July deluge not kind to the strawberry patch
In July, we who tend gardens move into plant-protective mode with regular watering, soil plumping and heatdeflecting mulches. The month is almost guaranteed to be very warm, and dry. That common pattern, like so many others in this climatedestabilized time, fell off its perch early last week, with two days of significant rainfall. I measured 20 mm of precipitation on the morning of July 4, and 16 mm at the same time the following morning. Very nice for the forests and most parts of our gardens. Not so fine for the ripe strawberries I was about to pick on the Sunday, as the rain began pelting down.
Surprised by strawberries.
I started out in the spring, as always, in eager anticipation of the season and with a comprehensive list of tasks to accomplish, each at the appropriate time. It was a classic example of the old proverb: We plan — God laughs.
One of the many among those projects that was not done in the almost non-existent spring was the cleaning of the strawberry bed. I had planned, in April, to clear away the withered foliage and mulch around the plants with compost topped with clean straw to keep the berries clean.
Never happened. On to Plan B, and another good laugh for the deity. But first, those neglected berry plants surprised me by producing prodigious numbers of large, exquisitely delectable berries. One day a friend and I were working near the berry patch. When I passed her a few of the best, sunwarmed berries to taste, she let out little yelps of pleasure.
Still, strawberry care involves a fair amount of work, and my patch has grown far too large for one person’s needs. The plan, post-harvest, is to reduce the strawberry area by half by digging up and composting the oldest plants, located at one end of the plot. That will create space to expand the adjacent raspberry planting by a few canes along an emptied edge.
A strawberry planting of realistically manageable size, made of mainly young, productive plants, is the result I’m aiming for.
Broad beans and hummingbirds.
In an attempt at a head start on planting vegetables that grow well in cool temperatures, I seeded three varieties of broad beans, each in its own short row, along separate plot edges — on Feb. 7.
Every seed germinated, though the seedlings stood still for a long while during the prolonged cold. By late June, the tall, sturdy plants were loaded with large pods.
One morning early this month, I went out to check on how the pods were filling out. Some had a solid enough feel to tell me that the edible seeds within were about to be ready for harvest.
As I was checking the pods on one of the rows, I heard a familiar whirring sound. A colourful hummingbird had come to feed in a honeysuckle vine behind the broad beans, with intermittent rest-stops perched on wire fencing supporting the flowering vine.
I always stop whatever
I’m doing to watch these little, darting creatures. I do the same for visiting families of quail. Their presence imbues a garden with a touch of Nature’s magic.
I don’t grow broad beans every year. I just happened to have a few seeds left of three varieties, and thought it worth trying an earlier than usual outdoor sowing.
Now, I have a fine harvest going on, and some to share with an English neighbour who loves broad beans, which are rarely seen for sale fresh except for sometimes in local farmers’ markets.
I’ve met many people who have never heard of these coolseason beans, at least under the name broad beans, but many will have heard of them by another name, thanks to the film Silence of the Lambs, with Anthony Hopkins in the role of Dr. Lecter, a murderer with cannibalistic tendencies: “I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.”
If that hasn’t put you right off, broad beans are delicious steamed tender, rolled in butter and dusted with freshly grated salt. I often combine freshly steamed favas with a blend of olive oil, fresh lemon juice and crushed garlic. Optional additions are red or orange pepper strips, thinly sliced onion, and hard-boiled egg.