Burdock Burning in the Veggie Zone

 

Few things on Hillsong Farm are quite as satisfying or downright necessary as the elimination of burdock.  It grows everywhere out here, testimony of a farm that had been idle for too long.  It thrives like nothing else and heartlessly consumes the dreams of gardeners and farmers that ignore its first tender shoots.

Goats are great at destroying burdocks.  While most livestock will munch on it, goats place it at the top of their culinary delights.  What’s more, while cattle tend to ignore it once the burdock stalk becomes mature and turns “woody,” goats will continue to clear it.

The problem with goats is that they have to be securely fenced in or else they will eat all the other things that you would prefer to keep around.  They will seek out the dreaded multi-floral rose but will chew the bark off your apple trees before they tackle the invasive weeds.  They are vegetation-clearing machines and do so with reckless abandon and without prejudice or regret.  So the use of goats as clearing instruments is only recommended in certain applications.

We have battled burdock in our garden since our first spring on the farm.  We’ve burned it with some success.  We’ve mulched over it, again with some success.  But it has never given up the fight.  It is a stubborn fighter, throwing unexpected jabs and uppercuts when you think it is finally down for the count.

I spent most of the weekend clearing the long, burr-covered stems that grew in last year‘s garden area.  I also cleared a 30x50 foot space beyond last year’s garden.  Then I burned it.  I did so enthusiastically, joyfully, sadistically.  Lisa and Nathan were drawn into the euphoria that I was experiencing and ruthlessly cleared as well.

This year I will be adding a new tactic to our all-out war on burdock.  Last Christmas Lisa bought me a copy of Samuel Thayer’s book, “The Forager’s Harvest.”  It is a book I have wanted since first reading an article by Thayer years ago about making sumac tea.  While paging through the book I was surprised to discover a section devoted to burdock.

I knew burdock root was edible.  Lisa cooked some a number of years ago.  Our initial response was underwhelming and we haven’t tried it since.  However, Thayer states in his book that while the leaves are edible if treated carefully, the stalks of young burdock plants are positively yummy.  Well, he didn’t use the word, “Yummy,” but that was the gist of it.

So this year we will burn it, mow it, pull it and feed it to the goats, and eat the stuff ourselves.  I’m so hoping the last approach experiences rave reviews.  What a perfect way to combat an old enemy.  It reminds me of Abe Lincoln when he explained his strategy for defeating his opponents, he stated, “I will defeat my enemies by making my enemies my friends.”

In the end I’m hoping to greatly increase our garden space this year and the area cleared this weekend already surpasses last year’s ten-fold.  Whether all the space is utilized or not, the killing of the hated burdock seed and it’s ever-present shoots already makes this weekend’s endeavor a victory.  It may not be a great victory by most standards, but a victory nonetheless.  When battling weeds in our garden, particularly burdock, any victory is welcome.

Cats

I am a dog person.  I like dogs, usually.  Our German Shepherd attacked me when I was five years old, nearly tearing my left ear off until I blocked his attacks with my forearm.  Still, I like dogs.  Over the years my dogs have chewed not only me but favorite pieces of clothing, toys and furniture and still I like them.  They have cost me thousands of dollars in vet fees and still I like them.  They have left gargantuan piles of poop in my walkways which I have stepped in numerous times, and still I like them.

I don't like cats.  I'd say that I hate cats, but that would get me into hot water with some of the cat lovers in my home.  I view cats as a necessary evil around the farm.  I tolerate them, but I don't like them.

I discovered the hard way what it is like to not have cats around the farm two years ago.  We have had cats here since shortly after moving in eight years ago.  They have all been barn cats.

We started with four.  That eventually grew to seventeen.  Then they began getting sick and we were down to three for about a year.  Eventually those three became ill and died.

That is when I learned the value of barn cats.  Our garage, which is detached from our house, has always been a nice home to mice and an occasional rat or two.  The barn cats kept the population down, but never fully eliminated the rodents.  Once the last of our mousers died off the garage experienced a tremendous population boom in the mouse community.  Rats began appearing as well.

They became so comfortable in their cat-free environment that they would scurry about the place even when I was in there with the radio on.  Nothing I left unprotected was sacred to them.  They chewed up notebooks, receipts, a favorite hat, insulation, a $250 bag of pasture seed, cardboard boxes, and anything made of plastic.

They also had free reign of the barn and milkhouse.  I would frequently have a big fat rat run off in front of me when I went into the barn to feed the goats and chickens.  I really dislike using poisons, so I tried traps.  Mouse traps and rat traps were everywhere.  I caught a total of 21 mice or baby rats in the garage alone, and still it didn't seem as if I was making a dent in the population.

So I reluctantly agreed to get some more cats.

We started with four again.  That was not a conscious decision but rather what was available at a neighboring farm.  One of them met its end in my truck's engine compartment.  Apparently it thought that hanging out by the truck fan was a good idea.  I was in a hurry to get Nathan to a 6:00 am football practice and forgot to honk the horn before I started the truck.  I felt a "thud" when I turned the engine over and instantly shut the truck off, knowing immediately what had happened.

I looked over at Nathan and asked, "Did you feel that?," hoping that I had imagined it but knowing that I hadn't.  "Yeah," he said, confirming my fears as I got out of the truck and looked underneath just in time to see Ditzy fall onto the ground.  I felt sick.

There is no way to easily communicate the death of a loved one to a seven-year-old kitty lover.  There were tears, even for me.  My tears weren't from a sense of loss but a sense of guilt, and for the pain my little girl was experiencing.  I also feared how she might view me from here on out, being the killer of one of her beloved.

Life has moved on from that day.  Grace has long since forgiven me.  The remaining three cats are still with us, and two seem to be "with kitty."

I'm not sure which is worse:  more cats or cats in heat.  While two are now silent, the one that continues to go into heat is driving me crazy with it's constant and unusually loud cat calls.  Part of me hopes the local tomcat makes its way back over and the other part of me hopes he never hears her.  I am so conflicted.  All I know for certain is that our mouse and rat populations are down and that I really dislike cats.

Meal Review and Other Springtime Musings

The woodstove soup was a definite hit the other night.  I had never attempted making beef soup from scratch before.  I've done it with chicken soup, but that is relatively safe.  It's hard to screw up chicken stock.  Beef, however, is a completely different beast.  I can never seem to resist throwing in some beef bouillon for fear that the stock will otherwise be too bland.

This stuff was anything but bland.  I went heavy on the celery and thyme and both were noticeable  but not overpowering.  In fact, I think it was just about perfect.  Hope I can remember the amounts the next time around.  I hate writing down recipes even more than using them.  It takes the adventure and artistry out of cooking.

Spring has sprung today on the farm.  There have been numerous hints over the last few weeks:  The robins and red-wing blackbirds arrived on the same day.  The snow, with the exception of northern sloping hills, has nearly disappeared.  My truck is covered with mud.  The kids' clothes are again retaining turf stains.  Flocks of Canada geese have been flying north.  So have the sand cranes.  And the once hidden mounds of dog poop are appearing all over the place.  I can live without this last spring siting.

The clearest indicator that spring has sprung was seeing our neighbor, (and frequent commenter on this blog) Tom, driving by on his motorcycle the other day. He was, however, wearing jeans rather than his usual shorts.  I also noted that he was not wearing his sandals.  Both good calls, I believe.

The temperature today is near 50 degrees, and all forms of life seem to be responding.  Unfortunately, this includes the flies.  I was greeted by a low, consistent buzzing while walking out the front door this morning.  Turned out to be hundreds, perhaps thousands of flies.  They seemed to be sunning themselves on the side of our house and throughout the lawn.  Perhaps they are resting after feasting on the numerous mounds of dog poop.  I hate flies.


The only sound louder than the flies right now is the voice from our garden, beckoning me to come and visit.  Hoping to get a little time there later this afternoon.

Woodstove Soup

After spending much of the day cutting wood, I decided to enjoy the fruit of my labors by cooking vegetable beef soup on our woodstove. Seemed like no better way to beat the system than to heat the house and cook supper at the same time. I'm certain there are far better ways to beat the system, but I'm satisfied with this approach for today.

I had never messed with soup bones in the past, but ended up with around twenty pounds of the things when we had one of our steers butchered last fall. A few weeks ago I roasted two pounds worth with chopped onions, celery and carrots for a couple of hours. Then I simmered the concoction for six hours. Next I strained the stock through a colander. After refrigerating overnight and skimming the fat off the top the next day, I poured my homemade stock into containers and froze them.

After letting one of the containers thaw yesterday, I added a little water, seasonings, salt, pepper, barley, carrots, celery, onions and diced tomatoes in an old crock-pot. After some searching I found a lid that kind of fit, and set it on the woodstove.

I'd love to say that everything in the soup, with the exception of some of the seasonings, were raised on the farm. But alas, only the beef and the stock came from here. My previous post may give insight as to why this is so.

Even if my soup adventure does not turn out, seeing that crock-pot on the woodstove and smelling thyme, beef and onion in the air gives me the warm fuzzies. A food review will follow tonight's meal.

The Annual Pursuit of Gardening Greatness

Few people, including those who live with me, know that I am actually a master gardener. Granted, it is only for about three months of each year. But during those months I am nothing short of spectacular.

In December I begin thinking about seed purchases and ponder possible improvements over the previous season’s gardens. January finds me in the throws of meticulous planning. I consider rotations, plant placement within rotational beds, locations of new gardens, made-from-scratch drip irrigation systems, compost piles to be built, and take inventory of material needed to build a couple of late winter cold frames.

February preparations increase dramatically. Seeds on hand are inventoried and a shopping list created. I pull out seed trays and prepare them for March’s plantings. The seed catalogs that have finally arrived are studied and price comparisons computed. Job lists are made according to priority and placed in chronological order. Materials for new trellises are found and positioned for use.

Every year I plan to have my seed trays completed by the third week of March. They are to be placed in our home on shelves sitting in front of southern facing windows. Yet every year, usually by the second week of March, I am frustrated and disappointed. It is seemingly inevitable that each year’s Ides of March are destined to bring my delusions of grandeur down into the pit of reality.

Why can I never rise above life’s obstacles and stay on the garden track? Be it a bathroom drain that suddenly needs replacing or heater in the milkhouse that needs repair, life’s unexpected curve balls have derailed my well-intentioned plans every single year.

The remainder of my garden year also plays out the same as previous years. My seed trays won’t be touched until early April. Some years I surrender completely and just sow directly into the ground. In April I will begin clearing the garden of last year’s weeds, plantings, discarded tools, and trellises. Each of these tasks should have been completed in March.

Early crops (Broccoli and Greens families) should have been planted in April but won’t make it into the ground until after May Day. The second week of May should find me transplanting tomato and other late spring seedlings. They won’t find their way home until the end of the month.

The seemingly endless disappointments continue throughout the growing season. I forget to water. I avoid weeding. Weeds overtake what had been neat, well-tended rows. Some crops (potatoes and onions last year) disappear all together. The failures culminate in November when once again I fail to get garlic in the ground for the following year’s growing season.

Early on, usually some time in April, I begin conversing and reasoning with myself. “I really was set on putting in about ten rows of corn this year. Guess I’ll settle for two. Those rows of new veggies will have to wait until next year. Wonder if I can return the seeds? Potato beds? Forget it. Besides, spuds are really cheap at the grocery store. But they’re not organic. So what? One more year of non-organic russets won’t make that big of a deal.”

Soon I find myself arguing with, err, myself. “You really suck as a gardener. No I don’t. I am just overloaded with responsibilities. That’s a crock. Master gardener? You’re just a master procrastinator. That’s not true. I’d like to see other people try to handle all the stuff I have to handle. You are constantly writing checks that your body can’t cash. Oh yeah? Well you couldn’t find the positive side of a free lunch. Really? I think you’re just a self-absorbed whiner who never intends to get anything of value done and then points the finger of blame at everything but yourself. You bastard! Who are you to judge me? If I listened to you I’d never accomplish anything because you write failure on it before the first step is taken. Well that’s only because every step you take is destined to land in one big heaping, steaming pile of fetid failure.”

Then it gets really ugly and I refuse to speak to myself for a week or two.

Over the last few years my wife, Lisa, has taken pity on me. Either that or she has become so frustrated with my garden that isn’t that she takes it upon herself to put in her own garden. I’m not sure which motivation moves her to action, but in the end she somehow ends up with something that actually produces vegetables.

Lisa does gardening all wrong. I can’t point that out of course, but deep down we both know it. She sometimes plants seeds and genuinely doesn’t care if they come up or not. If they do, she rejoices. If not, c'est la vie. This attitude completely befuddles me, though I must grudgingly admit that I frequently admire her for it.

She never has a “big picture” plan for crop rotation. Wide beds are never considered. Seeds are scattered haphazardly on the ground. Some make it in, some don’t. She even uses our children to assist in planting (I have to find other things to do on the far side of the farm when this happens). But the truth remains that the beautiful, bountiful gardens of my mind remain securely locked in there somewhere. Lisa’s gardens somehow produce despite their obvious flaws and awkward management. How this can be I do not know nor understand. But they do and come harvest time I will be quite grateful for it.

I planned to have most of my seed trays done this week. They remain vacant in the garage as they do each year at this time. Lisa? She has little onion stems just beginning to sprout from the seeds she planted last week. This fall I will enjoy their sweet flavor on a hamburger made from beef that was raised on our own little farm. At that time I will be grateful, pleased and satisfied. Right now they are bitter reminders of my failures in agronomy and bring home the painful realization that my annual stint as a master gardener is over for another nine months.