Must be Spring, the litterbugs are out in their cars—at least I assume they’re not the type to be out walking to enjoy the benefits of nature—and they’re pitching trash out of the windows of said vehicles. I picked up, I think it was, six cans on my way around the village in the morning. ( This is all to the good for the aluminum can connoisseur, John Porter, who picks up my collections to take to the recycling. He’s not getting rich on these collections but the Garrettsville United Methodist Church can do a few more projects, because of his stewardship. Go, John!) The total number of items recovered from the (vacant) Buckeye Block was about five of that total. One must wonder what kind of homes these people come from.
I also went out to check on the green shoots coming up in various locations around the yard. Snowdrops—check, crocuses—check, tulips—check, primroses—check. Unidentified—check, check, check. I believe that there are some incipient ferns showing signs of life; last year was a near-tropical display, so that’s no surprise. It was clear that the squirrels survived on their stashes of nuts—hickory, walnut, butternut—and acorns, because the demolished shells are all over the place. The ground beneath the bird feeders—all of them—is trashed and will, no doubt, be the site of major greenery a little bit from now. Don’t know that I’m interested in raising some of those kinds of plants, but mowers are not all that selective, so away they go. Too bad that burning in the back yard is frowned upon; my collection of fallen branches and sticks is looking to become quite awesome. Hauling them out to the front curb for pick-up on the first Monday of the month is NOT going to happen, it being the day after Easter Sunday and all.
Speaking of which, I went to my sister’s for the holiday and I think that she needs to seek counseling from the Salvation Army or maybe the Renaissance Center (Feeding crowds of hungry people, don’t you know) on estimating portion planning when serving meals. She’s a terrific cook but the quantity of food weighing down the tables would probably satisfy the appetites in all of Montana and the Baltic states. Good stuff too. Everybody gets to take home leftovers of every stripe, from mashed potatoes to one of the three—or was it four—desserts. Smashing rolls, great ham, interesting fruit-and-pretzel salad—what’s not to like? I think that she has adopted my philosophy : Try out new recipes on somebody who either won’t have the nerve to complain or is so hungry they do not care what the dishes on the menu taste like. Family fits both of those categories. I did not hear any complaints.
The Stark Bro’s catalog is still singing its siren song. The names alone are inviting…who wouldn’t want to grow an apple called “Kinderkrisp” or “Starkspur Arkansas Black” or “Snappymac”? Peaches include “Carolina Belle” and “Desertgold”. Cherries sport names like “Black Tartarian” and “Emperor Francis”. Great stuff. They also offer a deluxe cherry pitter. Those things are handy; my mother used to have one, I doubt that she uses it much today. It was metal, mostly, and could be fastened to a tabletop with the clamp on the bottom. We turned a crank to force a plunger down through the cherry which had rolled down to meet its fate from a sort of flat reservoir or corral that led to a hole with a leather gasket which allowed the cherry pit to be expelled into a dish beneath and the cherry to be plucked out—now pitless—by the operator of the apparatus and put into another container. Juicy work! The pits could then be pitched or planted, I suppose, but the cherries, and as much of the ensuing juice as could be captured, were then canned or frozen…or made—this option was the preferred one—into a pie or cobbler to be devoured ASAP (Sometimes with ICE CREAM). Mine is mostly plastic and fastens to the counter with suction but the basic operation is about the same, except the plunger is now spring-loaded and snaps back, all the better to spray juice all over the place. Maybe it’s just me, but I find it advantageous to use a very large apron, dress in a plastic garbage bag or wear old red clothing when pitting cherries.
Stark Bro’s will also be happy to supply the eating public with a “Bubblegum Plum”, “Pennsylvania Golden “ pawpaws (The Keystone State has got its nerve; the pawpaw is Ohio’s Official State Wild Fruit, not to be confused with the “Melrose”, also called “the Ohio Apple”. Got that?), “Starkrimson” and “Canada Red” rhubarb and, in case you’re really into craft brewing you can grow your own hops (I liked “Chinook” and “Mount Hood”). Lots o’ berries too—red, black, purple, gold raspberries, blueberries, blackberries strawberries—even something called “Pineberry” which looks like a strawberry turned inside out; it’s white with red speckles, wreaks havoc with the mind’s eye picture of strawberry shortcake.
I do not believe that I am up to the challenge of raising an orange, a tangerine, a dwarf Cavendish banana, a Meyer lemon or a Key lime in an indoor/outdoor transportable pot but Stark Bro’s would be happy to supply me with any of these—or a collection. If I could teach the cats to operate a juicer, I might consider it, but they’d probably start demanding meringue pies for Sunday dinner. Besides, the growth height of any of them might be prohibitive and there would be cats decorating the branches like Christmas ornaments half of the time.
And I haven’t even got serious about trees and shrubs.
The Portage SWCD is my supplier on those, for the most part.
Are we “out like a lion” or “out like a lamb” yet? Showers, we got.
