,” andI'm pretty certain the owners of conservatories employhorticulturalists to ensure their plants don't freeze.

I, on the other hand, tangled myself inwires and extension cords, power outlets and gas tanks, in the hopesthat my green babies would survive the 20 degree temperatures thisweekend.

Who knew that I'd need an electricalengineering degree to own an heirloom plant nursery?

Fortunately, as the temperaturesplummeted, my fabulous technical support—a.k.a. Peter—intervened.

It kills me that there are certainthings, like wiring greenhouses and lugging 120lb tanks of propane,that I can't manage on my own. Honestly, I just want to grow plantsand help other people learn to grow their own food. Why does all ofthis technical junk need to interfere?

After all, the business of growingplants hardly feels like a business. It's more like an amazing featof magic. To take a tiny seed...

...turn it into an adorable greenbaby...

...nurture it into a six-foot giant...

...to produce stunning, deliciousfruit...

...that becomes dinner...

...now, THAT is magic. I know somecurmudgeon will argue that it's, oh, something as banal as biology.

And scientifically, I obviouslyunderstand that a seed becomes a fruit-producing plant.

But when that first, tiny sproutunfurls in the toasty greenhouse while Arctic winds blast outside...

...magic.

I held my breath throughout theweekend, watching the thermometer, hoping the heater could keep upwith the dropping temperatures. After all, nestled in the greenhouseare—literally--thousands of seedlings. My inventory for the season.My babies.

So far, our system is working. Aback-up electrical heater is giving an extra boost of heat to helpthe propane, and we're relaxing a bit, especially since Peter justhad the big tank refilled today. We're expecting some more chillynights, and maybe even a touch of a “winter event”--which, inSouth Carolina, is a major happening.

Still, the green babies are toasty,getting their first real leaves and teasing me with the aroma ofbasil and tomatoes.

Only 35 days until spring...

Stay warm!

XO ~ Julie

Spring, Interrupted.

2012-02-02T15:14:00.001-05:00

Dear Punxsutawney Phil:

It's time to re-evaluate your careerpath. It's 70 degrees here in sunny South Carolina.

Crocuses are bursting.

Daffodils are popping.

The itty bitty basil is getting itsfirst set of leaves.

Seriously, fur-ball, don't threaten mewith six more weeks of winter. You might want to laze around foranother month and a half, but for some of us, it's time for winter tobe done.

D.O.N.E.

I highly recommend that you retractyour original findings, forget about the shadow you thought you sawthis morning, and issue a new statement that says:

“Hooray! Spring is HERE! Let's sowsome seeds, people!”

I'll be waiting for your apology.

Sincerely,

Julie

Winter Babies, Spring Babies.

2012-01-23T11:19:00.001-05:00

It's Monday. It's bleak. Dreary. Cold,wet, and nasty. My girlie is home with a tummy-ache, a headache, andvarious other undefined aches. My plans for work are scattered andshuffled. Downstairs, boxes and boxes of seeds await planting. TheGarden Delights website needs updating. The house needs scouring. Totop it off, there are no. snacks. in. this. house.

Honestly, a chocolate chip cookie wouldcure my lethargy. I'm certain of it.

Instead of a sugar boost, I slosheddown to the big greenhouse to check on the few trays of seeds Iplanted Friday.

Unlike my friend Jessie, who has beenanxiously awaiting the arrival of Baby “J” now for 41 weeks (andshe looks magnificent, by the way, which is really irritating becauseI was never a cute pregnant woman, let alone adorable at 41 weeks ofbaby-ness)...

...my babies are already making anappearance!

That tiny bit of green gives me hopethat perhaps spring will arrive...someday.

As an added perk, the first daffodil ofthe season popped...bliss! If I lean way back in my chair and turn myhead a bit to the left, I can waste some more time gazing at itscheerfulness.

Alas, it's time to get busy. My husbandhas accused me of treating my business like a hobby, and as much asit kills me—today, I agree. So, it's time to update the site andadd all of the new offerings, give some crackers to my girl, andfinish planting the herbs and heirloom flower seeds.

Because tomorrow, it's time fortomatoes...lots and lots of tomatoes.

I hope your Monday is far moreproductive than mine.

XO ~

Julie

P.S. Heaven! I found a lone, unclaimed Lindt chocolate truffle. Ahhhh....

Trapped in an Ethical Quandary. (Or, the Things We Do for Salt.)

2012-01-17T12:18:00.000-05:00

We caught a killer.

And it was adorable.

First, before I continue our saga...

THANK YOU.

(I shared your kind comments about ourloss of Salt with our chicken-mama, Kiki. Your sympathy reallytouched us—and she's feeling much better.)

After the raccoon attack, we moved thegirls inside at night, housing them in a dog kennel in our basementto keep them safe, while we frantically worked to finish the newcoop. Still, we worried that the raccoon would return during the daywhile they free-ranged in our backyard. Yes, raccoons arenocturnal—but who knew if it would come for a late lunch or anearly dinner, now that it found a self-serve buffet?

So we borrowed a trap, baited it withscallops, and waited.

Five days after the attack—and afteraccidentally catching Roxanne in the trap, which scared an egg out ofthe poor thing--success!

There are a few things you should knowabout us:

We love animals. We believe kids needto play in nature. We support wildlife organizations. I'm a cardcarrying member of Greenpeace, The Nature Conservancy, the WorldWildlife Foundation. We've raised abandoned baby squirrels andreleased them into our forest.

And we have a Backyard Wildlife Habitatcertification.

Now, we had a raccoon...in a trap.

(“Mommy, if you let me keep him, I'llclean his cage!” promised our youngest, Mikey. Hideouschicken-slaughtering beast turned darling potential pet. EvenChicken-Mama cooed over it.)

The irony of the situation isn't loston me. In fact, while my husband took the kids to school, the guiltset in.

The killer now cowered in the corner ofthe trap, hiding behind the straw it had pulled into the cageto—what? Stay warm? Hide?

Our plan was simple. Catch the murdererand release it in the mountains where it could live a good, happyraccoon life—far away from our pet chickens. Peter and I knew abeautiful, forested, undeveloped area with a river, not far fromwhere we hike.

Seems reasonable, right?

While waiting for Peter to return, Iworried about the stress level of the raccoon in the trap. I went tothe computer and Googled “How to Minimize Stress when RelocatingRaccoons.”

And found that, in all likelihood, we'djust handed it a death sentence.

No matter how carefully or where werelocate it, said the website, the raccoon's chance for survival isnot good. Raccoons are territorial, and the existing raccoons in thearea may attack the newcomer.

Our easy solution wasn't so simple,after all.

In fact, relocating a wild animal isillegal in some states. (I decided not to research the legality in SCfurther.)

If we release the raccoon back intothe forest, our daughter's chickens are in jeopardy.

If werelocate it, we're removing it from its territory and potentiallykilling it.

Guilt set in.

And I kept it to myself.

Peter returned, loaded the trap intothe van, and off we drove to the mountains, according to our plan.

(If you're cheering for the raccoon atthis point, you'll be happy to know...it paid me back by leaving alovely, odoriferous memento in my van. Whew.)

We reached our destination andunloaded the trap.

After a bit of coaxing and a look to Peter thatsaid either “How could you do this to me?” or “I'm going tobite your nose off...”

...whoosh! Freedom!

But was it, really?

We watched the raccoon for a bit as itswam through the river, ran along the banks, darted across the road,then ran back to the water.

And hoped we had caught and releasedthe true bandit.

Being a naturalist or conservationistis not always such an easy decision. No matter what good intentionswe might have, our actions impact the environment. We tried toresolve a predator versus pet conflict humanely.

But was our decision truly humane?

Honestly, it feels hypocritical.

Still, I'm hopeful that removing theraccoon might keep our daughter's pet chickens safe. She is lessworried—but more vigilant—about them. After all, I'm sure it'snot the only raccoon in our neighborhood.

Soon, though, the chicken fortress willbe complete, and the girls can sleep safely in their raccoon-proofhome.

I think I might need to remove ourBackyard Wildlife Habitat sign.

It might ease my hypocrisy.

XO ~

Julie

Life Lessons.

2012-01-11T11:32:00.000-05:00

We lost Salt this weekend.

When we decided to add chickens to ourmenagerie, I knew the risks. We live in a subdivision, but we alsolive in a forest. A river borders our property. And we've alwaysloved spying wildlife in our backyard. Deer. Possums. Squirrels.

Raccoons.

Although the girls free-range in aprotected area in our backyard, we lock them away in the coop atnight to keep them safe.

After all, these are Kiki's babies.

Who knew how sly a raccoon could be—orhow vicious. Not only did it open two latches, causing the girls toscatter into the dark at 3 a.m.--it refused to give up Salt, hissingat me and standing its ground while I yelled at it and tried to makeit run. It finally, finally left the area when I shook a tarp atit—but it didn't go far. I stood watch while Peter searched for thegirls.

Thankfully, they hadn't flown to theforest, and within an hour—we had them all safely tucked away. Theywere nervous but unharmed.

Except poor Salt.

We were hopeful, though.

At 5:30 a.m., our wonderful vet met mygirlie and me at the clinic while Peter stood guard in case theraccoon returned.

Dr. Hurlbert examined Salt, explainedthe extent of her injuries, and discussed what she might do, allwhile being as gentle as possible to my devastated girl. Sheexplained that the damage to Salt's beak and her back wounds wouldrequire surgery, and even then—there was no guarantee. Best casescenario—we would need to tube feed her until her beak healed. Shealso worried that the bacteria from the raccoon could make Saltseptic.

We asked her to try her best, and leftSalt in her care.

I know what you're thinking.

It's a chicken, for goodness sake! Whospends $400 on surgery for a chicken?

We do.

Sadly, Salt couldn't be saved. Herinjuries were too extensive, and even if she survived, Dr. Hurlberttold me that she would be in constant pain.

I had to tell Kiki.

My poor, sweet chicken mama.

When I picked up Salt from Dr.Hurlbert's office, they had this for Kiki:

I am so thankful for our wonderful vet(who, by the way, did not charge us $400.)

Peter is frantically trying to finishthe already-in-progress chicken palace—a fortress-like buildingthat no raccoon can infiltrate.

Until then, guess who is living in ourbasement after dark, under house arrest?

Yes. I know. It's not a pretty sight.(Or smell.)

Our weekend tragedy makes me questionwhat I'm teaching our children.

Yes, Kristen loves animals, and that'sone reason we have so many—but the chickens, while pets, are alsosupposed to teach a lesson about food sources and eating locally.Obviously, we never intended to eat her chickens—but what values amI instilling in her about local food? She eats her girls' eggs. Butnow, after I held poor, injured Salt and tried to comfort her, I haveto admit...I'm meat-adverse. Logically, I know that's crazy—locallyraised, humanely treated animals live good lives until the end.

But emotionally, I'm wrecked.

We've been eating a lot of veggies overthe past few days.

More than anything, the raccoon taughtme a very valuable lesson:

I could never be a farmer of anythingbut flowers.

My heart isn't tough enough.

R.I.P. Salt. You were a well-lovedchicken. Thank you for your eggs.

XO ~

Julie, who needs grief counseling overa chicken.

A walk on the wild side.

2012-01-06T12:03:00.001-05:00

HappyNew Year, friends. I'm sorry to be a few days late wishing youhappiness and health for 2012. As with all good intentions, sometimesthey take a little while to come to fruition—especially with thekids home from school. A three hour Horse-O-Poly marathon takesprecedence over planned writing time, especially when you're quitecertain that in a few, quick years—the horse lover will balk atspending New Year's Day in PJs with her parents and little brother.We've got to snatch those moments now, while we can, and store thememories away for when her angst-filled teen years arrive.

Plus,I wanted my “new look” ready for the first post of 2012. Hope youlike it! (Thank you to my technical support, Tyler!)

So,did you make any resolutions? I admit, I'm attempting a few changes:

Bravery.
Wellness.
Patience. (Which I wish would hurry up and get here, already!)

Braverymight seem like a strange resolution. But I've realized lately thatthere are so many things I've been wanting to do—kayaking,horseback riding, growing my business, writing—that I need to forcemyself to get out of my comfort zone. I've been living life a littlehalf-assed lately. It's time to shake things up, because I don't wantto live with regrets.

Thebravery resolution took a major hit this week, much to my chagrin—andPeter's relief.

Thereis, of course, a back story:

Ayear ago, I attended the Carolina Farm Stewardship Association'sannual conference, which was amazing. I enrolled in a workshop aboutgrowing mushrooms.

Let me tell you—Tradd Cotter from Mushroom Mountain is brilliant. Part genius scientist, part environmentalist,part fabulous entertainer, part magician...who knew mushrooms couldbe so fascinating?

Naturally,on the adrenaline high of Tradd's presentation and armed withrecently purchased shiitake plugs, I decided it was time to addmushrooms to the list of edibles we grow.

Really,how hard could it be?

Mostfarmers grow shiitakes on small logs, which are portable and easilysubmersed in water, which is part of the process to get them tofruit. However, since we had to remove a tree prior to the greenhouseinstallation last year, I convinced Peter that we needed to use thetree for our shiitakes. He gamely cut up the truck for me, and wemoved the logs to my newly designated “shiitake garden.”

Whengrowing mushrooms, there are a variety of methods you can use, aswell as an incredible array of mushrooms you can grow. The MushroomMountain website rates the difficulty level for growing each varietyand tells the various mediums that can be used to grow each variety.(I plan to try the coffee ground method as an experiment with thekids in my next mushroom growing attempt.)

So,we had our hardwood logs in place. I had the shiitake plugs fromMushroom Mountain in hand. (The plugs are approximately inch-longwooden pegs inoculated with shiitake spores.)

Now,it was time to plant some mushrooms.

I'ma little embarrassed to admit this, but even though I consider myselfa pretty well-rounded kind of girl...I never used a drill prior to mymushroom endeavor. I know, I know. Pitiful.

Ialso learned that you can quickly burn up a drill if you aren'tcareful.

At no time in my drilling lesson did I learn that the drill could drill inreverse.

Drilling in reverse makes it extremely difficult and tiring to try to make holes inhardwood logs.

Fortunately,a White Knight appeared after smelling burning wood, saved the day,then laughed at me.

ButI digress...

Armedwith drill knowledge, I drilled lots of holes...in a staggered,diamond shaped pattern. (Make sure to choose the correct bit for thedrill according to the size of the plug, and only drill to a depththe length of the plug. I used a small piece of tape to indicated onthe bit where to stop drilling.)

Thenext step was simple—into the holes go the plugs.

I used a mallet,hammered in the plugs, and got rid of my drilling frustrations.

Thefinal step involved a trip to the kitchen.

Usingthe double boiler method, I melted canning wax until completelyliquid, poured it in a jar, and took it back to the forest.

With aclean paintbrush, I smeared a thin layer of wax over the plugs toprevent insects from entering the holes. (It was a little chilly thatday, so I had to reheat the wax a few times.)

Andthen we waited.

Partof the process with shiitake logs involves soaking them to stimulatefruiting. However, because our logs weren't easily portable, I set upsprinklers in late summer to provide the needed moisture.

Andwe waited.

Finally,finally, after giving up hope and deciding I did something wrong inthe process, I found these:

Hurray!It worked!

But...waita minute.

Thoselook like two different types of mushrooms.

AndI don't think they look like shiitakes.

WhileI was hesitant to eat the mushrooms, Peter was even more cautious. Ithink he feared that I might be trying to poison him.

So,off to the bookstore I went...

...andcame home with a most excellent field guide.

But,as fabulous as the photos and descriptions are, I just couldn'tpinpoint exactly which mushrooms we had.

Noworries, I thought—I'll do spore prints for each. That should tellus if they're edible.

Makinga spore print is easy—if you're patient.

However,if you're like me, you will ruin the print by taking the mushroom offthe paper too many times to see if the print is ready.

Putthe mushroom on white paper or glass, cover it with a glass (I used aglass bowl, but I've since learned you can cut the mushroom and use asmaller section to make the print)...and leave it alone overnight.Some prints happen quickly, others take a day.

Lessonlearned.

Whenall else fails, turn to the expert. I e-mailed photos to MushroomMountain and waited for their reply.

Thefollowing morning as I awaited the spore print, I watched “TheToday Show” while doing seed inventory.

Interviewedon the show was Nicholas Evans, author of The Horse Whisperer,one of my favorite books...who almost killed himself, his wife, andother family members by cooking poisonous mushrooms. Unintentionally.Fortunately, they all lived after eating deadly webcap mushrooms.Sadly, though, Evans, his wife, and another family member experiencedrenal failure as a result of eating the mushrooms. Evans hasundergone a kidney transplant, donated by his daughter, while theothers await transplants.

Wasit divine intervention? Kismet? An incredible coincidence?

Ithrew the mushrooms—failed spore prints and all—in the trash.

Ihave to admit, my heart was racing. I'm not terribly superstitious,but sometimes—things happen for a reason.

Afew hours later, the nice folks at Mushroom Mountain sent a reply tomy photos.

“Theylook like oysters to me,” they said. Which are perfectly safe anddelicious.

So,OK. Maybe I'm not as brave as I wish. And yes, we did miss out oneating our own, home-foraged mushrooms.

ButI didn't cultivate oysters. I expected shiitakes. Where did theoysters come from?

IfI'm patient and wait for shiitakes to fruit, though...will I be braveenough to eat them and serve them to the people I love without afull, fungal analysis?

Ijust don't know.

Ido know that I'll be signing up for another workshop at MushroomMountain. Hopefully, I can learn more and boost my confidence—andskill--level.

Althoughbravery is great, no one dies from mushroom poisoning by being smartand careful.

Whatwould you have done? Would you have gone for it and made a deliciousmushroom pasta dish, or would you have tossed those 'shrooms?

Hopeyour New Year's resolutions are progressing better than mine!

XO~

Julie

Stop and Smell the December Flowers.

2011-12-15T00:42:00.000-05:00

Oh, the weather outside is...65 and sunny?

It's not beginning to feel much like Christmas.

Don't get me wrong. I'm enjoying this respite from the gray, South Carolina drearies immensely. After all, this former northern girl remembers many brutal days, driving to work at the publishing company in the Chicago 'burbs, with the wind chill registering -30 degrees. Or wading through the lake effect snow. Or shoveling the driveway, only to have it covered fifteen minutes later by the snow plow.

No, I will never complain about southern winters.

I will, however, admit that I was less than optimistic about my ability to participate in December's Garden Bloggers' Bloom Day, hosted by May Dreams Gardens. I'm terribly tardy in starting my paperwhites, which I thought would be a featured photo during bloomless December. I also haven't planted the amaryllis, which is a Christmas staple. In fact, my Christmas bulbs are lingering in the garage, along with an additional 1,200 bulbs that called my name as soon as I heard “40% off sale.”

Thank goodness for warm weather. While other folks are decking the halls this weekend, I'll be digging new beds for my tulips, peonies, iris, and fritillaria.

Although I'm an epic fail with Christmas blooms this year, I did take a break from the baking fury that's consumed me today to take a stroll outside.

And—shocking! I found blooms!

The first hellebore bloom of the season...

Our daughter's schizophrenic cherry tree. While I love this tree, because we planted it for Kristen when she was born, it is, honestly, a stupid tree. Who needs cherry blossoms in December?

I do, however, love, love, love the blooms of the fraise des bois. Somehow, the blooms of these little gems remind me that spring--and fresh strawberries--and not too far away.

Thank you, camellias, for hanging in there through December. The blooms are starting to look tired, but I found a few that were photo worthy.

A rogue calendula bloom! What in the world are you doing, little flower? Don't you know you should be dormant? Oh...maybe it's that thick layer of leaves that I never cleared out of the herb beds...it's giving you some nice insulation, huh?

A very confused viburnum.

OK, so I'm cheating a bit. No, these aren't technically blooms...but I'm just thrilled that our potager continues to produce throughout the winter. I'm especially excited because I planted the fall garden late. To protect the produce, I've been covering the garden anytime the temperature dips into the mid-30s. So far, so good. Crossing fingers that I don't get lazy one night and forget!

And, of course, there are pansies...

...ridiculously adorable little flowers, aren't they? Honestly, look at its little face--it looks like a supermodel with false eyelashes and collagen enhanced, pouty lips.

The beauty of South Carolina--we plant our pansies in the fall to enjoy all winter and into early spring. Thank goodness for their splash of cheerfulness.

We gardeners who live in SC are pretty darn lucky. We can usually grow something year round.

Still—I have to admit, last Christmas was amazing. It snowed. On Christmas. It was a South Carolina miracle.

I'm hoping for a repeat.

Even if it means I won't have any blooms to share for January.

Happy Bloom Day, everyone!

XO ~

Julie

Holiday Dress-Up.

2011-12-12T08:12:00.000-05:00

For most people, December is a time to dress up, visit Santa, and take the kids to The Nutcracker.

The Nutcracker is always on our holiday agenda.

But this year, instead of dressing up to watch Sugar Plum Fairies, we decked out some chickens.

Which is not as easy as you might think.

Who knew that this cute little wine accessory is exactly chicken-sized?

And who knew how much fun we'd have, dressing up chickens on a Sunday afternoon?

Do you dress your pets for the holidays? Kiki is lobbying for attire for the entire menagerie, but Peter is protecting the pups from her stylist dreams.

We'll see who prevails...

Ho Ho Ho!

XO ~

Julie

Christmas Cheer.

2011-12-03T19:22:00.001-05:00

It's December 3.

Most people are decking the halls.

My husband, however, is building a new-and-improved, half-storage-shed, half-chicken-coop palace.

The kids are with friends, and I'm sitting in the dark office, wondering if I can hire some elf to come wire up and plug in all the lights and decorations that I have (single handly) hung outside.

Because my husband is building a chicken coop.

Fa la la.

I think it's time for a glass of Christmas cheer.

Just curious--who handles the decking of the halls in your home? You? Your spouse? Is it a team effort? And--if you don't deck the halls, I wonder--who's in charge of your festivities, such as buying holiday gifts, birthday organizing, etc? Inquiring minds (mine) want to know...

XO ~

Julie

Bliss. (With a side of sugar.)

2011-12-02T08:19:00.000-05:00

You know how it is. It's December. Gifts to buy, last minute sparkly white shirts to locate for fifth grade orchestra concerts. Add in the merry making, enforced holiday cheer, Martha Stewart wannabe crafts (which always are a fail in our house), then sprinkle in a few birthdays, chicken coop projects, greenhouse growing...and December is madness.

This morning, in my favorite work avoidance activity, I scanned the lovely Saipua and Floret Flower Farms blogs when I found this: December Photo Project.

I'm already a day late. BUT—maybe I was actually a day early, since I took this shot on 11/30, during our outing to the National Gingerbread Competition display in Asheville at the Grove Park Inn. It was Peter's birthday, and he took the afternoon off. (Shocking, I know!)

What can I say? I am amazed at the talent.

And fantasy.

I want to be a little fondant woman, claiming this beautiful building as my own.

It's my dream business—a flower shop.

With fresh baguettes next door.

And, when the mid-morning sugar craving hit—I could just lick the walls.

Bliss.

Who knew I would find my perfect world in gingerbread?

Happy December!

XO ~

Julie