Love plants? Love mysteries? You'll love this series!

Susan Wittig Albert has written more than 100 books, including the popular China Bayles mystery series.

Simply Living
September 12, 2011

I love a good novel, especially one with interesting characters, a captivating story line and the ability to teach me something new about topics I hold dear. That's why I'm a fan of the plant-themed China Bayles Mystery Series by Texas Hill Country author Susan Wittig Albert.

In each of the series' 18 novels, main character China Bayles (big-city lawyer turned small-town herb-shop owner) solves murders through a combination of botanical know-how, deductive skills and legal reasoning. Each novel expands my plant knowledge while providing a welcome and entertaining literary escape.

I don't like slasher stories, psychological thrillers or books that frighten or give me nightmares. Neither do I abide by unnecessarily sad or uncertain endings. None of that happens in a China Bayles mystery. When I open the pages to one of Albert's books, I am guaranteed a good time. I enter a world I can relate to — a small town inhabited by a quirky but lovable cast of characters who struggle to overcome common, everyday problems. Albert's stories end happily, a feature I covet in both books and movies.

Although each of the series' 18 mysteries is an independent read, the stories always begin in the fictional Texas Hill Country town of Pecan Springs, where the lives of the main characters progress from one book to the next. That makes each installment like a visit with old friends. With a turn of the page, I "catch up" with a cast of imaginary people who have come to feel like they're almost real.

Front and center is the proprietor of the Thyme and Season Herb Shop, China Bayles, and Bayles' best friend, business partner and mystery-solving sidekick Ruby Wilcox. She's a New Age maven with a propensity for right-brain thinking that contrasts nicely with Bayles' more left-brained, practical approach.

Bayles' love interest, Mike McQuaid, is a former detective who, following a work-related injury, trades his badge for stints as a private investigator and university educator. Other recurring characters include McQuaid's son, Wilcox's daughter, various local business owners and relatives and friends of the main characters. The entire package is sprinkled with humor and includes satisfyingly unpredictable endings.

Albert published her first China Bayles novel, "Thyme of Death," in 1992. It must have been around that time when I chanced upon it on the shelves of my local library. I quickly devoured that book and have been gobbling up new installments ever since. Fortunately, Albert has written more than 100 titles under her own name and various pen names. With the exception of 2002, there has been a new China Bayles novel annually. The most recent release, "Holly Blues," came out in 2010. I'm never left hungry for long.

In addition to each story's underlying botanical theme, every chapter is anchored by herbal quotes, proverbs, plant-related recipes and gardening folklore. In "Indigo Dying" (2003), I read about the different cloth-coloring properties and histories of various plants, along with recipes for herb quiche and frijoles de olla (beans in a pot).

In "Rosemary Remembered" (1995), the folk saying that headed Chapter 12 — "To learn humility, one must weed the Thymes" — struck me as particularly relevant. At the end of each novel, a list of pertinent resources provides motivated readers with ways to continue learning about plants mentioned in the stories.

One of the few things I enjoy more than getting lost in a book is learning more about one of my favorite subjects. With Albert's help, I'm able to broaden my botanical knowledge in a memorably entertaining way.

It's hard to love a plant like Spanish needle

Spanish needle's small, daisylike flower (left) turns into a sphere of barbed seeds that latch on to anything they touch.

Simply Living
September 5, 2011

I'm not a fan of Spanish needle (Bidens alba), but I feel like I should be because this white, flowering relative of asters has many of the attributes I look for in a plant.

It attracts wildlife (especially bees and butterflies), has both edible and medicinal properties and is a Florida native. However, it also produces an abundance of hard-to-remove, needlelike black seeds that are frustratingly difficult to remove from any article of clothing that happens to brush against them.

I've been battling Spanish needle on our property for 20 years, and I haven't won yet. Right now, I'm looking out my office window at an explosion of these leggy weeds that have sprung up in what is supposed to be my ginger garden.

I'm trying to like them. I really am. But two decades of disdain is difficult to overcome.


I'm not alone in my feelings. Ever since people have been in contact with Spanish needle, they have made up names to express their impression of a plant so intent on propagating itself through contact that its seeds adhere like barbs to anything they touch. Among its many monikers are beggartick, hairy beggar's tick, shepherd's needle and devil's sticktight.

Spanish needle is a perennial wildflower with a deep taproot and small, daisylike blooms. It likes hot weather, it's drought- resistant and it's not particular about soil conditions. It isn't fussy about location, either, growing well in both sun and shade. Although its white, yellow-centered flowers are tiny (about an inch across), each 3-foot-tall plant has multiple blooms.

When flowering, it is innocuous and even beneficial. Some people might even say the flowers are pretty. I wouldn't be among them, but flying insects must think so. The plant attracts numerous butterflies, bees, wasps and dragonflies and is the larval host for the emerald moth, dainty sulphur and Florida duskywing butterflies.

After flowers fade and seeds develop, the Spanish needle earns its negative nicknames. A single plant can produce more than 1,000 two-toothed seeds, each with the annoying ability to cling tightly to hair, fur or cloth. Its hitchhiking habit serves the plant well, enabling it to do what plants need to do: spread out and reproduce. I have to admit it is extremely successful at those goals.

On one level, I appreciate Spanish needle. It is a hardy, resilient, determined plant. It has managed to survive — even thrive at times — in places it is not wanted. Those very traits, however, also make me dislike it. I can't tell you how many times I've struggled to dislodge the barbed seeds from my husband's white socks or from the hem of any skirt I've been foolish enough to wear when I've walked in the woods.

There's a strong movement afoot to embrace native plants. Spanish needle may be a Florida native that bees and butterflies adore, but that doesn't mean I have to like it or want it in my yard. Neither should I feel guilt each time I fantasize about ripping out every last specimen (as if that were even possible!).

No, some plants' negative features simply overshadow their attributes. That's how it is for me and Spanish needle. Sometimes, the best weeds are the ones growing elsewhere

Weeds gone...garden ready to plant

A truck full of weeds means lines of weed-free pots ready to be planted with new vegetables and flowers.

Simply Living
August 28, 2011

It feels good to have the garden weeded. Ralph and I returned from our New England trip to find more than 100 15-gallon potted plants in desperate need of attention. A tangle of unwanted growth had besieged our container garden.

The weeds didn't suddenly emerge during our absence. Their campaign to subdue our intended crops had been weeks — in some cases, months — in the making. Our mistake had been to ignore obvious signs, allowing tenacious roots to become well established. It took time away to make us realize the mess that our forestalling had created.

"What do you think about doing some weeding this evening?" my husband asked the day after we got home. With daytime temperatures hovering in the mid-90s, evening seemed a sensible time to tackle this project.

I told him it sounded good, and when late afternoon rolled around, I donned gardening gear — old jeans, ratty shirt, gloves, hat, socks and shoes — to join my husband for a robust, down-to-earth workout.

"I'm going to begin over here," I said from one end of the row as my husband started pulling weeds at the other. "I'll call if I need help with any big ones."

I called a lot. There were plenty of huge weeds — invaders so large and well-rooted that no amount of yanking would dislodge them.

"I'm going to dump the whole pot out," Ralph said after one frustrating attempt to de-weed a container overtaken by a particularly vigorous and stubborn specimen. Into the truck's bed it went. We worked for about two hours, and in that time managed to clear weeds out of about half the pots. The following day, we conquered the remainder.

"It feels good, doesn't it?" I said as we dipped into the lake to soak off sweat and smudges of dirt.

Ralph nodded, adding: "I didn't think we'd get so much done."

I had to agree. Despite years of working together on countless home and garden projects, I'm still surprised how much can be accomplished in relatively short periods. Focus is the key.

Looking around, I noticed more flower beds begging for attention in addition to all the non-garden-related projects in want of completion.

"If we could just work like this every day for a couple of hours," I mused, "imagine how much we'd get done."

It was a familiar fantasy.

"Yeah," he agreed wistfully, "if we only could."

Ralph and I both knew that chances of that happening were zero to slim. Although we've spent our entire adulthoods independently employed, we have yet to master the art of consistent self-discipline. Some lessons are apparently more challenging than others, and, for us, the ability to keep on top of our ever-burgeoning to-do list remains an indomitable objective.

"Now that we've got the container garden weeded," Ralph said as we were drying off from our dip, "we really should mulch the pots and get some more seeds planted."

He's right, of course. Add those projects to the list. More chances to hone our self-discipline are close at hand.

Twin grandbabies doubles the pleasure

Twins Ella Lily (left) and Maya Lilac with grandparents Ralph and Sherry Boas.

Simply Living
August 22, 2011

No pleasure is quite as pure as the sight of a newborn baby and that pleasure doubled when my husband and I attended the birth of our twin granddaughters.

Jenny and Brett live in Central Massachusetts. Last year, they rode a tandem recumbent bicycle across the country. This year, they gave birth to two babies. Doing things by twos seems to be this couple's norm. When they asked us to be there for the twins' birth, Ralph and I had no hesitation. We eagerly said "Yes!"

Two years ago, I was in the delivery room for the birth of my first grandchild, Atom, but Jenny's birth was going to be different since the babies were to be delivered by a scheduled Caesarean section. Hospital rules allowed only two people to accompany the mother. Daddy-to-be Brett had the place of honor, leaving one slot available for Ralph or me. Since Jenny was happy to have either of us in the operating room, we decided it was Ralph's turn to experience a grandchild's birth.

Brett's mother and I waited together after they wheeled Jenny away. About 20 minutes into the surgery, Ralph came back to update us on the progress.

"It's amazing! Incredible!" he gushed. "The babies are born and Jenny's doing great. Everything went well. It's almost unbelievable what they do."

His joy was so pure, his excitement so real — I was glad we decided Ralph would be the one to witness the birth.

In less than an hour, the surgery was over. Nurses wheeled Jenny and the girls back into their hospital room accompanied by new daddy and one awestruck grandpa. Kathy and I finally had a good look at our new grandchildren. Blond haired 7 pounds, 2 ounces Maya Lilac and her dark haired 7 pounds, 8 ounce sister, Ella Lily, were love personified.

"They're so big but so small," I thought as I held the swaddled bundles of bliss in my arms.

Little fingers, tiny toes…bright eyes take in a world suddenly so large. The magic of birth is one of life's everyday miracles.

Ralph and I spent a week in Northampton enjoying the wonder of newborn babies. We changed diapers, soothed the twins when they fussed and cuddled against their newborn sweetness. Being around babies is a transforming experience. It makes you see the world through different lenses and changes your perspective.

Each of us began life as tiny babies, dependent upon others for comfort, care, nurturing and sustenance. We enter this world innocent. Our needs are basic. Feed us, clean us, keep us dry and, most importantly, cradle us with love.

It's easy to let everyday worries, problems and cares predominate. It's easy to let family take a backseat to the needs of others. But being there for the birth of your child's child (or in our case, children) is a none-too-subtle reminder that family comes first.

We're back home in Florida now, 1,500 miles away from our two newest grandchildren. I have a strong feeling Ralph and I will be racking up those frequent-flier miles in days to come.

Simple orange flowers ask little, give much

The gulf fritillary is one of the many butterflies attracted to orange cosmos

Simply Living August 14, 2011

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Its proper name is "Cosmos sulphureus," but I've always called it "orange flower." This unpretentious, hardy wildflower is one of my favorite blooms.

When I lived in Kissimmee, my yard overflowed with orange flowers. My first plants were a gift from a generous stranger, a gardener whose flower beds I had stopped to admire. She gave me seeds that I brought home and sowed. Most of the seeds sprouted, growing into tall, broad butterfly-attracting blooms.

Orange flowers do best when planted in a light, rich soil in sunny locations. Although tolerant of poorer soil and dry conditions, the plants grow larger and bloom more profusely when grown in enriched, irrigated soil.

Although the soil around my Kissimmee home was initially poor, I lived in a community of well-maintained lawns where neighbors were constantly mowing, raking and bagging clippings of St. Augustine grass. Since I knew how fast grass clippings break down, I made it a point to collect those bags as soon as my neighbors could place them by the curbside so I could dump them in my garden beds. With so many applications of free, biodegradable grass-blade mulch, the soil was soon rich enough to support a profusion of plants, including orange flowers galore.

Fast-forward two decades, and orange flowers no longer had a place in my garden. At some point, perhaps during a move, I had lost my saved seeds. Although I grew other flowers, I missed the orange ones that had always bloomed so consistently and profusely. Determined to correct the situation, I went on a wildflower hunt, searching neighborhoods in the Clermont area where they might grow. I found one such yard in Greater Hills, just down the street from one of my rental homes.

Once again, I knocked on a stranger's door. The lady who answered listened to my story and, like her counterpart in Kissimmee, was happy to provide me with seeds. It took only a few minutes to gather a small container of the black, quarter-inch-long spikes. I took them home to sprinkle on the flower beds, but I didn't plant them right away. Remembering how well they responded in Kissimmee to grass-clipping-enriched soil, I did some prep work. I mowed our yard, raked the clippings and deposited them in the garden bed before sprinkling the seeds on the soft, nitrogen-rich blades. As the seedlings grew, I kept adding grass clippings as mulch.

The young plants responded to my attentive care by growing quickly. They got taller, their stems grew broader, and soon bright, friendly orange flower faces appeared.Bees and butterflies arrived, landing on the blooms to gather nectar and pollen. When the flowers faded, seeds developed, and when the seeds matured, they fell down and sprouted soft mulch. Just as the orange flowers did in Kissimmee, the plants thrived in the enriched soil.

I love many things about this simple bloom native to Mexico. It is unassuming, pretty and cheerful. It attracts wildlife, reseeds readily and resists pests. It also makes great cut flowers and is one of the best blooms to use in pressed flower arrangements.

With so much going for it, it's hard to believe I went without this lovely plant for so many years. Fortunately, we've reconnected and have what I consider a reciprocal relationship. I provide the plants with good soil, water and mulch. They return the favor by being butterfly magnets for my yard and by filling my vases with saffron-colored blooms.

After a long hiatus, orange flowers are back in my life as a botanic expression of beauty, simplicity and the splendor of nature. Some relationships are too special to end.

Hello ibis...goodbye garden bugs

The plumage on immature ibises is brown with white undersides.

Simply Living
August 7, 2011

An immature white ibis (Eudocimus albus) is using our container garden as its personal foraging grounds. This is the first ibis — juvenile or full-grown — to visit any of our gardens. We frequently see ibises by the lake feeding in the shallow water. But in the 20 years we've lived here, none has ever before ventured into our backyard where the container garden is located.

This bird must think he stumbled upon a bonanza!

In mid-summer when there is so much to do outside, the maintenance of the container plants tends to fall by the wayside. We continue to irrigate and are still harvesting various heat-loving vegetables, fruit and herbs. But other than brief forays to gather figs, basil, tomatoes or parsley, the area is mainly ignored.

This lack of attention has enabled a mean tangle of out-of-control weeds to flourish. The weeds have produced so much tall, bushy growth the already narrow aisles between rows have essentially disappeared. The garden has become a moist, lush, largely left-alone area — an ideal foraging spot for an immature white ibis.

Unlike adult ibises, which have white plumage with black wingtips, immature members of the species are mainly brown with white markings on their rumps, underwings and bellies. Both young and old have long pinkish-red legs and curved pinkish-red bills. Males and females look very similar, although the males are slightly larger weighing in at around two pounds.

The white ibis is a common wading bird in Florida and throughout the Southeast. Perhaps one reason the population of this bird has thrived when other wading bird species have declined is its ability to adapt to different habitats and foods.

These 2-foot tall trawlers tromp through almost any damp area — saltwater, freshwater, mud holes, marshland and short grass — to find edible delicacies such as snails, crayfish, crabs, worms, insects, frogs, snakes and small fish. With its long, curved beak slightly ajar, the ibis is able to probe the ground, plucking food by touch and sight.

In the garden, the ibis doesn't always walk on the ground and it doesn't always use its beak to probe the soil. Sometimes it gets right up into the pots, stepping from one container plant to another. Instead of poking the ground for insects, it plucks at spiders and bugs on the leaves above its head. I was amazed the first time I saw it standing in a 15-gallon pot of broccoli, stretching its curved beak upward to snatch some sort of edible from an overhead leaf.

While most birds are wary of people, the white ibis seems to tolerate a certain amount of human intrusion. On numerous occasions, I have surprised it in the garden. Although obviously startled by my sudden presence, the young bird didn't fly off. Instead, it moved a bit farther away as if to say, "All right, I'll get out of your way so you can pick your cherry tomatoes and gather your basil, but make it quick then get out of my garden!"

Having an immature white ibis frequent our garden has enabled me to learn so much more about this species than I ever knew before. I now know ibises are not nearly as nervous around people as are many other birds. I know they endure downpours by finding a place to stand on the ground and staying there until the rain stops. I know they spend a lot of time searching for food, eating the food they find and (much to my husband's dismay) leaving the discharged results of their diet right there where they've been feeding. I've also learned how difficult those large, sticky droppings are to remove from bare feet and the bottom of sneakers.

At some point, the young ibis will molt, changing color from brown to white. When that happens, there's a good chance it will give up its independent ways to forage with others. White ibises are highly social birds that normally breed, roost and feed in flocks. That means I have a small window of opportunity to observe a bird that I may never be able to follow so closely again. If the price I must pay for this unexpected opportunity is a bit of poo on my shoes, so be it. Sometimes it's a wiser move to scrape shoes than say "shoo!" to one of nature's fascinating creatures.

Even hummingbirds need moments of rest...

It is a common misconception that hummingbirds never rest. They actually spend considerable time perched on thin branches.

Simply Living

August 1, 2011

Last winter, when the temperature dipped into the low 20s, the two bottlebrush trees in my yard suffered mild cold damage. Most branches survived, but on each tree, a single uppermost limb died.

Ever since, I've been intending to cut off those limbs. It looks silly when a healthy green tree has one obviously dead branch, especially right at the top. But as so often happens with minor projects, it took a back burner to more pressing matters. The trees remained untrimmed all winter, spring and summer.

Now that it's midsummer, I'm glad I procrastinated because I've come to realize that dead branches on the top of flowering bottlebrush trees have a purpose. They make ideal resting spots for hummingbirds. When these tiny fliers are not zooming from one nectar-producing cluster to another, they use the brown, leafless branches as perches.

I made this discovery while on the porch. One of the bottlebrush trees is about 15 feet away from the house, directly in front of where I was sitting. I was looking at the tree, berating myself for not doing the pruning, when I noticed the type of quick flying action that only hummingbirds produce.

I focused my attention on a tiny creature that weighs less than three paper clips. I saw it methodically circle the tree, poking its long beak into several flowers before alighting on the dead branch. Once perched, it sat. And sat. And sat.

When I think of hummingbirds, I think of them flying, their little wings beating a furious 60 to 80 times per second as they gather nectar from predominantly red-colored flowers. I know that to survive, they must consume anywhere from half to eight times their body weight each day, and that in addition to the sweet juice from flowers, they build muscle by eating protein-rich insects, spiders and pollen. What I didn't realize was how often they rest.

Hummingbirds spend just five to eight minutes of each waking hour eating. That leaves plenty of time between bursts of food-finding action to sit quietly, conserving energy. Rest is biologically beneficial because, when active, their little hearts beat about 1,260 times a minute, compared with 250 beats a minute when perched on a branch.

Perching suits these most diminutive members of the bird community. Their extremely short feet — which have three long toes in the front and one in the back, all with lengthy, curved nails — are practically useless for anything other than grabbing hold of thin limbs. Unlike other birds, hummingbirds are unable to walk or hop on the ground.

I squatted to get a better view of the bird in the bottlebrush tree. As I watched, the hummingbird scanned the sky from its top-of-the-tree vantage point. Just when I was beginning to wonder what it was looking for, two other hummingbirds zoomed in. In less time than it took me to register what was happening, the hummer buzzed off to chase the intruders away. Both male and female hummingbirds are territorial. Female birds defend their nesting territories and males protect what they consider their home turf.

I'm not sure if the bird I watched was a male or female, but I know it was successful in scaring off the other two hummers each of the multiple times they tried to approach the bottlebrush tree.

I had no idea that my avoidance of the pruning task would yield such positive results. If visits from hummingbirds happen when I leave dead bottlebrush limbs untrimmed, I wonder what would take place if I put off doing some of the other things on my outdoor to-do list? Let's see … the garden needs weeding, there's edging to do, plants to thin out, others to repot.

Hmm …I may have stumbled upon a procrastination justification!

One person's weed...another person's gift

The tiny pink flowers of Portulaca pilosa, commonly known as pink purslane.

 

Simply Living

July 25, 2011

Until recently, our yard had a number of bare spots. Not anymore. All of a sudden, many of those exposed areas are covered with the tiny pink flowers of Portulaca pilosa, commonly known as pink purslane.

I didn't plant these undomesticated relatives of moss rose and I doubt if a green-thumbed gremlin is sowing seeds behind my back. No, my surprise blooms came directly from nature. Although some call them weeds and scorn their appearance, to me, pink purslane is a gift I'm glad to receive.

Portulaca pilosa is a Florida native that loves hot weather and tolerates drought. A low-growing succulent, it attractsbees, butterflies and birds. Although pink purslane is one of its nicknames, it is also called shaggy portulaca, pigweed and kiss-me-quick, one of my favorite monikers because it not only suggests the flowers' lipstick color but also its fast-growing pace.

Perhaps the name that best captures the plant's essence is chisme, Spanish for "gossip" because that's how fast the seeds spread. Portulaca pilosa propagates easily through underground rhizomes, seeds and broken-off pieces of stem. It also has the uncanny ability to lie dormant for up to 40 years before sprouting and bursting into bloom.

That must be what happened in our yard. Dormant seeds were probably disturbed during recent excavations. With the ground upturned, underlying seeds found themselves facing a perfect storm for germination. The intense summer heat, sudden showers and limited botanical competition encouraged sprouting. And sprout they did. When I walked back from the barn on a recent morning, I saw that several brown patches of dirt had vanished beneath carpets of bright pink blooms.

Not everyone greets purslane's ability to pop up unexpectedly with such an enthusiastic welcome. Many people consider this ground-hugging wildflower a scourge on the landscape. To them, it is an invasive weed choking out grass, popping up through cracks in pavement and creeping its way into unwanted garden space. They strive to eliminate all traces of purslane by whatever means necessary.

I don't feel that way.

Why waste time and energy spewing environmentally dangerous herbicides on a plant that has so much to offer? In addition to being an attractive groundcover that thrives on neglect, flourishes in places where few other plants grow and attracts wildlife, purslane is also a powerhouse of nutritious value. This edible herb is high in vitamins A and C, contains traces of iron, calcium, potassium and phosphorus and has more omega-3 fatty acids than any other plant source.

In a 2006 TV broadcast of The Oprah Winfrey Show, Dr. Mehmet Oz touted purslane's merits.

"Purslane is rich in omega-3 fats," he said. "Those are the healthy oils we want to coat our membranes and our joints. You can make them in salads. In my home, we mix them with yogurt and garlic and it's just spectacular."

I haven't tried Dr. Oz's concoction, but in my own lazy way I've come to appreciate purslane's edible qualities. As I do with sorrel, another somewhat acidic but juicy wildflower, I like to pluck off a few purslane leaves to munch on when I'm in the garden or taking a walk.

It is possible to make flour out of the plant's ground-up seeds or to sprout the seeds like alfalfa, but purslane's most commonly eaten parts are its tender tips and stems, which are tastiest when picked before flowering. Pinching back the plant at this stage has the added benefit of encouraging new growth, an important feature for those who value the sweetly sour flavor of this underappreciated potherb.

Purslane recipes are many and varied. The raw tips are good in salads and sandwiches but can also be steamed like spinach, stir-fried, pickled, used as a thickener for soups and as an ingredient in a number of baked dishes. Medicinally, the leaves make a soothing poultice for wounds and burns. Native Americans used a juice made out of purslane leaves to relieve earaches and traditional Chinese medicine uses it to treat infections and dysentery. Its syrup purportedly treats dry coughs.

It has been an unexpected treat to discover pink purslane in my yard. Finding a preponderance of volunteer plants that not only look pretty but also taste good and attract wildlife is nothing short of wondrous. Yes, they are weeds and, yes, they spread robustly. But is that really so bad?

Perhaps A.A. Milne had it right when he wrote, "Weeds are flowers too, once you get to know them."
 

New to gardening? Plant a cherry tomato!

Tomatoes the size of large marbles grow in clusters on heat-loving cherry tomato plants

Simply Living
July 18, 2011

If you have never gardened before but want to begin, plant a cherry tomato. Fast-growing, prolific and practically foolproof, these marble-sized red, orange or yellow fruit (yes, tomatoes are actually fruit, not vegetables) make a wonderful first-time gardening project.

One plant is all you need. A single cherry tomato planted in rich, loamy soil will produce more fruit than most people can eat. I know because I have four, and that's three plants more than needed to fulfill the culinary needs of my family.

Unlike many other vegetables, cherry tomatoes like hot weather. Plant a seedling now and by the end of August, you'll have surplus tomatoes to share with friends. We grow our plants in 15-gallon nursery pots, but they also do well when planted directly in the ground.

Successful gardening of cherry tomatoes depends on three basic variables: location, soil and water.

Location: Choose a sunny spot. These members of the nightshade family require six or more hours of sunshine to do what they do best — produce prodigious amounts of bite-sized fruit. Because of their propensity to sprawl, give them plenty of room to expand. Seedlings might be little when purchased, but young plants grow quickly. That's especially true when planted in the right kind of soil.

Soil: We like a homemade blend of compost, manure and peat augmented with wood chips for aeration, but if you're a new gardener, you might want to buy a ready-made mixture formulated for vegetables. Miracle-Gro, Jungle Growth and Scott's are among the many companies offering such products. Some even include built-in time-release fertilizers.

Water: A regular irrigation schedule, supplemented by hand watering when needed, is necessary for good growth and production. Determining how often to water is a matter of experimentation. Tomatoes that are not getting enough moisture will have wilted leaves, while overwatering causes the fruit to split. We mulch our tomatoes heavily with grass clippings to preserve moisture and water daily. In areas where water requirements limit irrigation to twice a week, it helps to supplement by hand. Besides, spending time in the garden watering plants is a good way to become familiar with each plant's needs.

Like most garden plants, cherry tomatoes are vulnerable to certain insects and disease problems. Fungus and viruses can affect plant production. Caterpillars can munch leaves, while slugs, snails and stinkbugs can damage the fruit. Fortunately, potential problems are easy to nip in the bud when you are frequently outside watering your plants or harvesting fruit. We opt for hand-picking pests instead of blasting them with pesticides, but both methods are effective.

The biggest mistake I make growing cherry tomatoes is providing inadequate staking. A healthy plant can grow 6 or more feet tall and almost as broad. This year I thought I was being clever to surround each seedling with a bamboo teepee. For the first few weeks, I diligently secured the growing stems to the upright canes with garden twine, but before long they grew so fast, I couldn't keep up. When I enter the garden now, the teepees tilt precariously, and the plants take up so much space I can barely squeeze by.

In an ideal world, my staking and tying would have continued throughout the plants' long productive period, and no stems would be touching the ground, but this is hardly an ideal world. My lack of attentiveness resulted in limbs lying directly on the ground, where crawling bugs have easy access. I won't be harvesting those tomatoes. Fortunately, I won't need to.

The cherry tomato plants in my garden are producing more fruit than I can eat, so it doesn't matter if a few go to waste or wind up as the main course of an insect's supper. However, over time, many of those unpicked or dropped fruit will sprout into more cherry tomato plants. That's where all my present plants came from. They began life as last year's dropped fruit.

If you're a newbie gardener looking for an entree to the world of gardening, cherry tomatoes is the way to go. But be forewarned: Successful gardeners must be ruthless. One cherry tomato plant today will turn into multiple plants next season. When they do, thin out those volunteers mercilessly, saving only one or two of the healthiest-looking specimens as keepers. Do that, and your reward will be a controllable harvest of homegrown goodness.

Being a parent means living in an unending zone of crisis

It's not unusual for a parent to inadvertently get locked out of a car but when a baby is locked inside, it's time to call 911,

Simply Living
July 11, 2011

There should be a sign on our front door that says "Entering Crisis Zone." Hardly a day goes by without some emergency commanding our attention.

Today's crisis occurred minutes after Ralph and I lay down for our midday rest. We were settling down on the bed — me with a book in hand, Ralph already sprawled out, ready to snooze — when the phone rang. It was on Ralph's side of the bed, so he picked up. Our daughter was on the line in near hysterics.

"What happened?" I heard him ask before he switched on the phone's speaker. "You locked yourself out? Where? And the baby's in the car?"

"In the parking lot at Target," my daughter explained. I could hear the trembling in her voice. "What should I do?"

Our 23-month-old grandson was inside my daughter's locked van in a Target parking lot. Unfortunately, the clicker and keys were in the car, too. When her shopping was completed, Amber had fastened the tired baby into his car seat, shut the door and instantly realized that she had locked the baby in — and herself out of — the vehicle.

It's an easy mistake to make. I once locked myself out of my car twice in one day! However, I never locked myself out with a baby in the car, and never in the middle of one of Florida's hot summer days.

"Let me call Target and see if the security guard can help," I said, as I hurried to the computer to look up the Clermont Target phone number.

While I talked to a helpful employee, Ralph used the cellphone to relay information to Amber.

"The security officer is trying to find you in the parking lot," he told her. "Wave your arms or do something so she can find you."

Unfortunately, in her anxiety, Amber neglected to tell me which Target she was patronizing. I assumed it was the one in Clermont, but I assumed wrong.

"I'm not in Clermont," Amber explained. I could hear our grandson's cries in the background. "I'm at the Target in Winter Garden."

Back to the computer I went, searching simultaneously for Target's Winter Garden phone number and for local locksmiths. When I got the Target representative on the line, her response was unexpected. "We can't help you," she said. "Call 911."

The locksmith said the same. "If the child is under 2," he explained, "you need to call the fire department. They'll come right out."

And they did. Our daughter called 911, and help quickly arrived. The van door was unlocked, and our grandson's tears stopped as soon as his mother picked him up. Everyone was fine, if a bit shook up.

"Well, that was unexpected," my husband said, as we walked back to the bedroom. "You never know what's going to happen."

He's right. You never do. The entire episode probably took less than 20 minutes, but it was 20 minutes of adrenaline- pumping tension for everyone involved. That's how life is. One minute you're lying down, ready to take a nap. The next minute you're in crisis mode, calling 911.

Maybe the only sign I need on my front door is one saying "Parents Live Here." Being a parent — no matter how old your children are, or even if your children have children of their own and no longer live at home — means living in a never-ending zone of crisis.

"Putting out fires," my husband said. "That's what we're good at."

I couldn't agree more.

Fireworks can't compare with nature's own sky shows

Sky shows aren't always pyrotechnical...

Simply Living
July 4, 2011

Many Floridians will be attending firework displays tonight as part of their Fourth of July celebration. Pyrotechnics have been associated with Independence Day since July 4, 1777, a year after the first public reading of the Declaration of Independence in Philadelphia. In those days, revelers celebrated the day by lighting bonfires, ringing bells and setting off fireworks.

Although Congress did not make the Fourth of July an official holiday until 1870, people continued to mark the day by igniting black gunpowder and other explosives. Right from the start, fireworks became an Independence Day tradition accepted by all and loved by most.

Although I appreciate the spectacle of orchestrated pyrotechnic displays, they don't make my heart sing. Despite living in theme-park-crazy Central Florida, where, for the price of admission, one can attend extraordinary illuminations, I shy away from such over-the-top events. Even smaller, city-sponsored displays or backyard blasts of bottle rockets fail to pique my interest. Given the choice of watching fireworks light up the night sky or watching stars do the same thing, I choose stars every time.

I'd rather sit on my front porch on July 4 (or, for that matter, on any other day), gazing out and upward. With a cup of tea in hand, friends and family nearby, I savor the pleasure of nature's own sky show.

On past Independence Days, my stay-at-home pastime has yielded some amazing performances. I've seen beautiful moonrises reflected on the lake as well as moonless nights filled with twinkling stars. Flickering fireflies have added sparkle to the lawn, while fleeting meteors have showered the sky.

On nights when it has been stormy, lightning has illuminated the darkness. I've been entertained by the percussive tattoo of raindrops on the roof accompanied by jagged streaks of white and the roar of thunder. Heat lightning has been equally impressive. I've watched silent streaks of brightness do an electrifying dance.

Because of Central Florida's fabulous cloud shows, lightning-free Independence Days have also been captivating. Puffy pillows of shape-shifting clouds change color by the minute, capturing my imagination and inspiring awe. Why pay for fireworks that explode in patterns when cloud patterns are there, free for the watching?

But my passion for nature's own sky show isn't about money. It centers on beauty and the wonder of nature. Dusk is a special time of every day, holiday or not. Sunset is a dash of transition, dividing the day into light and dark.

The waning sunlight triggers activity for many mammals, birds, insects, amphibians and reptiles. Diurnal birds fly by in a "V" formation. As they head home to roost, nocturnal creatures are just waking up. A decided buzz underscores the evening hours. At dusk, an insect chorus presents a rising song accompanied by the steady croak of frogs and toads. Aerial entertainment begins with dragonflies, followed by bats, nightjars and owls. I get more pleasure watching the erratic flight of mosquito-catching bats than watching Roman candles, missiles or flowery diadems.

Even without artificial illumination, nature puts on impressive displays. And if you miss one show, there will be another — not only on July 4 but every night of the year.

The best part of any trip is coming home

The last leg in any trip is the dirt road home

SIMPLY LIVING
June 27, 2011

Home.  What a wonderful word.  Only four letters but they encompass so much. 

I was away from my own home last weekend to spend time with my very pregnant daughter and her sweet husband in Northampton, Mass.  Jenny and Brett will soon be first-time parents to not one but two babies.  Before the twins are born, I was eager to spend time with the child I birthed 30 years ago. 

Northampton, Mass. is a vibrant college town nestled in a fertile valley where lush gardens and tall trees surround pretty wood-frame houses.  Jenny and Brett live on the bottom floor of an older two-family building.  It is a lovely place in an exciting area. 

Our visit was the perfect balance of at-home and in-town time.  We filled the hours with meandering walks through picturesque neighborhoods and intimate talks in the cozy quarters of Jenny and Brett’s house.  We perused weekend tag sales as well as the offerings at local shops.  In addition to tasty creations cooked up in their kitchen, we lunched at a favorite restaurant and participated in a strawberry shortcake supper to celebrate a nearby town’s 250-year anniversary.  I was able to catch up with mutual friends with enough time left over to pull a few weeds in Jenny and Brett’s garden. 

The trip was a success yet I was elated to return home.

Home.  How happy I was to be back in my own bed with my husband by my side.  My yard.  My garden.  My potted plants in the porch.  My kitchen table.  My favorite food in the fridge.  Patterns and routines of my own creation. 

Going away can be wonderful but coming home is the best.

I’m grateful to be so content.  Some people struggle their entire lives to find a place where they feel so at peace.  On my trip, I renewed contact with one such person, a young traveler friend who has spent years at a time in far off locales exploring different cultures. 

“What do you want to do,” I asked her, “now that you’re back in the States?  Where would you like to be?  Do you want to settle down?”

I found her answer unsettling. 

“I have no plans,” she said.  “I could be anywhere, go anywhere, do anything I want.”

I suppose some people think her situation idyllic but to me the thought of constantly traveling from one place to another is disconcerting.  Where is your home base when you are constantly on the move?  Where are your roots? 

In my mind, the very concept of home involves the putting down of roots.  Home is a respite, a safety net, a place where I can retreat from worries, disappointments and woes.  It isn’t always perfect but it’s always there.  It is shelter, security and asylum when needed. 

As I flew back from New England, I thought about home and pondered its meaning.  I was on a full flight.  Passengers who were either returning from or en route to a home of their own occupied every seat.  Although we come from different backgrounds and live in different places, I suspect each of us share similar yearnings.  At the end of our trip, we all want to arrive safely at our destination.  We want to feel welcome and secure.  We want to be home

I went away for a weekend and I had a great time.  But the best part – the part I treasure most – happened after my drive back from the airport.  It was when I stepped out of the car and into my husband’s waiting arms. 

Each of us defines home differently.  To my young friend, it’s a backpack and the excitement of exploration.  To others it’s four walls surrounding a big hearth.  And sometimes it’s as basic as a loved one’s embrace. 

Effective weeding involves getting to the root of the problem

The EZ Digger makes weeding more efficient

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 20, 2011)

I've been pulling weeds. My body is sweaty and smudged with dirt, but my mind is surprisingly clear.

Before working in the garden, mental weeds had infiltrated my thoughts. A muddle of small (and some not-so-small) problems had taken root in the fertile soil of my imagination. Bit by bit, they had multiplied, overshadowing seeds of reason.

Fortunately, a desire for fresh tomatoes broke the cycle.

I got up and went into the garden, brushing past unwanted growth on my way to the tomato plants. After filling my basket, I looked over the situation and made a decision. I set the basket down on the bench, put on my gardening gloves and got busy.

I've always liked weeding. There's a certain satisfaction to be had thwarting the spread of insidious invaders. A few good yanks can dislodge an intruder. A couple of more tugs and a stack of spent greenery has filled the wheelbarrow. Weeding is honest work that produces visible results.

I can't believe how quickly time went by as I unearthed one tenacious sprig after another. My husband was already in the garden. Knowing my mood and seeing me so unexpectedly occupied, Ralph tentatively approached with a question.

"Want to use my weeding tool?" he asked, referring to the EZ Digger, a plow-shaped hand spear he bought from Fedco Co-op Garden Supplies in Maine.

Ralph has been singing the praises of this weeding tool for months. He loves the way the 7-inch-long by 3-inch-wide blade with the tapered point slices through soil to release deep roots.

"You don't want to just pull out the tops," he's always saying. "To do a good job weeding, you have to pull out the roots."

Ever since he first tried the tool, Ralph has encouraged me to use it. Unfortunately, I have always shunned his advice, casting a deaf ear on his repeated pleas. In my mind, weeding is supposed to be hard work best done with brute strength and sweat alone. Any tool that makes it easier seems oddly out of place. However, this time when he asked, I accepted his offer. I picked up the tool and took it in my hand.

The sharp, pointy blade reaches deep in the ground, loosening the soil around stubborn roots. Rather than replacing the "yanks, grunts and tugs," it complements them, making the job more efficient and satisfying.

Ralph and I worked alongside each other compatibly. He listened to music on his headphones while replanting vegetables while I discarded worries and unpleasant thoughts with every pulled weed. I tossed stress and unhappiness on the compost along with piles of pulled plants. By the time we were finished, the garden looked better, and my mood had improved.

It's no surprise that gardening is therapeutic. Tending a flowerbed or a patch of vegetables provides far more benefits than food for the table or blooms for a vase. Gardening is exercise. It's also relaxation. Digging in the dirt — with or without a useful tool — dislodges worries, along with weeds.

But my husband is right: Regardless of how hard you work, weeds will return if you just break off the tops. Whether mental or physical, getting to the root of the matter is essential.

Find the root. Pull it out. Start over fresh.

Sometimes the only way to get out of a funk is to get into the gunk of hands-on gardening.

An outdoor spigot keeps indoor floors clean

A simple spigot outside the entry door can help keep flooring dirt free

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 13, 2011)

We recently had our carpet cleaned for the first time in 20 years. After two decades of constant use, you'd think the rugs would be filthy, but they weren't bad at all. Except for a small area in front of the fridge and stove (yes, our kitchen is carpeted), we had no noticeable stains.

There are three reasons that our wall-to-wall covering stayed in such good shape for so many years:

•Instead of a plush texture, we chose a commercial-grade, tightly woven carpet.
•All spills and dirt are cleaned up immediately.
•We wash off shoes or bare feet before entering the house.

Residential carpeting tends to be thick and plush, chosen more for softness and appearance than function and durability. Commercial floor coverings are the opposite, selected for ease of maintenance, long life and lower cost. Of course, some carpets have all those characteristics, but they are usually pricey.

When we built our house in 1992, our wallets were thin and our needs were many. Instead of buying top-of-the-line residential carpeting, we bought an upgraded pad to put under an inexpensive, tightly woven commercial-grade carpet. The higher-quality pad provided a plush feel to an otherwise hard surface. Also helpful are the flecks in our carpet's predominantly blue color. The subtle shades of other colors help disguise dirt.

Although our carpet choice was somewhat unconventional for home use, it suited the needs of our family. At the time, we were two adults and four young children plus two (supposedly) outdoor pets. Comfort was as important to us as durability, since we have always spent considerable time on the floor sitting, stretching and playing with the kids.

We haven't been disappointed. Our low-end, commercial-grade wall-to-wall looks and feels good. It stood the test of time remarkably well.

With the right carpet, cleanup is easy. A battery-operated vacuum and damp washcloth work wonders to make messes disappear quickly. We seldom use anything stronger than plain water or soap and water to wash away those inevitable spills, "accidents" and tracked-in grit. The key to successful maintenance is on-the-spot spot cleaning. My cleaning mantra is: Immediate attention prevents retention.

An even more effective way to stop sand, garden dirt and assorted outdoor detritus from working its way into the rug is to make a habit of rinsing off shoes or feet before entering the house. In some cultures, removing shoes upon coming inside is a normal part of everyday life. Our family takes a different approach. We hose away potential problems. My clever husband installed foot-level spigots just outside our two main entry doors.

Ralph's foot-washing device was composed of a piece of PVC pipe tapped into a main water line. The pipe runs from the main line along the house to the doorway. At that point, a 90-degree elbow enables the pipe to turn upward for about three feet. Then, with the help of two more elbows and a valve, it crosses the wall before curving back down. This "U-shaped" design permits us to control water flow from a waist-high lever while rinsing our shoes or bare feet on the ground. It's a natural setup, very convenient and easy to use.

As someone who has owned rental homes for 35 years, I've seen my share of badly abused flooring. A careless resident can ruin new carpeting in a matter of months while a careful person can keep carpet looking new for years.

Living in a carpeted home can be pleasant if the floor covering meets the homeowner's needs. For us, comfort was as important as durability, low cost and proper maintenance. Add to the mix a skillful, inventive spouse and you have a combination too noteworthy to sweep under the rug.

A culinary equation

Sweet basil is a flavorful herb that loves hot weather

Simply Living

Basil=pesto, and pesto=yum!

I'm no mathematical genius, but the above equation holds a simple truth.  It's also true that there's finally enough basil in the garden to make pesto.

Basil loves hot weather, and the recent blast of tropical heat encouraged our basil seedlings to sport an abundance of new leaves.

Sweet basil is a fragrant culinary herb in the same family as peppermint. Although this familiar, easy-to-grow plant is supposedly an annual, in Florida it often acts like a perennial, reseeding itself in the garden bed.

Last April, my husband sowed basil seeds in several 15-gallon containers filled with a rich mixture of composted manure, peat and woodchips for aeration. Although the seeds sprouted in a timely fashion, that's about all they did.

"What's the matter with the basil?" I kept asking. "It's not growing much. Do you think I should buy some young plants instead?"

I was impatient. I wanted the basil to get big so that I could start snipping off leaves to make pesto. Pesto is a flavorful paste composed of basil leaves, chopped nuts, garlic and olive oil that Ralph and I use liberally in many of our meals. It seemed like the young plants, which had sprouted a couple sets of small leaves, were going to remain that size forever.

"Be patient," my husband insisted. "I planted plenty of basil. You'll have more than you know what to do with pretty soon."

I was doubtful then, but I believe him now.

Toward the end of May, when daytime temperatures climbed into the 90s, our container garden suddenly overflowed with basil-gone-wild. Overnight, scrawny seedlings filled out, turning into plump bundles of pungent goodness. Within weeks, I went from fretting over the lack of aromatic herbs to wondering if I could keep up with the supply.

Basil is native to India, where it remains woven into the fiber of everyday life. Worldwide, there are more than 160 named cultivars of this heat-loving plant. Some have variegated or curly leaves that, when crushed, emit the aroma of cloves, cinnamon, lemon or camphor. The leaves also vary widely in color, from purple to red, blue and various shades of green.

Basil has anti-oxidant, anti-inflammatory and anti-bacterial properties. Herbalists have long tapped the plant's value as a tea, tincture, infusion or essential oil. However, its most common use is culinary, with pesto topping popularity charts.

My pesto recipe calls for about two dozen broad basil leaves, rinsed, shaken dry and chopped to a fine paste. After placing the well-chopped leaves in a bowl or jar, I mince about half a cup of walnuts and add them to the mix. Over the top, I pour enough extra-virgin olive oil to cover the combination. Before stirring it all together, I add a couple of freshly pressed garlic cloves and a few shakes of a no-salt kelp seasoning powder.

Traditional pesto recipes call for pine or pignoli nuts. I like pignolis and occasionally use them for pesto making, but pine nuts are pricey. Walnuts work just as well, are less expensive, chop easily and provide a pleasing flavor and texture.

Another traditional ingredient is hard cheese. I prefer pesto with Romano or Parmesan, but my salt-conscious husband does not. We compromise by adding grated cheese at the table, as individually desired.

As much as I enjoy picking and inhaling the fragrant scent of basil, my favorite part of the pesto-making process is chopping the leaves and walnuts. In the past, I used a blender or food processor. Both appliances produce a consistently fine and smooth paste but are noisy and annoying to clean. Since I frequently make small portions of pesto, I need the experience to be fun.

That's why I chop the nuts and basil by hand.

I find the rhythmic sound of a smooth-bladed knife on a wood chopping block soothing in an I'm-forced-to-slow-down-and-enjoy-the-moment sort of way. It always amazes me how quickly the consistency of large basil leaves and whole walnuts changes after a few minutes of persistent blade action.

My basil concoction adds the flavor of summer to a meal of whole grain noodles, a stir-fry, mixed vegetable dish, homemade pizza or even a sandwich spread. For two people, one making usually lasts about a week, but soon I'll be preparing for winter.

The slightest hint of cold causes basil leaves to wilt, so until Ralph and I master the art of indoor herb growing, we'll need to keep the freezer stocked with frozen pesto. You needn't be a math whiz to see the logic in that.