Grass Is a Weed

Recently, after much diligent re-seeding and weeding and aerating and fertilizing and poisoning of moles, a home on my block has achieved that glossy, green suburban dream: the perfect grass lawn.

Once merely a well-tended expanse of mostly-nice grass punctuated with occasional patches of persistent clover, this year, through an impressive show of sheer gardening force, my neighbor's back yard has been transformed into a smooth, uniform carpet of pure golf-course green worthy of feature in a home and garden magazine. Sure, we may share a rusty chainlink fence that's a little past its prime. But my neighbor's lawn? This lawn is the stuff of fertilizer advertising poetry. This lawn is an achievement.

The other day I was having a pleasant conversation with the very amiable neighbor who created this phenomenal lawn over our shared rusty fence — about our perennial plans to Do Something about said aging fence, about our childrens' schools, about When To Plant Tomatoes. And my neighbor with the newly perfect lawn — who has always admired my hosta beds, my lilies, my decorative herbs, my productive vegetable plot, and the nearly flawless zoysia lawn in front of my home — may have — may have — made a good-natured joke about my own back yard's anarchic descent into riots of wild violets and wild strawberries.

I laughed, and wasn't offended. But what I didn't tell my neighbor with the perfect lawn is that I like my yard this way.

In my front yard, I keep truce with my suburban community's traditional standards by growing a Good Lawn. A smooth, square, carpet lawn. A lawn that old ladies smile at and neighborhood children can't resist playing soccer on.

But in my back yard, I welcome the violets, and the clover, because I welcome the bees that come to visit those plants, and stay to pollinate my squash and tomatoes. I welcome the wild strawberries, because I welcome the swooping cardinal's red flash and the mournful call of the dove. I welcome the wild plantain because I welcome the rabbits eating that instead of my lilies, and I welcome the wild garlic because I eat it myself.

I welcome the two-foot garter snake, with its candy-bright stripes, that sets up quiet residence in my pesticide-free yard every spring, keeping mice and rats and rabbits in check. I welcome the box turtle that showed up last year, thrilling my son who had never seen a turtle before outside of a glass cage at the zoo, and the crickets that sing under the shelter of violet and strawberry leaves, and the fireflies that light up the night every June, and the butterflies.

I have my own idea of the perfect lawn, and my back yard comes pretty close. And though I truly admire my neighbor's lovely green grass, he can keep it. I can't help but prefer my own little field of wild things.

On Growing Basil

It seems to me that sweet basil is a sort of gateway herb for pre-gardeners. Many people I know who have never touched a tomato or squash plant in their lives and shudder slightly at the idea of deliberately covering their hands in dirt have nevertheless confessed to me at some point a secret desire to grow their own sweet basil.

And who can blame them? Though it's common knowledge among cooks that nearly all culinary herbs taste best when fresh picked, many common kitchen standbys, like rosemary, or thyme, retain a fair amount of their original flavor in dried form. But dried basil tastes nothing like fresh basil. Drying seems to transform basil into an entirely different herb.

And what with a meager plastic packet of chilled "fresh" basil leaves costing about as much at the grocery store as a live potted basil plant (and much more than an entire packet of basil seeds), if fresh basil is a regular guest at your dinner table, the economic argument for attempting to grow your own at home is practically unassailable.

With that in mind, I'm happy to offer a few quick tips for aspiring basil plant tenders. A warning, though: if your experience with this gateway herb goes well, before you know it, you'll be trying chives and oregano. 

Tips on Growing Sweet Basil:

First, make sure you are picking the kind of basil you want: Sweet Basil is the kind generally used in classic Italian dishes, and has a sweet flavor and an aroma reminiscent of cloves. The varieties of basil used in Asian cuisine, including Thai Basil and lemon basil, have a more astringent, less sweet flavor, and can be quite citrusy.

The broad-leaved, bright green culinary basil you most often see in American grocery stores is Genovese Sweet Basil.

It has been my experience that basil grows much larger in the ground than in a container, but you can certainly get a healthy crop of leaves for a container plant if you take the right steps. Make sure you select a pot that truly large enough for your plant, and be prepared to transplant your basil plant to a larger container at least once during the growing season. A basil plant that is 4-5 inches high will do fine in a pot that contains about a gallon of soil; however, once a basil plant is 8-10 inches, it will need a container with a volume of at least 2-3 gallons.

If you are planning to grow your basil in a container, make absolutely sure you get your plant enough light. Ideally, your plant should live outside for at least a few hours a day. A sunny patio or balcony will do just fine.

If your basil plant will live indoors, place it near your sunniest window, and turn it often to make sure all of its leaves get exposed to the sun. For best results, you may need to improve the plant's access to light by by placing a bright indoor lamp near the pot.

If you will be planting your basil directly into the ground, select a spot with good drainage that gets at least 6 hours of good, strong sunlight -- the sunnier, the better. Sweet Basil in particular is is a Mediterranean cultivar that prefers warm weather, so make sure to wait to plant your basil until all danger of nighttime frost has passed, and the soil outside is quite warm. In Missouri, this generally means planting in May.

When your basil plant begins to produce flower buds, pinch them off.

I am serious about this. You may be curious about what the flowers look like (I will tell you: they are pretty). You may feel like pinching off flower buds is being mean to your plant. (Suck it up. You're planning to eat this plant, remember?) If you really want a nice crop of fresh shiny basil leaves, do what I say: pick off the buds. Preferably before they even start to bloom.

As soon as a basil plant starts producing flowers, it will put all of its energy into making huge, foot-long spikes of flowers, and then seeds. It will stop producing new leaves. The plant will grow rangy and stringy and the leaves that remain will start to lose flavor.

But if you pinch off the buds, your basil will produce whole new stalks full of leaves in an attempt to start over with the reproduction business, making a stronger, bushier, tastier plant. At the very end of the summer, you can let the plant flower for show if you like (or to create basil seeds you can save for replanting). The flowers are edible, and so are the basil seeds. 

If you find yourself with a bumper crop of basil at the end of the year, just before the first frost, I recommend you make pesto. Or, alternatively, you can chop fresh, washed basil leaves coarsely in a food processor, press them into an ice cube tray, freeze them, and then store the cubes in a freezer-safe plastic bag, to be used whenever you want to add a hint of summer flavor to your food.

Preparing Garden Beds for Spring: The Tall Tomato Secret

Many of my neighbors have asked me what my secret is for growing the six-foot-tall, four-foot wide tomato plants that have adorned my yard every summer since I moved into this house. My street's resident Chief Plant Lady (whose bed of stately irises yearly ignites the envy of every flower-growing soul in a three block radius) once haughtily accused me — in public, no less — of "Dousing them Juliets in syn-thetic fertilizer. Hmph."

I've always said there's no secret, really: I choose healthy seedlings; I plant my tomatoes in the sunniest spot in my yard (which, fortuitously, happens to also be the place where a French drain that carries rain water away from my foundation empties); I plant in a raised bed, which improves drainage; I use sturdy tomato cages to prevent wind damage, and I check my plants frequently for insect pests, which I remove by hand.

That's it, really. That's the basis of my Secret Formula for Growing Really Huge Tomato Plants That Make Mild-Mannered Neighborhood Plant Ladies Snark at Me in Public.

But, there is one special ingredient I often neglect to mention that may by giving me a bit of an edge over my less lucky neighbors when it comes to the successful supersizing of Solanum lycopersicum .

What is this secret, special ingredient that I have begun to suspect may well hold the key to my unprecedented tomato success?

Burlap.

Seriously. Burlap.



Every spring, when I prepare my garden bed, after adding whatever organic soil amendments I think I may need (like compost, for example), I cover each of my beds entirely with burlap. On top of the burlap, I generally add a one inch layer of hardwood mulch.

I tried this the first year I built my garden beds at this house, almost entirely on a whim. I was looking for something to help me suppress weeds in my vegetable garden, because I'm lazy weeder. But I didn't like the idea of using black fabric weed blocker, as this is generally made out of plastic. I saw some rolls of burlap for sale one day in the garden section of my hardware store, and thought, "Hey! That's not plastic!" And I bought it.

Was it a coincidence that that summer I grew the largest tomato plant I had ever personally seen?

How many tomato plants are in this picture? Oh, just one. ONE.

Burlap is made of jute, which is a natural vegetable fiber, and therefore totally biodegradable. This makes it great as an all-natural weed suppressant.

But another benefit to covering my garden with burlap, as far as tomatoes are concerned, is that the thick fabric fibers actually insulate the soil, warming it to a higher temperature. Tomato plants prefer warm soil, and while many gardeners recommend pre-warming your garden beds with black plastic to create ideal conditions for tomatoes (because the color black absorbs sunlight so well), I've found that a layer of burlap topped with wood mulch works rather well to keep the soil warm despite its lighter color.

Also, the jute fiber used for making burlap cloth is acidic, with a pH around 6 or so (7 is neutral). And tomato plants prefer acidic soil. I'm no chemist, so what I'm about to say is pure speculation. But I think that as burlap breaks down, it probably dumps a nice dose of natural acids into the soil. The burlap covering I lay out each spring biodegrades quickly enough that it's almost completely invisible by September. So I leave it in the soil, where I assume nutrients from decomposing jute fibers will continue to do my tomato plants good the following spring.

So, if you're looking for the secret to tomato success, I'd recommend giving burlap a try this year.

If nothing else, it will cut down on your weeds.

Starting Seeds Indoors: Some Tips for Beginners

This is my third consecutive year starting at least some of my vegetable garden seeds indoors, and I anticipate (knock on wood) that this year will be my most successful yet. It may seem like a fairly simple thing to start your own garden plants from seed — I certainly thought, the first year I tried it, that starting plants indoors would be far simpler than it turned out to be. But I've since discovered that growing nursery-quality plants from a packet of seeds requires a fair bit more than water, some soil and a windowsill.

Having learned from my previous mistakes, I have some basic tips to share with fellow gardeners who would like to experiment with starting seeds indoors.

Tip #1: Plants Need Light.

And now, all those of you who have ever successfully kept any green thing alive (but have not tried before to start seeds) are saying out loud to your computer screen, "Thank you, Captain Obvious."

Of course you already know that plants need light. I knew, the first year I tried to start seedlings, that plants needed light.

Well, you know that humans need food, too, don't you? But think, for a moment, about the difference between feeding a fully-grown human and feeding a baby human, and may start to understand a bit better why I made this very obvious fact Tip #1.

All plants need light, but in order to get the best start in life, baby plants need a specific kind of light, and a lot of it.

This means, friends, that I am sorry to disappoint you, but if you want to raise a whole garden's worth of healthy spinach sprouts and towering tomato plants from seed, your kitchen windowsill? That gets 4-6 hours of indirect winter light on a good day? Is not going to cut it.

It's not going to cut it even if you faithfully turn those little seedlings every day to try to keep them from leaning toward the light. It's not going to cut it even if you leave the light on in the kitchen for ten hours a day on purpose just for the plants. It's not going to cut it even if you move your little desk lamp over to your kitchen counter and sorta point in in the plants' direction. It's not.

How do I know this will not work? I've tried it.

Starting vegetable plants — especially sun-loving plants like peppers or tomatoes — on an ordinary windowsill will produce spindly, skinny, sickly seedlings. You may well get a few hearty souls that overcome their poor upbringing to become great garden producers after a fortuitous transplant to a happier, sunnier outdoor home. You may find one really sweet spot on that windowsill that gets just enough light to produce a few robust starts.

But mostly, you will spend a lot of time, effort and worry only to wind up with plants that look like they have rickets.

If you really, really want to get serious about starting your plants indoors, you need to provide your seedlings with a steady source of direct bright light for 10-14 hours a day. Lacking my own personal greenhouse, the best way that I have found to do this is to hang fluorescent shop lights directly above the shelf or table where I am starting my plants.

This is less of a hassle than it may sound. Fluorescent shop lights are not that expensive (you can find fixtures for $15-$30) easy to find (on the internet or at almost any hardware store), and easier than you might think to install (many come with plugs so you don't have to wire them into your ceiling, and they generally can be hung from just about anywhere by a chain). You do not have to purchase fancy expensive full-spectrum fluorescent bulbs to get good results — regular tubes will do.

I rigged my own plant shelf with three sets of shop lights and a timer last year for less than $100, and I am fairly certain it has already paid for itself in savings, because starting plants from seed is much, much less expensive than buying them at a nursery.

Tip #2: Plants Need Wind.

Note: I did not say air, although (again with the obvious!) of course plants need air. What I said is that plants need wind.

Think about this. When you plant a seed outside, from the day that seedling first pokes its furled green head above soil, it must deal with the almost constant presence of wind. Outdoor plants are constantly getting buffeted with moving air — and in the first month of its life, a seeding planted outdoors will almost certainly experience everything from the tickle of a slight breeze to the flattening force of a storm-force gale.

Indoors, what are your plants experiencing in the way of air movement? Maybe the slightest shift in air current from your floor vent or ceiling fan.

When seedlings grow in the absence of natural air movement, they fail to grow strong stems. So, if you start a plant in a sheltered environment indoors, and then move it out to the garden, and there is a thunderstorm in your neighborhood the very next day, what is likely to happen to that plant you just spent one or two months coddling in Windless Land? A fatally snapped stem.

Therefore, when raising seedlings indoors, you must take a little time each day (or at least every couple of days) to be the wind for them. You can blow on them, or fan them with a piece of paper. It only takes a few minutes, and I generally do it when I'm already doing something else with the plants, like watering.

Do it hard. Don't be a wind wuss. Make your little tiny plants shake and shiver. You're not being mean. You're building character.

Tip #3 Plants Need Water, But Not Too Much Water.

Many seed packets will oh-so-helpfully recommend that, should you attempt to start the seeds within in an indoor environment, after you have planted said seeds in an appropriate soil medium at an appropriate depth, you should take care to keep the container in which said seeds have been started evenly moist.

Okay, but what the heck does evenly moist mean?

This is actually tricky to explain, and it actually depends a lot on the type of seed. If you're just getting started at this indoor seed starting thing, it may actually take you years of trial and error (or some seriously good advice from an expert gardener) to figure out the optimum amount of moisture for sprouting various sorts of seeds. I am still working on it myself. (It's a good thing seed packets are so cheap.)

But basically, what you really don't want to do is flood a container with tons of water right after you've planted a seed. For one thing, you might actually cause a small, dry seed that hasn't put down roots yet to shift its place in your container, and your plant that you so carefully placed right in the center of your pot might wind up sprouting right at the edge. Overwatering can also lead to fungus problems, or prevent your seed from getting enough air to successfully sprout.

I have found that the easiest way, for me, to keep seedling pots "evenly moist" for the first few weeks after planting is to water them with a spray bottle instead of a watering can. Just spray your little pots with a light mist until the soil looks dark and damp (but not flooded).

Tip #4: A Pot Can Be Almost Anything Pot-Shaped, as Long as It Has Holes.

So, the first year I tried to start a bunch of plants from seed — the year I foolishly, foolishly ignored all the sage advice I had read on the internets and tried to start an entire garden on a few totally inadequate windowsills, I bought about 50 or 60 fancy eco-friendly biodegradable peat starter pots.

Do you know what happens with peat pots? If you haven't used them before, let me explain. They let your soil dry out. Like, ridiculously quickly. If you get them too wet — especially unevenly wet, like you might, if, say, you were watering tiny pots withjust-planted seeds in them from the bottom instead of the top by letting them soak in a little shallow bath of water, like all the gardening websites say you are supposed to — they sometimes fall apart.

And then when you tear the bottoms out of your peat pots and plant them directly in soil without even bothering to pull your plants out, like you are supposed to? The peat pots are supposed to biodegrade and let your plants spread their roots out through their sides. But, sometimes? They don't. In fact there was once a poor little catnip plant I started in a peat pot that I transplanted into a nice big outdoor plastic pot. Said little plant struggled and struggled and failed to grow like its fellow mint family brethren for an entire growing season. And when I pulled that plant out of its big plastic pot in the fall? The peat pot was still there. As intact as the day I had planted it. And the plant was entirely rootbound. Even though I had pulled out the bottom of the peat pot to give the roots space.

The next year I discovered that #5 plastic food containers — like little single-serving yogurt cups, sour cream tubs, novelty soda cups, etc. — actually make pretty awesome little growing containers if you wash them well and poke plenty of holes in the bottom. And unlike those uber-cheap mystery plastic pots you often get plants in at a nursery, they can be reused from year to year for at least three or four years before they wear out.

So now I just save food containers all year for starting my plants in. It's eco-friendly (because I'm reusing things that might otherwise have been thrown away) and it costs me nothing.

If you'd like more tips on starting plants indoors, leave your questions in the comments, and I'll try to answer them in a future post!

How to Get Your Gardening Fix in Winter

December: For Christmas, ask your husband for a book about deadly poisonous plants. (Be sure to insist that you have no plans to actually poison him using knowledge gained from said book. This is crucial.)




Decide to be kind to husband by not growing poisonous plants.

At least, not many.

Obsessively tend to the few indoor plants you have managed to cram into the very few spots of your home that feature decent winter sunlight exposure.

Research optimal local planting times for frost-hardy salad greens.

Read seed catalogs.

January: Pester owners of local garden shops and nurseries by repeatedly asking when their organic heirloom locally-grown seed shipments will arrive.

Create planting time spreadsheets and detailed hand-drawn garden plans which you know you will probably totally ignore at planting time.



Plot seed exchange parties with well-connected foodie gardener friends.

Buy sort-of-organic, NOT heirloom, NOT locally-grown seeds when they show up at the hardware store.

Feel slightly guilty.

Assuage guilt by planning an expansion of your herb garden for more plants, grown from locally-grown organic heirloom seeds, promise to husband to stop applying Moore's Law to garden plots notwithstanding.

Collect food-safe plastic containers to reuse as pots on your indoor light shelf (because yes, you have an indoor light shelf on which to start vegetable plants from seed, because yes, when it comes to tasty homegrown vegetables you are just that hardcore).

Cheapskate Chic Green Lifestyle Tip: Yogurt cups in #5 plastic convert
quickly to seedling-sized pots with the proper application of an ice pick.

During the last weekend of the month, plant your heartiest early greens indoors for later transplant.



February: Grow things! Green things! Edible things! In your basement! Because you are now officially The Type of Person Who Grows Things in Her Basement.

Mmmmm. Lettucey.

Did You Miss Me? Um, Is This Thing Still On?

I have discovered the the problem with blogging about vegetable gardening past the month of, oh, say, July, is that near harvest time, one becomes so busy with the actual gardening that it becomes more and more difficult to find any time for writing about gardening.

Ahem.

That said, this year, at the urging of tens of loyal readers, I have made a resolution to resurrect this little experiment of a gardening blog, and be much more faithful about posting to it.

And if you're wondering what an amateur Midwestern gardener possibly have to write about her vegetable garden in this sort of weather?




Then you, my friend, have not yet been initiated into the club of The Serious Gardening Addict.



Consider this your invitation.

The Season of Summer Squash

July has been the Month of Summer Squash at this household.


From four low, bushy little plants in my backyard, a steady stream of creamy-fleshed, golden-yellow crookneck squash has flowed into my kitchen.


I have made pasta primavera with broccoli and summer squash. Honey-ginger stir-fry with fresh garden peas, green beans and squash. Saffron rice stuffed squash. Vegetable fajitas with squash. Squash quesadillas. A squash-and-potato fritatta.


I am beginning to eye a recipe for squash muffins.

Any pre-gardener who doubts her or she could grow enough fresh produce in a small suburban plot to actually get sick of it has never planted summer squash.

Or, for that matter, Juliet tomatoes.

Around here, August is looking to be the Month of the Juliet Tomatoes.


Why. yes, that is just one tomato plant. Why, yes that tomato plant is taller than I am. Yes, yes it is.

Garden Promise

Future tomato-basil salad.

Ditto.

Future sorrel soup.

Future pumpkin pie.

Future mojitos.

Future watermelon granitas.

Future absinthe. (All right, I'm kidding about that one. Maybe.)

Current side dish.

Wanted: Recipes Using Lemon Balm

Lemon balm is an invasive plant. I knew this when I planted it, which is why I put it in an herb bed that is physically divided from the rest of my yard. What I did not know was just how quickly it would grow. When I planted my little lemon balm seedling two summers ago, it was four inches high. It's gotten a bit bigger:




Now it is attempting to devour my garlic chives.




I see many cups of lemon balm tea in my future . . .

Why I Married Him

Because he's the sort of man who will build me something like this garden fence:

Anti-Rabbit Vegetable Theft Deterrent System 3.0

In addition to putting up with my tendency to apply Moore's law to vegetable plots:

My vegetable garden three summers ago.

All despite the fact that he does not like the taste of brussel sprouts, arugula or peas.

And Then There Was One

Remember how I told you all about the sad plight of my my poor beleaguered apple trees? How, out of four that were planted, three were attacked by both cedar-apple rust and fire blight and barely survived, one was killed by rabbits, and then a Mutant Ninja beaver crawled out of the storm sewer drain in my yard in the middle of the night to assassinate another?

Well, last night's severe thunderstorm with its attendant 70 mile an hour straight line winds took out another:


Perhaps this is a sign I am meant to plant cherries?

The Apple Tree Killer

Two summers ago, my husband and I planted four dwarf apple trees in a neat little row across our back fence.

We had just been forced to cut down an ailing elm tree, repeatedly damaged in recent ice storms, that had twice dropped large branches directly on the power line to our house. It seemed like the right thing to do to plant some new trees in its place.

But they had to be trees that were destined for shortness, so that they wouldn't grow into our power lines the same way the elm had. And I wanted something that would flower and smell nice, and not drop nuisance seeds all over our yard like our neighbors' silver maple, or our own towering sweetgum. And what a bonus it would be if our new trees also made something we could eat, right?

So apple trees seemed like a good fit.

What I did not understand at the time, as a novice fruit tree gardener, was that apple trees are susceptible to several airborne diseases, including cedar-apple rust and apple fire blight. Nor did I realize that many common surburban animals, like rabbits, raccoons, and squirrels, consider apple tree bark to be a delicious winter snack.

In other words, these were no plant-them-and-forget-them trees I'd ever so carelessly plopped into my back yard. These were veritable garden divas. Getting young apple saplings to healthy maturity requires some pretty serious vigilance, effort, and luck.

I've sprayed my little trees with diluted copper to kill cedar-apple fungus. I've cut off fire-blighted branches and leaves. I've sealed injured bark with wax, with tar; I've wrapped injured branches trunks in fabric and aluminum foil and plastic animal guards. I've checked them and rechecked them for infections and infestations and animal damage at least once a week since we planted them. For years.

The first summer, the trees were hit with cedar-apple rust; the first winter, we lost one that was girdled by a rabbit or squirrel, despite my efforts to protect its bark. The remaining three fought through a three-punch combo of bark damage, cedar-apple rust and a bout of fire blight to produce a few perfect fruits, which were promptly eaten, while still green, by squirrels.

This past winter, determined to protect my three remaining trees, I wrapped the bark thoroughly in special fabric designed for bark-wrapping and put sturdy plastic guards around each trunk.

But as the first hints of spring began to show in my yard, something was eating the tree bark above the guards. Stripping whole lower branches, in fact. I was perplexed. Rabbits can stretch themselves pretty high, but a rabbit standing on its hind legs would not have much leverage to rip off whole strips of bark. A squirrel could have done it, but in order to get the undersides of the branches, it would have had to be hanging upside-down as it chewed.

Then, one day, I came out to the yard to discover that one of my trees' trunks had been bitten (snapped? cut? sawed?) cleanly in half. No gnaw marks. Just a clean, almost surgically precise separation. The inverted crown still lay in the yard, many of its branches stripped clean.

What could have done this?

My husband was convinced it was the rabbits.

"It couldn't be rabbits," I insisted. "Rabbits don't bite trees with three-inch trunks in half."

"Maybe we have big rabbits," he said ominously.

For weeks, the mystery persisted. Had a raccoon or a stray cat climbed into the tree and snapped it with too much weight? Had a neighbor child broken our tree in the middle of a the night for a prank? That didn't seem likely. I know most of the kids in our neighborhood, and they're nice kids. Besides, as far as they're concerned, I'm the Cool Mom Who Lets Us Play Soccer in Her Front Yard and Always Has Lemonade. And you don't go snapping trees in the yard of the cool mom who gives out free lemonade.

Could it really have been the rabbits?

Might we have acquired . . . some Rabbits of Unusual Size?

Just the mental image of gigantic, sap-thirty rabbits devouring my trees had me eyeing even the most adorable lagomorphs bouncing through my yard with suspicion. Then, one day, as I was out adding mulch to my new raised vegetable garden bed, a neighbor I rarely see much of, one whose backyard just touches mine at the corner waved me over to talk. She said:

"You know there's a beaver living in your storm sewer, right? About this big?" She spread her arms to indicate a beaver roughly the size of a small human child. "Looooong tail on him."

"No," I said. "I didn't know that." No, in fact, I had not known that there was a beaver living miles and miles away from the nearest river, lake, creek or even crick in my suburban storm sewer. I had not known, and had I known, perhaps I might have taken appropriate action to contain said creature before it ate my apple tree.

I'm actually glad, though, that it turned out to be a Mutant Ninja Beaver eating my apple trees. Because before I knew the tree-killer was a beaver, I was really starting to develop a pretty strong streak of paranoid anti-rabbitism.

And I just wasn't comfortable with hating baby rabbits. Baby rabbits are ridiculously cute.

As for the beaver, well, you can't really hate a beaver that lives in a sewer. I mean, it's a beaver. In the sewer. That there is some pretty hardcore urban habitat reclamation action.

I did put a sturdy grate in front of the storm sewer drain in my yard, though. Sorry, Mr. Ninja Beaver — you'll have to use another exit from your secret underground lair from now on. I'm sure there's one that opens onto a park with lots of non-native invasive Japanese honeysuckle, just waiting for you to rip apart with your sharp, sharp teeth.

(What's next? Alligators? Maybe I need a stronger grate.)

Rome Was Not Built in a Day. But Your Vegetable Garden Could Be.

Here is my family's Earth Day project: We put in a second vegetable raised garden bed, the same size as our first one. We used the newspaper method, for speed's sake and because we are lazy. I've never tried the newspaper method before, and I'm starting a bit late, but we'll see how it goes. I already have a fully-functional raised bed dug the traditional way, so I intend to plant my more deeply-rooting plants (like tomatoes) in the existing bed, and put plants with a shallower root system in the new bed this year; by next year, the grass and newspaper beneath the new garden bed should have completely decomposed.

First we laid out our wooden border. Then we covered the sod beneath it with several layers of newspaper, and covered that with topsoil:



The new bed is the same size, shape and layout as the old bed. We're going to enclose both beds with the same style of chicken-wire-and-wood-frame fence we used last year, and put a rock mulch path in between them, using biodegradable corn-based landscape fabric beneath the gravel.


I'll have more pictures of the garden up soon. For now, more work while the sun shines!

The Beginnings of a Suburban Tomato Jungle

The Brandywine, Beefsteak and Juliet tomatoes I've been incubating in my basement on a homemade plant light shelf have grown so large their leaves are nearly brushing the fluorescent light; I'm going to have to adjust one of the shelves down to make room.



Three of these plants will go into my own home garden. Considering that in the past two summers I've grown tomatoes at this house, my plants have consistently passed the six foot mark before being weighed down with fruit, I won't really have room for more than three.

My first impenetrable tomato jungle grew so big I felt compelled to name it:
Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.

The surplus plants will be going to my neighbors, for free, with growing instructions. Three households near mine have already claimed a plant.

I figure, give a neighbor a tomato, and she'll eat salad for a day. Teach a neighbor to grow tomatoes, and within a year or two, she'll be trying to pawn her extra zucchini off on you, and you'll just have to start taking your own surplus fresh veggies to the food pantry. Which would not be a bad thing.

Do you have extra plants this year, from seedlings you started, or a flat you bought on sale? Before you try to find a place to cram them into your garden, compost them, or, ahem, leave them to languish next to the garage while you rather guiltily avoid looking at them because you can't bear to throw them out and yet cannot think of what to do with them, check and see whether any of your neighbors who don't currently garden might be willing to try growing a bit of fresh produce if they were given a plant and some basic gardening advice for free.

After all, it's hard to turn down free food.

A Child's Butterfly Garden

We inherited a few clumps of Autumn Joy sedum when we bought our house; the sedum, which is drought-tolerant, and bears clusters of tiny flowers that are very attractive to butterflies, blooms in the fall, when most other flowers are spent.

Last autumn we were treated to daily visits from six painted lady butterflies, who would cluster together on the sedum plants for much of the day. The butterflies grew so accustomed to our presence that my son and I could sit inches away from them, and watch them uncurl their slender proboscises to suck nectar out of the flowers.

My son, who had previously been wary of butterflies as part of a general disdain toward insects that fly (and who had, in fact, once, after a particularly unsettling visit to the Butterfly House, suffered for about two months from a terrible recurring nightmare about innocent caterpillars turning into pretty butterflies and then transforming once more into SOMETHING ELSE that was apparently too terrible for him to accurately describe) became so entranced by these painted ladies that he asked to check out a book on butterflies from the library.

And then he asked for another butterfly book, and another, and another. And pretty soon we were purchasing a brick-sized butterfly identification guide from the bookstore, and my four-year-old child was instructing me on migration ranges and caterpillar habitats, and learning to say things like Nymphalidae.

So, I am helping my son plant a butterfly garden in front of the house this year. Last fall, we dug out the bed and planted a mixed row of tulips, hyacinths and daffodils — easy, showy perennial flowers with an early spring bloom. We're starting butterfly weed and echinacea (both native Missouri plants) from seed in our basement mad gardeners' lab. And we recently visted Sugar Creek Gardens in Kirkwood to pick up some Aromatic Aster (another native flower).

Once we've passed the frost date, we'll be adding some plants that are edible for insects and humans, including parsley (which last year successfully attracted the spectacular Black Swallowtail to my vegetable garden), pansies and nasturtiums. And of course, Isaac's chamomile.

My Not-So-Secret Basement Garden Lab

Last year, I tried to grow tomatoes and herbs for my garden from seed by placing seedling pots on my sunniest windowsills.

It did not turn out well.

My tomatoes were leggy; my basil was floppy. Even though I kept nearby indoor lights on during the day, and turned the plants daily, my seedlings just weren't getting enough light.

Though fantasies of a greenhouse window in my kitchen (or an attached greenhouse installation over my patio that would also serve as a four-season sunroom and possess retractable blinds) have danced in my head ever since then, the more practical solution was of course to build a grow-shelf in my basement.

Where I will grow my precious mutant plant children.
It looks kind of spooky, doesn't it?

Anyway, it's not as complicated to build as it looks. The shelf itself is a simple pine storage contraption from Target with adjustable shelves. I've lined the shelves with styrofoam to protect the wood from moisture — the same styrofoam the shelf itself came packed in.

The lights are simple 2 ft fluorescent shop lights purchased from Home Depot; I paid a little extra to get super-efficient Energy Star models. My husband helped me wire the lights to a plug; some shop lights come with a plug wired already, though, so shop around for those if you're an electrophobic mad plant lab builder.

I've hung the lights on adjustable chains so that I can change their height as my plants grow, and I've made reflectors out of repurposed cardboard and aluminum foil to direct the light back toward the plants.

Then I put the whole thing on a power strip plugged into a ten dollar timer; this way I can have the lights come on at dawn without actually having to remember to go down and turn them on in the morning before I've had my caffeine.

Of course, you can buy yourself a fancy manufactured lighted plant stand on the internets if you want, but where's the fun in that?

DIY Recycled Seedling Pots

For months now, in anticipation of starting a large number of plants from seed for my garden this spring, I have been saving disposable polystyrene (#6 plastic) cups and containers from restaurants and grocery stores.

My local recycling pickup service does not accept polystyrene; a nearby drop-off recycling center used to accept #6 plastic, but recently stopped. So I now have little choice but to avoid all disposable polystyrene cups and packaging (difficult to do without avoiding restaurants and all packaged food), throw all of the polystyrene I collect in the trash, or find a new use for it.

For the moment, since I'll be needing fifty or more pots for the seedlings I plan to plant or give away, option three is working out nicely for me.




I've also saved a few clear #1 and #5 foodsafe plastic cups from the recycling bin, just for fun. I plan to use these in garden-based science projects with my son, so that he can see how plant roots grow.

Online retailers sell clear plastic planters for educators, orchid hobbyists and other gardeners who like to keep a watchful eye on soil moisture and the root development of their plants. My repurposes clear plastic pots cost me zero dollars, with zero in shipping and handling. I'm particularly fond of my grocery store's bulk food containers for this purpose; they're quite sturdy, and I imagine I'll be able to reuse them a number of times.

Beginnings

These tiny things are basil seeds.

Last year, in my garden, a seed just like this grew into a plant that was four feet tall. Its lush leaves turned into salads and pesto, seasoned sauces and garnished plates. When I finally stopped pinching its blooms to force it to fill out, and let it flower, its delicate blossoms so entranced the bees they attracted that they bumbled in a pleasant drunken dance, seeming oblivious to distractions, like falling water from a hose, or people sitting on a patio just inches away.

On a hot day, sweet basil scented my entire yard.

These are open-pollinated seeds from that plant. I don't know whether they'll breed true. I had other varieties of basil in my garden.

But I've planted eighteen of them anyway, in a recycled egg carton.

We'll see what they become.