Wildflowers and Butterflies

For the past several years, I have been pining for a wildflower garden on our farm. Our farm manager, The Sheriff and his father, the Mayor are passionate about order, so they have resisted. They love the clean, organized lines of a freshly mowed lawn. Acres and acres of green, tidy pastures adorn our farm and I, too, love it. It is soothing, predictable, orderly. 

But I have been yearning for an unrestrained, wild, colorful field of wildflowers out there ... and this past summer, I got my wish. I finally convinced my husband, The Land Baron, that, of our expansive acreage, we could spare a small patch to indulge my floral fantasy. We walked around the property, trying to find the right location that was out of the way of farm duties like feeding horses, hauling hay, and spreading manure, but in the line of sight from the house. We found a perfect spot, just beyond our vegetable garden, down a slight swale.

The next day, our farm neighbor (a real farmer, not a poser farmer like us) volunteered his services. He dredged a patch of grass, turning over the rich soil beneath it. He then tamped it down and scattered the seed evenly over the roughly 20’ x 60’ area. “Now we wait,” he said. It was all up to Mother Nature to water and feed the field with sunlight.

By mid-summer, the field indeed came to life. And it was glorious. Red, blue, purple, orange, and pink flowers were in a cascading cycle of bloom. The juxtaposition of my wildflower meadow’s wanton disorder against the tidy green acreage around it framed it like a green matte, making a stunning piece of art. Every time we came to the farm this past summer, I immediately went to visit my wildflower field to cut flowers. Sure, there are weeds in there, but honestly, aren’t weeds just wildflowers with better PR? Unlike my more manicured garden at home, in this garden I leave the weeds alone. Live and let live.

Songbirds, hummingbirds, bees, praying mantis and more began visiting. But my favorite interlopers are the butterflies. These silent, beautiful beings are like quiet angels amongst us. Seeing a butterfly in nature is akin to seeing a rainbow; it induces delight and awe in everyone. I think of the Monarch butterfly and its extraordinary migration from North America to Mexico every year. I just found out that in fact, no individual butterfly completes the entire round trip. It is more like an insect relay race, with female monarchs laying eggs for a subsequent generation during the northward migration.  Four generations are involved in the annual cycle. (Talk about logistics!) One of the reasons I wanted that wildflower garden so badly was because I know that Monarch populations were dwindling because of loss of habitat. And so, I am happy to help those brave little travelers by planting a lovely rest stop on their butterfly highways.

When my kids were little, we had a special interaction with a butterfly. Each winter we would make a yearly pilgrimage to Butterfly World in south Florida while we were there visiting my in-laws. Butterfly World is essentially a zoo for butterflies, with enclosed atria housing species from all over the planet in simulated natural habitats. One year we bought a butterfly chrysalis to bring home and watch the miracle of rebirth that happens as the insect sheds its old way of life and emerges resplendent, transformed, victorious. About a week after bringing the chrysalis home, my toddler daughters and I sat transfixed for hours – or at least I did – as the insect started the slow, miraculous process of emerging from its hibernation. The girls ran in circles, squealing, driven crazy with anticipation and frustration, while I kept them from trampling the fragile little guy. When the butterfly finally completed its transformation, it sat for a while, all wet and gooey, drying its wings in the sun. And then, it was off ...

Over the last few weeks this fall, my beautiful wildflower meadow has had a burst of colorful energy. With the end of the season nearing, it’s been like a grand finale of explosive color: cosmos, New England Aster, Milkweed, Coreopsis and Cornflower have been giving it their all before settling down for a long winter slumber. Like all autumn color, I find it bittersweet. It is delightful in the moment, but we all know there are darker days ahead.

In the midst of this wretched pandemic time, I find myself, like my daughters with the butterfly, running in circles from the frustration and angst of just wanting to get on with it already. I’m having trouble writing, thinking creatively and being patient. Perhaps I should stop trying to make orderly, well-manicured sense of this time and just let it all go. Maybe, it’s best to take a cue from that butterfly and that wildflower field and pull in, cocoon myself emotionally and creatively, let the field of my mind lie fallow and metaphorically fall back into the earth. To just be still and ... wait.

Perhaps this time of isolation, contraction, and withdrawal will reveal something beautiful on the other side?

At the very least, there will be a wildflower garden to look forward to next spring.

Butterflies are like silent angels amongst us.

Nice Tomatoes!

So, while, gardening can bring all sorts of life lessons, it also brings more practical lessons. I’ve learned cold hard truths about some vegetables that I decided to confront head on.

To start, Pumpkin, you are a pain the ass. You take up all sorts of room, going rogue all over the place. I keep having to turn whatever paltry pumpkins pop up so they don’t get that weird flat side that ends up all mealy and nasty. Furthermore, let’s face it, no one is really that interested in you beyond a few weeks in the fall, and that’s basically for decoration. Even if I do raise one of you to maturity, Pumpkin, you are way too much trouble to cook. I’m done with you. You are officially replaced by fake pumpkins for decoration.

Green Pepper, what is it with you? I planted you and your hipster sister, Purple Pepper right next to each other and you both only coughed up a few tiny peppers with oddly thick skin. Cute, but hardly worth the effort. You are done. Conversely, Banana Pepper and Hot Hungarian Wax Pepper? Slow. Down. Pump the breaks already. I’m an Irish gal; I barely know what to do with you. Stop being so pushy, flooding my kitchen with product. And, by the way, how about making it clear which one of you is which? When you get thrown into a basket together, it’s like Russian roulette; it could be an yummy hot/sweet experience, or a blow your doors off, cartoon “ah-OOO-ga” moment. I mean, Banana and Hungarian Wax ... you’re in, but only one plant each.  I can’t deal with more than that. You’re too aggressive.

Broccoli and Cauliflower, you are like the Patti Dukes of the garden. Broccoli, you are Patti, all down home and basic. And then there’s you, Cauliflower, the darling of the gluten free set, all trendy and au currant. But …. Broccoli, I’ve always been a fan because you resemble little trees, you’re versatile as a side dish and in salads (especially delicious with bacon, but what isn’t). But to grow you in a garden is a huge bummer. I take my eye off you for a couple of weeks and you get all spindly and leggy … and why so bitter? You're out. Cauliflower, I’m happy for your recent popularity, I really am. You remind me of that awkward boy in grade school that no one really noticed until after he went through puberty and turned into a popular track star hotty. I mean, go you. But again, to grow you in a garden is a study in futility. You’re passive aggressive, you won't grow and don’t seem to want to be there. I don’t have time for you, Cauliflower. I’ll buy you already riced from the grocery store and enjoy you as a gluten free crust on my pizza, but you’re evicted from my garden.

Speaking of vegetable relatives, Zucchini and your cousin Summer Squash, we need to talk. Zucchini, I like you in moderation. If I grow too much of you, which I always do, I can either give you away or make zucchini bread out of you. A vegetable bread? That’s so great! Thank you for being adaptable. You're in, but stay in the slow lane. But Summer Squash? Listen … (sigh) … nobody likes you that much. I’m sorry, but it’s true. I always grow too much of you and I literally cannot give you away. You’re kind of boring, your texture is a little weird and sometimes … sorry … you get these gross knobs all over your skin that are just unappetizing. Ugh. Ok, ok … I’ll keep one plant each of the Zucchini and Summer Squash.. But don’t go all Banana Pepper on me and take over my kitchen. I mean, I can’t make Summer Squash bread.

Now, Eggplant … you are full of surprises. I grew up in an Irish household, so I really didn’t know much about you (or any fresh vegetables, to be honest). When I first planted you, you caught my attention: so pretty, so aubergine. But your spongy texture quite frankly grossed me out … until I discovered your secret. When I salt you and let you sit for a while, all that moisture comes out and you are ready to party. I’ve found so many fun summer recipes for you! I can brush you with herbed olive oil and grill you, or pan fry you or bake you. When I stack you with fresh tomatoes, basil and mozzarella … OMG. You are amazing! A tastegazme. Really, I’m a fan. Eggplant, you can stay.

Ok, Kale, I planted you with trepidation. I mean, you’re so trendy and, let’s face it, a little pretentious. It is early in the season, but already I can tell … Kale, I think I like you. You are a giver. I leave you alone and cut you as needed. Next time I turn around, you’re back whole hog. I cut you again, and there you are again. You’re like the Everlasting Gobstopper of vegetables. From what I hear you keep giving into late fall, so I’m exploring recipes. If all else fails I can freeze you and use you in smoothies. Anyway, you are a happy surprise. Kale, welcome to the garden.

Speaking of surprises … Garlic, you saucy minx. You are a bulb that we eat, which is so cool. You are so unselfish and giving, you play well with others, you make others better. Truly, you are great. But who knew you had another little gift … Scapes!? After my husband, Mr. Green Jeans, first planted you, I was puttering around in the garden in late spring and noticed that you had grown green, beautiful, curly tendrils, like a little Irish toddler. I thought to myself, “surely these must be edible.” A quick Google search revealed that those shoots are called “scapes,”are only briefly available in the spring and are much coveted. So, I lopped off those scapes, cooked them up and … wow! Garlicky, oniony, grassy. Really yummy and different. Garlic, you’re in.

Which brings us to Tomato. Oh, Tomato, I remember when I didn’t like you as a child, and that’s when you actually tasted like tomatoes. My mother would eat a tomato like an apple, salting each bite as she went. I could barely look at her, it made me so queasy. Now, I’m a grown ass adult and I like you, Tomato. And that was before trying you right out of the garden. Holy cow, it has been life changing, especially when I learned how to make tomato sauce with fresh tomatoes, garlic (love you!) and fresh basil. I don’t know if I’ve ever eaten anything so transformative. It’s like sunshine in your mouth. It’s like joy on a plate: so fresh and bright and healthy. This Irish gal is forever changed. Tomato, I’m all in. I’m planting you every year in many different varieties. I know that some of you will rot on the vine if I don’t get to you, but it’s ok, because you are fun to throw over the fence and I enjoy hearing you splat on the grass. In fact, I think I’ll save my rotten tomatoes to hurl at the next annoying politician.

I’m going to need more tomatoes.

My newfound friends.