All market vegetables suffer abuse, but none more than a radish. It’s a wonder they’re eaten at all, given the quality of supermarket offerings, particularly those two-tone golf balls in perforated plastic bags next to the carrots, celery and collards. Some as yet unsung minimum wage produce genius might even put in a row of radicchios as a political statement; myself, I would use young Irish potatoes massed for a pebbly purple accent next to the Romaine.
Four and three weekends ago a friend planted red-top radishes in the tub beds, and they’re flourishing in this cool, bright November light. Thinning gives nice spicy seedlings, froth for any savory dish. By the turn of the year I’ll have pretty little radishes you can throw into a slow roast or a pot of beans for a little kick. They’re also pretty. Let me know if you want some so I can show you how to pick it.
In November 2015, Hershey’s announced that it would swap out the artificial ingredient “vanillin” for the real deal in its kisses and chocolate bars. Vanilla extract climbed to $150, $200, then $275 a gallon. This March cyclone Enawo devastated Madagascar, the world’s leading producer of vanilla, and given the three- four-year life cycle of vanilla, extract spiked on March 7 to $700 a gallon.
How is it that vanilla, the most alluring essence in the world, lush and sensual, now is consigned as a byword for the bland and banal? Lagriffe wrote that vanilla “is not, strictly speaking, either a spice or a seasoning; it would seem more exact to call it a perfume,” which might go a long way in explaining its proverbial usage on country siren’s ears or ankles.
Vanilla—like chocolate—comes from Central America and is the only member of the orchid family—which some maintain is the largest plant family in the world—that is widely used as a foodstuff. The main species harvested for vanilla is Vanilla planifolia, a vine that can grow up to thirty feet long. The flowers are naturally pollinated by native bees or by hummingbirds, none of which—unlike the plant itself—have flourished outside of Mesoamerica, but in 1841 a simple and efficient artificial hand-pollination method using a beveled sliver of bamboo was developed by a 12-year-old slave named Edmond Albius on Réunion that is still used.
The fruit—a seed capsule—if left on the plant ripens and opens at the end (it’s here that I mention the root of ‘vanilla’ is ‘vagina’); as it dries, the fruits take on a diamond-dusted appearance, which the French—who have all these chic names for everything—call givre (hoarfrost). It then releases the distinctive vanilla smell. The fruit contains tiny black seeds, and in dishes prepared with whole natural vanilla, particularly ice cream, these seeds are recognizable as black specks, but both the pod and the seeds are used in cooking.
Mexican vanilla is still the most intense and robust, but closer to home, when buying vanilla extract in the store examine the label and don’t purchase any with ‘vanillin’ on the label. For many cooks—me included—vanilla is an important addition to almost any cake or cookie, and while you might be tempted to serve hot chocolate or cider with a cinnamon stick, try serving cups with a piece of vanilla bean.
No matter which gutter of the global warming argument you trickle down, barring an asteroid impact—I think we have a 7-year window for those—we’re not likely to see anything drastic in the next century, so don’t let the likelihood that your great-grandchildren can’t grow roses keep you from telling them that you did. Keep a garden notebook, if only by writing on a funeral home/insurance company/alumni organization wall calendar when you plant a bulb, move a shrub or sow your greens, the date of a late frost and of course the first ripe tomato. Do not neglect to include such enriching details as when Heather drove her three-wheeler all over Sally Jane’s daylily bed as well as accounts or video of the mayhem and its consequences. Start today.
At any given time in your life you’re bound to utter an idle wish aloud only to find it filled in abundance. Such was the case when in December I issued an appeal for abandoned or discarded seasonal florals—particularly poinsettias, though paper whites were involved as well—in hopes of a rescue operation ending with my resurrecting these insanely stressed and failing plants to life and color.
The donated poinsettias, a legion, were placed in a topless wooden box against the back wall of my south-facing garden. Our record-setting warm winter required only a few occasions when they had to be covered, but by mid-March while still rich with color they had begun to tatter. By then, occupied with the main beds and not really that invested in the poinsettias at all, I let them languish and decay, not even covering them when we had a late cold spell. I opened a new bed on the north, and further neglected the poinsettias while I busied myself with other chores. The first week of April, I took all the pots of poinsettias out, had to throw two dead ones away, two of the big four-plants-to-a-pot, but I’d found the smaller pots of plants had put out new growth on the stalks that still had some red leaves. After a final trimming to remove the last vestiges of deadwood, I planted the remaining poinsettias, some dozen and more, all in the strongest sun available.
Throughout the summer they thrived, putting out lush, vigorous growth. Poinsettias are known for their colored bracts, which are leaves, not flower petals; the actual flowers of a poinsettia are so insignificant that they don’t even attract pollinators. The plant itself (Euphorbia pulcherrima for those of you who might wonder) is a shrub—mine averaged about 3-4 feet—bearing dark green dentate leaves. The stems of the leaves and often the ribs, depending on the coloring of the bracts, is anywhere from a rich gold to a ruby red. Even without the holiday coloring, poinsettias are pretty plants, and they filled in the blank spots between the coleus, peppers and cacti with authority.
Yes, I knew that poinsettias require two autumn months of dark nights and sunny days to develop color, and I’d been told that incidental night light from passing cars or a street light would hamper coloring. Sill I planted these on one of the busiest corners in Belhaven, and almost to the day on the fall equinox glaring LED lights were installed on a pole not 20 yards up the hill. I expected nothing in the way of color at all, not even the faintest blush on any top leaf, so when I walked to the garden today in a warm, lazy autumn rain and found leaves of harlequin scarlet, my heart took a turn, and I began to smile.
We’ll likely get a withering frost soon, but I’ve learned to find comfort in small victories. Remember me after Christmas.