Scenes from a Garden Chronicle: Act II

Taking stock of the situation, I can’t say the garden I’m looking at lives up to the grandiose visions of tidiness and bounty I envisioned back in May. The thick, fresh bed of seaweed I laid down has mostly receded into the earth. My early vigilance against the incursion of weeds waned a bit, and now a few strongholds have developed, likely housing some of the pests that seem to have found a happy home amidst the bramble. But all is not bleak. The beets have healthy tops, the cherry tomato plants keep churning out sweet drops like small factories, a few golden heirlooms hang heavy in the evening shade, even a couple of hearty buttercups haphazardly populate the grounds. Perhaps it’s unreasonable to expect to attain the standards established by the minds eye.

Things started out smooth as can be following the initial frost scare; the weather cooperated and the plants were fast out of the gate. By mid-June the zucchini was doing its best to turn the garden into a tropical rainforest and the winter squash was executing a tactful blitzkrieg on its neighbors. The seaweed, dry on top, juicy underneath, was keeping the weeds at bay while providing a steady diet for the cast. A healthy population of ladybugs and aphid lions kept the little nasties at bay.

The south side was a different story. It started out bad, and stayed bad, and maybe got worse, some might say ugly. Something needed to be done. You see, the hedge had a couple scrap red maples that went untended for the last several years, probably more. No big deal I thought, they’d provide a nice respite from the burning high summer sun. Wrong. Somehow, and I’m not sure how, these two were able to spread a thick, damp blanket on all of the carrots, lettuce, beets, peas, and cucumbers for the first half of the summer. They hung over the garden like two oppressive beasts. Action had to be taken, and it was. A chainsaw and a well placed fell narrowly missed obliterating the southwest district. Let there be light. Alas, this action was too late; the young ones had been abused for too long, rehabilitation was futile, the damage was permanent. Save the beets, which were able to pick up their skirts and make a dash for the finish line, ending up with healthy tops and sweet beet roots that, once roasted, were candy.

Once August rolled around the fate of the garden was pretty much sealed, for better or worse. As usual the zukes were prolific, maybe too much so. Their exuberant growth made it difficult to catch the fruit when they were ripe for the picking, resulting in behemoths with seeds like tic-tacs. The broccoli was harassed by meaty cabbageworms. What broccoli we did get was deliciously sweet and tender, unfortunately only one of the plants made it to the fall for a second fruiting. The buttercup, as previously stated, promised to produce a cellar of squash. However, like many times prior, the vine borers wreaked havoc, decimating the plants in no time at all. It was sad to see these robust and promising vines have their foundation wither away behind them; they had no chance. Only a few early birds made it to the table, yummy too. The watermelon was a success of sorts. We got fruit, and a blue ribbon form the Ag Fair, but they were not quite what I expected. In the spring I envisioned lumbering giants settled in the earth, unwilling to budge, ready to burst with nectar. The cute softballs, albeit sweet, came up a bit short. The cherry tomatoes, once they got started, didn’t stop, haven’t stopped. These too walked away with a blue ribbon. I love popping cherries as I assess the State of the Garden. The brandywine heirlooms were contenders for the title for my personal best in show, unfortunately they just never caught on. They did come up with a few rich red/purple fruit that were unmatched in depth of flavor and beauty. But the town champs were the bullyish hillbilly’s. Beautiful fruit, golden, delicious, and prolific. Unfortunately the green zebra’s never survived their early trauma, and barely gave a squeak before meekly withering away. The peppers did their thing but I couldn’t say they stood apart from their grocery store cousins. Maybe they’re just not fit for the north, or maybe it’s a bell pepper thing. Now only if the poblanos had a little Yankee blood. The rest of the cast was unremarkable, not making much of an impression. Perhaps they will not make it into next year’s play, we’ll see.

Epilogue: Standing in the garden on this fall day, I contemplate members of the cast that have succumbed to the march of time, recognizing the others will soon follow. Recalling the expectant hours spent sowing these young plants in the spring, I saw a bountiful harvest glowing in the late summer sun. Although this goal was ultimately achieved, the true satisfaction lay in the early summer mornings spent cultivating, tending, watering, and watching the garden grow. I guess you might say it is more about the journey than the destination. Now, the cast recedes into the ground, their final resting place. Like most lives, the end comes quietly.

Fade to black.

Simple Cucumber Salad

The few cukes that made it out of the garden were turned into a vibrant light salad that made the taste buds sing.

Ingredients:

3-4 medium cucumbers, peeled and seeded

1/2 Vidalia onion, grated or minced

1/3 cup rice wine vinegar

1/3 cup sugar

1 tbsp toasted sesame oil

2 tbsp chopped fresh mint

Salt/fresh pepper to taste

Dissolve sugar in oil/vinegar mixture, mix in remaining ingredients. Serve chilled.

Summer dinking

Definitions:

- noun: summer dink [sum-mer dink]

1. An unpalatable summer tourist
2. A conspicuous, deliberate tourist

- verb: summer dinking [sum-mer dink-ing]

1. The act of unknowingly displeasing a local population while on summer vacation
2. Participating in tourist-like activities (e.g., bus tours, moped rentals, etc…)

The last ferry slips out of Woods Hole just after 9:45 on a Friday night in August, bound for Vineyard Haven. Content on the hard, stained chair, my mind and eyes wander over the other folks along for the ride. As a child I’d often sit on the ferry and eye such passengers with barely concealed contempt, understanding they would be visiting my island, getting in the way, driving too slow, or too fast. Put simply, summer dinking.

I hearken back to 2 bumper stickers my mother had pasted on our slightly beat 80’s Chevy Blazer: “Native”, and “Who Cares?”. The slogans were emblazoned across an image of the island, and always generated strong emotions. I’m not sure why my mom chose to place both stickers on the car. Usually one or the other was used to make a statement, a stand. Native: ‘While visiting my island stay out of the way”. Who cares: “Get over yourself”. It really said something. So why did we have both? Was my mom claiming us superior to non-islanders? Or did she recognize the provincial hubris of the self-declared locals? At the time I thought she was conflicted, poor mom. But in retrospect, I think she had intent, a subtle balance in discord. Welcome to our island.

Association of place is no trifle thing, people take this stuff seriously. West Tisbury vs. Vineyard Haven, or the Island vs. the Cape, and even the Cape and Islands vs. the rest of the Massholes. And then of course it’s southern New England vs northern, or New England vs the rest of the country, culminating in what many would consider the grand poohbah, our country vs.theirs. Nationalism sure gets people going. In my recollections and reflections, I acknowledge, as perhaps I always have, the ignorance embedded in my childhood indulgence.

I’m jolted from my reverie by a PA announcement requesting the owner of a black Range Rover with New York plates to please return to the freight deck and turn off their car alarm, reminding me that the summer dink brand is not all guff. There’s something to be said of understanding place, or at least attempting to understand place, which is often glaringly absent from some visitors. For example, using one’s car horn for anything beside saying hello or avoiding another vehicle (Al?) generates immediate disdain. Or failing to acknowledge a fellow driver that has graciously pulled to the side of a single lane dirt road to allow one to pass will likely draw a curt rebuke. So yes, some of the nefarious tourist brands are deserved.

Now that my home has floated off-island, and I often make my way back across with other off-islanders to partake in what the Island offers, I ironically have become in the eyes of many, a dink. I’m no longer part of the club. Who cares?

Alas there’s dinks on both sides of the Sound.

Scenes From A Garden Chronicle: Act I

By Ryan Silva

Characters: Hillbilly, Green Zebra, Brandywine, Early Boy and Sweet 100 tomatoes, buttercup squash, Black Beauty zucchini, Sugar Baby watermelon, Sugar Daddy peas, Kentucky Wonder pole beans, Super Slice cucumbers, orange bell peppers, broccoli, beets, carrots, sweet basil, oregano, flat leaf parsley, and lemon thyme.

Setting: Old Silva Home Garden, Rogers Farm Road, Vineyard Haven, Massachusetts. Mothers Day weekend, 2007

Prologue:

As spring lumbers into this winter weary community, a dormant garden lies quiet, waiting. The unsown garden, a patch of earth, evokes the promise of a bright future, holding secrets that time will reveal. There will be challenges, and setbacks, but these will be met and overcome.

So as I contemplate this empty patch of dirt, I envision a flourishing garden community, nourished by bright island sun and a rich soil built over 3 generations. I see tall, strong plants laden with bright, colorful fruit glowing in the late summer sun. This hope for the future is important. For now, the earth is bare.

Act I: Spring

Scene I: The Opening

This year the unusually bright spring overcame my prudent sense of Yankee caution. The warm, sunny days goaded my eagerness to harness every growing day of the new season. Planting in the volatile island spring, when blankets of cold damp fog can descend for weeks, suffocating and chilling fragile seedlings that lay exposed in the raw earth, is a bit risky. But the lure of jumping into the future, with a nudge from the fine spring weather, overcame.

So the plan, developed during cold days in April, was put into motion. The earth was turned, spilling rich black soil from the ground. Raking down the soil, removing bits of wood and stones, or old plastic toys buried long ago, it was piled into rows. There will be 6 squash mounds and about 100 ft. of rows. The garden is exposed and waiting.

Scene II: A Summer Blanket

Nor’easters that roll the shores leave behind a mélange of seaweeds: sea lettuce, bladderwrack, sargassum, eel grass, Irish sea moss, to name a few. Enlisting the help of my unsuspecting and soon to be skeptical wife, we loaded up the back of the truck….twice. A bit of rinsing and spreading and the mulch was ready. Oh the nourishment the garden will receive as this blanket slowly rots over the coming months, all the while suppressing the rampant growth of pesky weeds.

Scene III: Setting the Table

Heather Gardens on Mothers Day weekend was buzzing with eager patrons seizing the new season. With my trusty field hands, we perused the aisles for what will become the cast of characters for this year’s garden. Some may raise their nose at nursery plants, a weekend warrior short-cut they say. Alas, this is what will populate the garden this year. But a good nursery, and a healthy selection, provides a happy and diverse family.

We started out slow. We meandered down the outdoor aisles lined mostly with ornamental plants, looking for the corner of the nursery that would hold our future bounty. Thankfully the line-up was full, and our cast of characters was not pre-determined by a limited selection. Herbs came first, and the 6-packs of basil, parsley, oregano, and thyme went on the dolley. So far so good. Under such conditions, one must temper the urge to pile the cart high with each variety of plant that promises a bright future. This is where the plan becomes critical. So we chose wisely, weighing our options and assessing the ups and downs of each variety, each plant, that went onto our cart. Finally happy, and slightly worn down, we hauled our family off to their new home.

Scene IV: A New Home

The garden lay waiting. Handy garden assistants sift the earth to make a happy clean home for the carrots and beets, I gently place pea and bean seeds in shallow graves, where they will resurrect soon, hopefully. Watermelon, this year's wildcard, was planted 2 to a hill. The winter squash and zucchini went 3 to a hill. Clearly my cucurbit ambitions run high. Overcrowding looms.

Another smug strategy devised during the early, dark days of spring, was where the plants would be placed. Pesky runt maples have sprouted up and out of the hedge that lines the south side of the garden, throwing shade on that southern half of the garden. Shade tolerant items, lettuce, peas, herbs and the like, would lay there. The sun would be reserved for the hungry tomatoes, melon, squashes, broccoli and peppers. The sun was still high, the plants were snug, the future looked bright.

Scene V: A Spring Chill

Yankee cynicism is well deserved. Before long, plastic cups sprouted in the garden, housing the gentle seedlings from a coming cold snap. The call was for frost, a lethal enemy to the exposed babes in their new home.

As the sun sets, a clear, cold night looms.

Smokin' blues

My opinion of bluefish has come full circle. As a child, I liked it. Common ingredients included a fillet of bluefish broiled with butter, salt, pepper, lemon and a summer night. Then I grew up, and I learned that bluefish was too strong, an oily fish fit only for sport and lobster pot bait. When it was clear blues were unfit for the table, and that all distinguishing palates knew so, I joined the masses in disparaging this “fishy” fish. I became well versed in pawning blues off on unwitting family members or friends, or just letting them swim away. Well, the tide on the bluefish has turned. I have suppressed my taste for the blues too long. I like bluefish. Sure it’s got flavor. So? I don’t adhere to the philosophy that mild fish makes good fish. Before I get ahead of myself and declare bluefish supreme, let me aver it’s a fickle fish. It can be too strong, or have an unappealing texture, but a discerning consumer knows how to avoid these pitfalls. It’s really quite simple; fresh and small. I stay away from the dogs, or fish that have been marinating in bluefish juice for a couple days. So now that I’ve rescinded my disdain for this feisty fish, I anticipate their arrival with more than sport in mind. I compare the flesh of a bluefish with another oft maligned fish, the Atlantic mackerel, likely a future discussion. Both have a similar flavor, perhaps best described as rich. But this depth, if prepared properly, does not suffocate or pollute the palate, but warms the buds before moving on, preferably ushered along by an iced pilsner or a chilled sauv blanc.

I do admit that my bluefish repertoire is relatively limited. In fact, my repertoire in general is perhaps a bit stale. I have my stand-bye recipes/methods that do not fail, but my culinary interest is rooted in exploring flavor delivered by process. This forum will add incentive to step beyond the sidelines, look for new ways to add flavor to nature’s table.

Quite simply, making good food comes from two things; understanding flavor, and understanding proper preparation; pretty simple, yet certainly difficult, particularly the process part. So that’s where I’ll start, a classic preparation of bluefish. Smoking can be a tricky endeavor, and although I’ve had plenty of success smoking fish in the past using my own methods and recipes, I’m after a more thorough understanding of the smoking process. I’ve found a treasure for my cookbook library that will undoubtedly help me along; “Charcuterie, The Craft of Salting, Smoking, and Curing” by Ruhlman & Polcyn. Although it’s heroine tends to be the domesticated pig, and every imaginable way to utilize each part of little piggy, it details meat preservation processes in a detail I haven’t found elsewhere. One caveat, it makes poor bedtime reading material if you have a vegetarian wife. Hopefully a more comprehensive knowledge of the smoking process will improve what ends up cooling on the rack; a moist, smoky, tender filet of bluefish. Enter herbs, berries and the sea.

From scratch

The smoking process takes some forethought, you just can’t rush it.

Overnight brine (8-12 hours): The brine infuses flavor, inhibits bacteria growth during the smoking process, and improves moisture retention (buy the book!). Brine included ½ gallon water, ½ cup of brown sugar, ½ cup kosher salt, 10 or so crushed black peppercorns, 5-8 crushed juniper berries, couple dashes of garlic powder, and bay leaves.

Forming the pellicle (1-2 hours): Pat the fish dry, and place fish on wire racks to allow for moisture to evaporate and the pellicle to form. The pellicle is a tacky coat that sucks up the smoke flavor. If the racks can fit in the fridge this’ll keep the air moving and keep them cool. Lacking space, I placed the racks on the counter under an oscillating fan.

Fire in the hole (½ hour): Unfortunately temperature control is difficult with my electric water bullet smoker. Essentially it’s either on or off. The thermometer is a joke. I’m looking for 200-250 degrees; I probably get 150-350. Dried apple branches from the old apple tree in the back yard were sliced, using a saw, into ½ inch discs and saturated with water. The water pan was filled to about 80%, the smoker was turned “on” and things were on hold until the smoker got smoking.

Fish in the hole; take 1 (2½-3 hours): Traditionally, I slather the filets with a sweet gooey glaze before going into the oven, this time I didn’t. Keeping it simply classic,the fish went in naked. We’re starting from scratch mind you. Thought it would take about 1-2 hours. When I checked at about 1.25 hours there was a lot of moisture, too much moisture on the surface of the fish. Covered for another hour and still a lot of moisture, and no color. Things were not going well. Took out the racks, dumped the water (the moisture culprit), replaced racks, added a little wood, and waited another 3/4 hour…done. It was smoked, but the lower rack was cooked more than the top rack. The bottom rack had good color but was a bit dry. The top rack was moist but pale.

Fish in the hole; take 2 (2½ hours): For the second batch I only filled the water pan about 25%. This helped control moisture, unfortunately the heating unit had a hard time keeping the smoke piping. Overall, a more consistent final product; decent color and flavor.

Lessons learned: temperature control, moisture control.

Squid ink

Nighttime at the bulkhead in May attracts an odd bunch of folk. Most seem a bit rough around the edges; camouflage jackets, dirty jeans and old sneakers pervade dockside fashion. Although the bulkhead is dominated by scruffians, all sorts line the waters edge, most with a small pole and a bucket, hoping to fill them with Loligo squid. As long as you can follow a basic etiquette, everyone tends to get along; the crusty old school townies, preppy college kids, scrawny kids with mothers that watch on, others too. It’s all very democratic. So we aggregate along the bulkhead, flipping and jigging, drawn by the rich Nantucket Sound water that slides through the heavy pylons, bringing its early season bounty. It all starts as the water approaches 60 degrees, usually mid-May or so. When trawlers stack up in Nantucket Sound, you know the squid will start filtering into Edgartown harbor. I tend to try late evening hours. It always seems to be hit or miss, perhaps more miss than hit. In general, conversation tends to be light, especially when the squid aren’t around. There’s something distinctly depressing about the quiet that descends on a dock of squid fishermen when the squid are elsewhere. At such times, blank stares fall on the water, jigs hang limp, disturbed only by lackluster twitches. Patience is not a virtue of the squid fisherman. In such situations sporadic assertions attempt to explain the squid’s absence. Common excuses claim the tide is too strong, or too weak, or from the wrong direction, or there are unseen bass lurking in the shadows, out of sight, spooking the quarry. When the squid are biting, conversation is still quiet, but the mood is light, people are having fun. Each jig anticipates a hovering squid that might engulf the lure, promptly to be hauled from the water, squirting water and ink into the air in a futile attempt to escape.

Occasionally, tourists stroll down the dock following an overpriced meal, curiously peeking into the buckets. Some will inquire after the evening activity. They may get an engaged discourse on the schools of long fin that populate the harbor this time of year, or they might receive a shrug followed by a few undistinguished mumbles and averted eyes.

Loligo are a multipurpose harvest. In addition to the pure entertainment value, they prove delectable morsels for both the table and for other fish as bait. Personally, my motivation is strictly for table fare. Unless of course I hit them just right, and can use the surplus as doormat candy. Speaking of which, I need to figure out that Hawaiian dried squid candy recipe/process. So far, the squid season has been tough. I’ve visited the docks several times with no luck. It could be timing, or it could be the year, so it goes (Vonnegut, r.i.p.). The lonely squid that did decide to inhale my jig provided a delicious reminder of why I do visit the docks at night. Alas, the season progresses, and it may be time to wait for the exodus that will herald the fall, a final crack before the water turns cold. A new tactic may be in order. Time to step away from the bulkhead and leave the jig in the shed. I need results. Never seen anyone use one, but it should work; perhaps very well. Stay tuned.

Single Squid Taster

Crispy outside, chewy inside; sweet and salty, simple and absolutely delicious.

1 squid (preferably more than 1, that’s all I caught)

¼ cup all purpose flour

Oil to fry (¼ inch depth)

¼ tsp kosher salt (just a light dusting)

Preparation: Fresh squid has a very clean, sweet flavor. To ensure flavor and texture, I like to put them on ice when they’re pulled from the sea (ice isn’t critical), and clean them when I get home. When cleaned squid is stored in the refrigerator, ensure there is no free moisture in the container, I usually wrap in moist paper towels.

Cleaning squid is easy, albeit a bit tedious if you have many. Run finger down the pen (aka quill). Remove head then pen, taking with it as much of the insides as possible. Strip the wings (the meat is tough) and the skin. Invert the mantle and remove remaining insides. Cut the tentacles off just in front of the eyes, remove beak.

Cut the mantle into ¼ inch rings. Dust rings and tentacles with flour, fry in oil for 1 minute (maybe 2) at high heat, turning once. Drain on paper towel, hit immediately with a splash of salt (kosher or sea). No sauce or accompaniment needed, perhaps a squirt of lemon.

sweetwater

An osprey broods high in a bare oak, watching and waiting, stark against the gray April sky. I disrupt the utterly placid pond as I wade in, alone, wielding a light pole adorned with a small, shiny brass spoon, looking, like the osprey, for an unwary trout. It is late in the day and the light will soon fade, particularly given the heavy blanket of clouds hanging over the island, occasionally releasing showers of rain. I wade through what once were the leaves of past summers but have long since decayed, and now lay undistinguished on the pond’s bottom, a thick layer of mud. It’s been a while since I last visited the pond, but it doesn’t take long to nestle into the gentle undulations of the shoreline, the landmark stones and overhanging trees.

Slowly I pick my way along the shore, sometimes throwing the small brass spoon ahead, sometimes behind, whichever way my eyes infer a lurking dance partner. With each cast the spoon lands with a plop. Usually I let it settle before starting the steady, brisk retrieve. At first my motions are stiff, slightly clumsy, a result of my winter hibernation. The first couple strikes take me by surprise, jolting me from my reverie. My reaction is slow, uncoordinated and too strong. The line is left holding only the weight of the small spoon. The osprey watches on, perhaps amused. But slowly the rhythm of the cast and retrieve recall the memory of motion. And as my mind wanders over the reaches of the shore, my fingers are listening to the line as it swims through the water, intent.

Eventually I get a tug that turns into a dance, and after some acrobatics and writhing flashes beneath the pond’s quiet surface, a rainbow trout, about 16 inches in length, sidles alongside, looking able as evening fare. As I continue on, I look across the pond at where I will throw my final cast before heading home, the point between Pickerel Cove and Bass Rock. I still have a ways to go. I pick up the pace, past Gram’s old house, once so alive but now quiet, heading south along the eastern shore. I hook another fish just before Focus near the rock pile that dove deep and true, telling me this was no trout. It felt good to wrestle one of the pond's true residents, a childhood friend I had played with often. Gingerly I remove the hooks from the pickerel’s mouth, avoiding its sharp teeth, and return it to the black sweetwater from which it came.

With anticipation built on memories I move into Pickerel Cove. The pond is quiet, the spoon flutters through the water, glittering, leaving me to my contemplations. With fading light I reach my destination, casting beneath the large oaks that have long embraced this cove. The osprey sweeps across the pond, a dying, struggling trout gripped tightly in it’s talons, and settles high in a tree above. A single, piercing scream echoes across the evening pond. Patiently, the pond resumes it's silence.

Grilled whole rainbow trout (with crushed citrus/herb dressing)

I occasionally enjoy trout, particularly ones I’ve caught. It has the distinct sweetwater flavor, but the flesh is a bit richer than the other pond denizens. Trout may be filleted, but this fish is well suited to being cooked whole; whether on the grill, in the oven or in the pan.

This recipe is simple, quick, healthy, and good. Clean the trout; scale it, remove the head, fins, tales, and innards. Open the cavity just enough to remove the innards, this will ease stuffing.

Ingredients:

2 whole cleaned trout, about 1 lb each

1 lemon, chopped

tablespoon oregano (or thyme, tarragon or other such herb)

1 large clove garlic

salt/pepper to taste

3 tbs EVOO

Preheat grill to approximately 400 deg. Combine lemon, herb, garlic, salt/pepper, EVOO in bowl, crushing ingredients together. Stuff trout cavity with mixture. Season outside of trout with EVOO, salt, and pepper. Grill on each side for approximately 5 minutes, or until done. Serve with a spritz of lemon.

Accompaniment: grilled spring asparagus, hefeweizen beer.

New England

Historically I’ve thrown April to the dogs, placing it in the “least desirable time of year” list with January, February, and March; the lowly New England winter months. Of course my list is by no means universal, but the big bad months of January, February, and March, are the regulars on most folks' list. Even so, I’m often surprised at the astute contemplation that goes into this very personal list; about why some months are more miserable than others. Sometimes I disagree. For instance, it always seems absurd when November and December make it, or the warm July and August summer months for that matter. November and December herald the first cool nights warmed by crackling logs in the fireplace, brisk walks through the woods, leaves whispering underfoot, perhaps stalking game as is my wont. And the peak summer months? Sure it can get a bit steamy and congested, but what beats evenings on the beach, or a warm breeze curling through the bedroom late at night?

For me, April teeters on my lists’ proverbial fence, the others don’t warrant further consideration. But alas it always keeps company with the rag tag ruffians that kick off the new year. Many associate April with spring; with daffodils and pinkletinks, with rebirth. It’s these factors, along with those first days when one can finally smell the air again, that put April on the fence. But the trees are still very bare, it’s often cloudy with bone chilling breezes, the nights are cold, and we often stagnate in periods of burning rain. The ocean is a barren slate gray. All in all April’s a bit of a tease.

But more than cold rain or cloudy skies, April is sacrified to my list out of my disdain for the winter. It’s my way to thumb my nose at the dark angry days, to mock the winter bogeyman. Mocking anger was a handy tool I learned long ago.