I must have spent minutes with this wiggling worm before I set him down and watched him scurry off. Then, on my hands and knees, with my face only inches from the earth, I laid the seed potatoes in their new homes, five to a row, and covered them gently with soil. Halfway down the bed, I stopped, sat back on my haunches, and tilted my face up to the warm sun, eyes closed.
I was startled at the sound of my own voice, speaking aloud. “This is perfect,” I heard myself say.
Things I remember: Witnessing childbirth. Finding myself standing absolutely alone before Da Vinci’s Last Supper. And planting potatoes on a perfect spring morning.
The Ghost of Gardening Future was not standing over my shoulder that morning to tell me that in eight weeks, Colorado potato beetles would decimate the crop while I slept, and flea beetles would eat what they left behind. Nor did I know that my fingerling potatoes would refuse to grow, ending up the size of peanuts that year. No, at this moment my garden was the Garden of Eden before the fall, when everything was pure and beautiful, and I was blissful in my ignorance. Sometimes gardening is just plain good.
I’m not sure where the garden and I are headed, as we near the start of our second decade together. I have lots of questions but as yet no answers. But it seems to me that if we are going to stay together—and it’s in both our interests to do so—we need to come to an understanding, this garden and I. For my part, I need to accept the garden for what it is—not the garden that I fancy someone like me should have—and it needs to be more tolerant of my limitations, particularly as I start sliding down the far end of middle age. Which may mean reductions in size, ambition, and perhaps even beauty. Which in turn means that I may need to decide just what kind of garden it’s going to be: it’s a difficult demand, asking a garden to be both efficient and beautiful. But isn’t that what men have always wanted: the cook in the kitchen and the whore in the bedroom? The whore in the bedroom and the horticulturist in the garden.
I’ve been guilty of imposing the Madonna/whore complex on my garden, asking it to be both whore and horticulture. Seduce me and feed me. It has taken me nearly ten years to figure this out. But having acquired this insight, what now do I do with it? If I have to choose, which do I give up, the aesthetic or the stomach, the whore or the horticulture? I can eliminate many of my gardening woes with a few simple changes: erect a seven-foot chain-link fence; eliminate the grass; put plastic weed block in the beds. No, that clearly won’t do. Flower gardens are easier. Give up the vegetables and grow flowers? And live without fresh tomatoes and baby greens? We may as well move back to the city.
The whore in the bedroom and the horticulturist in the garden. Too much to ask? I ponder this thought as I pick up the tomato again. I’m going to have lunch now.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Were it not for my literary agent, Laurie Abkemeier, this book might never have seen its way into your hands. For that, and for her sharp red pencil; for bailing me out of more literary jams than I care to enumerate; and for introducing me to the wise and patient Amy Gash (who knows just how much rope to give a writer) and the superb Algonquin team, I am deeply grateful.
Suggested Reading
There are thousands of books on gardening. Here are a handful that come off my bookshelf most often.
Brickell, Christopher, ed. The American Horticultural Society Encyclopedia of Gardening. New York: Dorling Kindersley, 1993. Every gardener should have a ten-pound no-nonsense gardening reference book. This is mine.
Browning, Frank. Apples. New York: North Point Press, 1998. Browning’s obsession with apples takes him from New York to Washington to Kazakhstan. A must-read for any home orchardist.
Hirsch, David. The Moosewood Restaurant Kitchen Garden: Creative Gardening for the Adventurous Cook. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1992. A surprisingly useful quick-reference guide to growing sixty-five vegetables and herbs, with some garden-design tips and a few recipes thrown in.
Otto, Stella. The Backyard Orchardist. Maple City, MI: Otto-Graphics, 1993. This is usually the first book I turn to when I need practical information on tending my fruit trees.
Pollan, Michael. The Botany of Desire: A Plant’s-Eye View of the World. New York: Random House, 2001. For the truth about Johnny Appleseed, as well as some provocative thoughts on plant survival strategies and how those Idaho spuds end up on your table.
———. Second Nature: A Gardener’s Education. New York: Atlantic Monthly Press, 1991. An alternate view of a life in the garden.
Reich, Lee. Weedless Gardening. New York: Workman, 2001. A perhaps overly optimistic, but original approach to fighting weeds from a Hudson Valley gardener and writer.
Robertson, Adele Crockett. The Orchard: A Memoir. New York: Metropolitan Books, 1995. A moving account of a woman’s struggle to save her family’s New England apple farm during the Depression.
Recipes
Oddly enough (okay, understandably enough), only a few readers have asked me for advice on, say, growing tomatoes or keeping groundhogs out of the pea patch (although many have offered advice). But I have frequently been asked for recipes for the dishes that appear in cameos throughout the book. So as a bonus to this paperback edition, and because it’s easier than answering my mail, I’ve included them here.
I’ll leave it to the reader to decide whether I’m a better cook than gardener. Bon appétit!
Leek Potato Soup
This is a remarkably comforting soup on a cold winter day (and gives you a good excuse to be in the garden while the home team is blowing a close one). With a loaf of fresh bread it becomes a meal. In the spring, substitute fresh asparagus or peas for the leek and you have two more reasons to cook soup.
Serves 4
3 to 6 leeks (about 1½ pounds before trimming)
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
3 medium potatoes, preferably Yukon Gold
4 cups low-salt chicken broth
½ cup heavy cream
salt and pepper to taste
1. Cut off and discard the roots and green tops of the leeks, leaving about an inch of green. (If using those large grocery store leeks, you will only need 3; if using garden leeks, more like 5 or 6.) Discard the outer one or two tough leaves. Slice the leeks down the middle lengthwise and clean well under running water, then slice into about 1½-inch pieces. Save a small piece for garnish.
2. Melt the butter in a soup pot and sauté the leeks over medium heat for about 10 minutes, until they start to soften and turn translucent.
3. Meanwhile, peel and cut the potatoes into chunks. Add the potatoes and a box of low-salt chicken broth (yes, homemade is always better, but who’s got the time?) to the leeks. Bring to a low boil, then turn down and simmer with the lid ajar for about 30 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the leeks are tender and the potatoes are soft. Slice the reserved piece of leek into thin slivers and set aside.
4. Remove the pot from the stove and use an immersion (stick) blender to thoroughly puree the mixture. If you have only a standing blender, transfer the soup in batches until it is all pureed. You will probably go out and buy an immersion blender soon afterward.
5. After blending, return the soup to the stove and whisk in the cream. Stir more or less continuously until a simmer is just reached, then remove from heat and check the seasoning. Add salt and pepper to taste. Ladle into bowls, add the leek garnish, and serve.
Caprese Pasta
If our kids ever decide (despite witnessing my travails) to grow their own tomatoes, it will be because of this dish—their all-time favorite, made with fresh tomatoes, basil, and mozzarella. Caprese refers to the Italian isle of Capri, in the Bay of Naples. This is a pasta variation of the famous Caprese salad, which is made with tomato, mozzarella, and basil. The recipe takes only 25 minutes to prepare because you don’t need to peel or otherwise fuss with the tomatoes.
Serves 4
30 fresh basil leaves, washed
1 pound medium shells or other pasta
4 or 5 heirloom or other
vine-ripened tomatoes, about 2 pounds
8 ounces fresh mozzarella cheese
1 cup grated Pecorino Romano cheese
1 clove garlic
¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons chopped parsley (optional)
Salt and pepper to taste
1. Go out to the garden or farmstand and pick 4 or 5 of the ripest good-size tomatoes you can find and about 30 leaves of basil. If you have parsley, grab a few sprigs.
2. Start a large pot of boiling, salted water. Slice each tomato in half across the equator and, over the sink, scoop out most of the seeds with your fingers. Don’t worry about getting all of the seeds out. Chop the tomatoes to medium dice and place in a colander for a couple of minutes to drain the excess liquid. Transfer the tomatoes to a bowl. Chop the basil and parsley.
3. Cook the pasta. We use medium shells for this dish, because they hold the thin sauce nicely. While the pasta is cooking, slice the mozzarella into -inch cubes. Grate the Pecorino Romano cheese.
4. Smash a clove of garlic with the heel of your hand and sauté very gently in ¼ cup of extra-virgin olive oil over low heat. Take care not to brown the garlic. Remove the garlic after a few minutes and add the warm oil to the tomatoes. Add the chopped basil and toss.
5. When your pasta is almost cooked, season tomatoes with a generous pinch or two of kosher salt and fresh ground pepper. (If you add the salt too soon, the tomatoes will render too much juice.)
6. When the pasta is cooked al dente, drain quickly (do not rinse) and return to pot, off the heat. Add the tomato mixture and the mozzarella. Mix in well and cover tightly. Let sit for 5 minutes, then stir again. The heat of the pasta should have partially melted the mozzarella. Spoon into pasta bowls. Sprinkle the parsley and half of the Pecorino Romano over top and serve with the remainder of the Romano.
Windowpane Pasta
(Adapted from the Williams-Sonoma Complete Pasta Cookbook, Chuck Williams, ed.)
Need an antidote to so-called “30-minute gourmet” cooking? This visually stunning but nearly two-hour project should do the trick. The original recipe calls for nasturtium butter (butter blended with finely chopped nasturtium flowers and a dash of honey), but we much prefer the thyme and lemon butter sauce described below.
Serves 4
For the pasta:
3 large eggs
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup herbs and edible flowers
For the sauce:
1 stick (4 oz.) unsalted butter
2 tablespoons fresh thyme leaves
zest of 1 lemon
½ cup freshly grated Parmesan or Pecorino Romano cheese
Make the pasta:
1. Go into the garden and collect a cup or so of flat, small-leafed herbs and edible flowers: basil, parsley, sage, dill, chervil, nasturtium, violas. For the thyme sauce you will need enough thyme sprigs to yield about two tablespoons of leaves.
2. Prepare a basic egg pasta. We use our KitchenAid stand mixer outfitted with a dough hook, but you can use anything from your hands to a food processor. If using a mixer, briefly beat the eggs in the bowl. Add the flour, a little at a time, blending after each addition, until all the flour has been added. Increase the mixer speed to moderately high and continue kneading the dough for 5 or 6 minutes. If the dough is too moist, add a little flour; if too dry, another bit of egg. If too sticky, knead another minute or two. Finish with kneading a few minutes by hand on a floured countertop or board. When kneaded, the dough should have a pleasant, firm feel with a slight sheen. Keep the dough covered with plastic wrap during the next steps so it doesn’t dry out (if it does, simply refresh with a dab of egg).
3. Set the rollers of the pasta machine at their widest opening. Pull off an egg-size piece of the dough, flatten it with your hand and run it through the machine. Fold it in half and run it through again. Do this a total 4 or 5 times, folding in a different direction each time. (You are completing the kneading of the dough.) Then adjust the rollers to the next setting and run the dough through (do not fold). Close the rollers one more notch and run the pasta through again, continuing this process until you’ve reached the narrowest setting on the machine or the dough is tearing.
4. Lay the pasta strip onto a floured surface and trim lengthwise into a 3-inch-wide strip. Return the excess to the ball of dough. Now cut your strip in half crosswise so you end up with two equal strips. On one, haphazardly arrange the herbs and, if you like, the occasional small flower. You can pack them fairly densely, as they will move apart when you run the dough through the machine again.
5. Lay the other half strip over the first and press gently to seal. Adjust your pasta machine to the narrowest setting that will accommodate this sandwich (this may take a little trial and error), and run the dough through. Go to the next narrowest setting and continue as before. The herbs should be clearly visible through the pasta.
6. Set aside the strip on a floured surface and continue with the remaining dough.
7. Cut the pasta into 2-inch squares with a serrated pastry cutter or a knife.
8. Bring a large pot of salted water to boil and warm a large plate or shallow bowl in the oven.
While the pasta is drying and your water is coming to a boil, make the sauce:
1. Gently melt the butter into a 10- or 12-inch sauté pan. Keep warm.
2. Strip the leaves off of the fresh thyme by drawing thumb and forefinger down the stem, against the grain, until you have about 2 tablespoons.
3. Remove the zest from the lemon.
Now it’s time to put it all together:
1. When the water has come to a rolling boil, gently add the pasta squares, stirring so that they do not stick together or to the bottom, about 2 minutes. You may want to do this in two batches. (Do not overcook: fresh pasta cooks much more quickly than dried!) Note that you will need to save a bit of the cooking water for the sauce.
2. Turn the heat up under your butter to medium high. When the foam subsides, add 3 or 4 tablespoons of the pasta cooking water and whisk vigorously to make an emulsion. Whisk in the thyme and lemon zest and remove from heat.
3. Add the drained pasta and some freshly ground pepper to the sauté pan, tossing gently for one minute. Arrange on a platter, topping with freshly grated Parmesan or Pecorino Romano cheese. Garnish with nasturtium and violas. Serve with additional grated cheese.
Potato Apple Thyme Gratin
Some dishes taste great for the first bite or so (ginger ice cream comes immediately to mind), but grow tiresome thereafter. Others, like this unusual gratin of potatoes and apples, start slowly, but the subtle taste of this dish grows more appealing with every forkful. The apples release a good deal of juice, imparting a mild sweetness to the potatoes.
Serves 4
2 large Yukon Gold potatoes (about ¾ pound)
2 large apples (about ¾ pound), cored and peeled
1 medium onion, sliced
1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves
5 tablespoons unsalted butter
salt and pepper to taste
cup dry white wine
cup water
1 tablespoon sugar
cup freshly grated Parmesan or Pecorino Romano cheese
1. Peel and slice the potatoes, apples, and onion into - to -inch slices. Strip the leaves off several sprigs of thyme until you have about a tablespoon.
2. Heat 2 tablespoons of butter in a medium frying pan and gently sauté the onion and thyme with a generous dash of salt and a few twists of pepper until the onions are translucent, about 10 minutes. Do not brown.
3. Add the wine, turn up the heat, and cook for a couple of minutes until the wine is reduced by half. Add cup water, another 3 tablespoons of butter, and the sugar. Cook, stirring until the butter is melted, and set aside.
4. Alternate layers of potatoes and apples in a buttered gratin dish, adding some of the onion mixture between layers, finishing with a layer of potatoes. Bake, covered with foil, for 45 to 55 minutes at 375°F unt
il the potatoes are tender. Remove foil and sprinkle the top with the grated cheese. Return to oven for another 15 minutes or so until cheese begins to brown. Let sit 5 or 10 minutes before serving.
Aunt Teh’s Bread-and-Butter Pickles
This recipe for sweet pickles is from my sister-in-law’s Aunt Teh (which makes her my … uh … who knows). We’ve never used any other. The first attempt at canning can be intimidating. You have to keep everything sterile; you have to buy Mason jars, rings, lids, and a large pot for sterilizing. But if you stick with it, pickling can be among the most rewarding things you’ll ever do with your harvest. Note that pickles are much easier to can than peaches. This recipe will yield about six quarts of fantastic, crisp sweet pickles to eat with sandwiches year-round. They’ll keep in the pantry for months, but chill before serving.
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