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.

Unidentified wildlife sighting...what was it?

Was it a weasel?

A mink?

or, a more likely possibility, a fox squirrel

Simply Living

May 30, 2011

I saw a weasel or a mink.  At least, I think I did.  I was driving down a bumpy dirt road leading a prospective tenant to one of our more secluded rental homes when a medium sized animal dashed across the road. 

My first thought was, “That’s a big squirrel.” 

But something felt off. 

The animal seemed too large for a squirrel and its coloring was wrong.  Predominantly brown with a decidedly darker tail, it didn’t look like any squirrel I’d ever seen.  As my car crept closer, the fur-covered critter stopped running and posed on its hind legs. 

“Hmmm…,” I thought as I slowed the car, “I wonder what it is…” 

Well aware that it was being watching, the mysterious mammal sniffed the air and looked around before deciding to head for the trees.  That was when I knew for sure it was not a squirrel.  When squirrels run, they scamper.  Their bodies lack an undulating gait.  The animal I saw was sleek and smooth.  It moved like an otter.  As it vanished into the pinewoods, it looked like a large inchworm on speed.

My encounter was over in seconds but I had sufficient time to make certain assumptions.  Although it had an otter-like gait, it was not an otter.  This creature had the same long, lean body type but it was furrier and smaller than a river otter. 

“Is it a mink,” I wondered, “or a weasel?”  I have never seen either in Florida but that doesn’t mean they are not here. 

I continued on my drive and showed the rental house to the prospective tenants but my mind was on the sighting.  When I returned home afterwards, I couldn’t wait to share the experience with my husband.

“I think I saw a weasel,” I told Ralph excitedly, “in the pinewoods outside our gate, although it could have been a mink.”

“There aren’t mink in Florida,” my sweet husband replied laughingly.  “Are you sure it wasn’t an otter?”

I hate being alone when I spot wildlife.  It vastly decreases the believability factor.

“I was definitely not an otter and I don’t think you’re right about minks,” I said as I walked into my office and turned on the computer. 

Ralph disappeared into his own office and while he plowed through stacks of paperwork, I perused Florida wildlife sites.

It turns out that mink and weasels do indeed live in Florida but sightings of these elusive animals are rare.  The Southern Mink, Mustela vison evergladenis, is a threatened species that lives mainly in three south Florida counties.  Although Lake County is a long way from the southern mink’s home turf, its description in The Field Guide to Rare Animals of Florida – especially the part about the fur coloration - sounded spot on: 

Medium sized (17 - 25 in) member of the weasel family, with the characteristic long, slender body, short legs, long tail, small head, and rounded ears.  South Florida individuals are smaller than other subspecies.  Fur is dark brown over most of the body and blackish brown on the distal half of the tail.  Occasional specimens have a white patch on the chin or the chest.

Weasels are in the Mustelidae family, which also includes mink, otters, skunks and ermine.  Like the southern mink, three species - the Florida weasel, long-tailed weasel and southeastern weasel - also reside in the Sunshine State.  While weasels are not officially threatened, calculating statistics on their population has been difficult since they are so seldom seen.

Of the three types of weasels in Florida, all but the southeastern weasel live in Central Florida.  Weasels are smaller than their mink cousins.  These smallest of Florida carnivores have long, slender bodies, short legs and long tails, tipped in black.  I was happy to discover that they are often compared in size to gray squirrels.

Although I have no idea if I’ll ever see this furry fellow again, I’m sure of one thing – I will be looking for it whenever I’m outside.  Several years ago, I saw a deer in a nearby wood.  I haven’t seen another deer since, but that hasn’t stopped me from scanning the forest with hopeful eyes.  The same is true for wild boars, fox, coyotes and bobcats.  I’ve observed them all on occasion but those occasions are rare enough to keep me always on the lookout.

There’s no question - spotting wildlife is exciting.  Even fleeting encounters like the one with the potential weasel/mink make my day and fill me with awe.  They also make me wonder:  how many other animals am I missing?  So much goes on in nature without our knowing it.  Even now, as I ponder these thoughts, animals are on the prowl.  It’s a humbling realization.

Postscript:  Sharon, who read the print version of my column in the Orlando Sentinel, said I might have seen a Sherman's fox squirrel.  After researching this "species of special concern" I think she may be right.  Perhaps my sighting wasn't of a weasel or an Everglade mink after all.  

The Sherman fox squirrel is the largest squirrel in the western hemisphere - about twice as big as the common gray squirrel.  Its fur colors varies greatly so it is possible that the black tail I noticed along with the lighter colored body could have belonged to the fox squirrel.  Another telling fact:  fox squirrels are often found in pine forests - the very place where I saw my mystery animal - where they feed on seeds inside pine cones. 

Lubbers under attack

In the nymph stage, lubber grasshoppers have soft black skin with yellow and red stripes

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 23, 2011)

Every evening, my husband goes hunting. He doesn't carry a gun or a quiver of arrows. His weapon is a one-gallon bucket filled with soapy water. The prey he single-mindedly stalks is grasshoppers — specifically, the infamous lubber grasshopper. Over the past few weeks, my gentle, sweet husband has caused the demise of several hundred of these plant-eating monsters.

Landlubbers must really like our property because each spring, baby lubbers emerge to parade across the ground. Throughout Florida, Georgia and other Southern states, nymphs barely a half-inch long hatch out of eggs laid by adult females who cleverly deposited their eggs close to sources of leafy vegetation at the end of the previous summer.

Because each fertile female can produce more than 100 eggs, it's not surprising that springtime heralds a population explosion. With no predators except loggerhead shrikes (and gardeners like my husband), the land is littered with these hungry nibblers.

Unfortunately, lubbers don't stay little for long. Young grasshoppers go through five stages of development, called instars. By the middle of summer, they have expanded to four inches, thanks to a voracious appetite for tender greens. Although lubbers will eat most vegetation, they are especially fond of rain lilies, amaryllis and other bulb plants. Their exoskeleton, which is initially soft, black and striped with bands of yellow and red, turns hard at maturity. As they mature, their color also changes from black to a dull yellow with spots of red and black.

Most grasshoppers can fly, but lubbers cannot. Their wings are not large enough to support the weight of these fast-growing invertebrates. However, being unable to fly isn't a handicap. They are adept at hopping and crawling, and their bright color warns potential predators to stay away. When that's not a sufficient deterrent, they also have the ability to hiss, spit and spray foul-smelling foam. The entire package yields one formidable, forbidding insect.

Despite its put-offish appearance and unpleasant defenses, I don't think my husband would have taken on lubbers had they stuck to ornamentals. They didn't. Their fatal mistake was to target Ralph's broccoli plants.

At this point, I should mention that broccoli is my husband's nirvana. If he had to choose one vegetable to eat, it would be no contest. Broccoli would be the hands-down winner.

This year, with more time to garden than he has had in a long while, his broccoli plants were a wonder to behold. Apparently, the lubbers thought so too. Every evening, several dozen settled on the uppermost leaves of the broccoli plants to nibble their way to sleep.

Seeing so many of the destructive insects in such a docile and vulnerable state was more than my husband could tolerate. It triggered his attack mode.

"They're so easy to catch," he said as he walked up and down the row brushing handfuls of bugs into the suds. "You should try it."

I declined his invitation but tagged along to watch the show. I was already familiar with lubber hunting.

Before my husband's broccoli-incited warfare, I had spent years waging my own battle with these plant-eating bugs. Their ability to chew their way through some of my favorite flowers had activated my own inner hunter. I have not only drowned the dastardly critters in soapy water but have snipped them in half with a scissor, stomped on their massive bodies with a heavy-soled shoe and even, in desperation, squished them between gloved fingers.

According to my husband, my methods are too gross. Instead, he takes a nightly walk through the garden rows, handpicking lubbers off the leaves of his precious plants. His diligence has paid off, as I see the lubber population waning. The question is: Will his efforts minimize next year's population?

Meanwhile, whatever grasshoppers have eluded Ralph's skillful hunts are growing larger, bolder and more unapproachable by the day. They have yet to molt into their final and most intimidating instar — the yellow-shelled stage, when they look like miniature lobsters and behave with bravado more akin to a bear than a bug. When that happens, I'll be curious to see how my husband responds. Will his nightly vigil continue, or will the lubber's bluster deter his efforts?

My husband's a brave man with a strong desire to defend his broccoli, but I fear he may have met his match in the mature lubber.

"When they get bigger, I'll just put on gloves," he insists. "Big, thick rubber gloves."

Rubber, meet lubber. Let the battle begin!

Too many books

After sorting, books are neatly stacked on shelves

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 16, 2011)


Books. I love them, but I have too many. The bookshelves in my house hold a lifetime collection of hardback and soft-cover selections. Practically every room of our house contains one or more bookshelf. The printed words of famous and lesser-known authors even fill the attic, where stacks of too-special-to-give-away-but-not-special-enough-to-display tomes are quietly stowed.

I love books, but clearly, my passion was out of control. My husband and I had accumulated printed matter to the point where — at least for me — it provided more pressure than pleasure. I hated seeing silverfish eat their way through pages, and my nose didn't like the layer of dust that settled on the bindings. "Musty" and "messy" defined the shelves. In some rooms, books overflowed onto the floor. The time was ripe for a reassessment of our bibliophile predilection.

Last weekend, I took it upon myself to tackle the problem. Difficult as I find it to dispose of the books, I made myself sort through our horde of written words.

Books differ from other material items. I can toss away old clothes and knickknacks without much trouble, but when it comes to an author's typeset words, I hesitate. Do I really want to give it away? Will I miss it if it's gone? Will the children want it? Or the grandchildren?

When Ralph and I started our family, my in-laws gave us a box full of children's books. "Ferdinand the Bull," "Harold and the Purple Crayon" and "The Possum That Couldn't" were among the many wonderful picture and story books my kind in-laws had thoughtfully saved. My father-in-law carefully re-bound frayed covers and taped over rips before passing the books to the newest generation. I tried to follow their example and, for the most part, succeeded. When I was sorting through the bookshelves the other day, I didn't toss away those treasured tomes. I placed them in a glass-covered bookcase for my own grandchildren's use.

Other books weren't as lucky. I filled about 10 boxes with old almanacs, novels, essays, collections of stories, reference works and schoolbooks. As difficult as it was to decide which would stay and which ones would go, the times we live in made my work easier.

We purchased most of the books in pre-computer days. Back then, if you wanted information you had two choices: Go to the library or buy a book. Ralph and I did both. But why hold on to books if the information they contain can be easily found elsewhere? These days, if I want to look something up, I turn to the Internet instead of paper pages. I still frequent public libraries, but my need for a vast in-house library has considerably waned.

The fact that I have whittled down our collection by getting rid of few hundred books doesn't mean my house has become a literary-free zone. It never will. Even though we have entered the e-book era, I still love the feel of a real book in my hands. I love the excitement of turning pages and staying awake into the wee hours to finish a novel too captivating to put down. One of life's simple pleasures is being surrounded by special books whose words either resonate with meaning or trigger precious memories.

As difficult as it was to start this project, the finished product was worth the effort. I found getting rid of stuff to be extremely satisfying. My house looks better, and that makes me feel better. I love books, but I've found it important at certain stages of life to learn to let go. Letting go is a sensible release, and de-cluttering is an exercise in delight.

Two owls strive for second chance at parenting

Mama screech owl with eggs in her recycled mailbox nest

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 9, 2011)

Screech owls are a hoot. I know this because I've been following one pair's antics for the past two months.

For the fourth consecutive year, a nesting couple of Eastern screech owls has returned to a recycled mailbox mounted under the porch eaves. If their chosen location were any closer to our house, it would be inside.

This is the second mailbox the diminutive owls have occupied. The first mailbox is also under the porch eaves but mounted lower, in a more exposed location. The female laid four eggs in that box, but three of the eggs fell out, at which point she abandoned the fourth.

It might be helpful to interject a few words about screech owl nest-building skills: They don't have any.

A screech owl nest is hardly a nest at all. The basic process is this: Find a hollow space. Claim it. Lay eggs. No laborious construction effort is required, and no soft, downy material is gathered. Although comfort isn't paramount, efficiency is. Screech owls make fast work out of finding a site so that they can get down to the important business of raising a family.

Hardwood trees are the most common nest location for screech owl nests. Cavities abandoned by flickers or pileated woodpeckers are particularly popular. I'm sure there are oaks in our woods containing screech owl nests, but I haven't sought them out because … well, I'm spoiled. The pair that has adopted our recycled mailbox has made bird watching so easy.

I can sit in my porch practically underneath the nesting female and listen to her shift about in her metal home. The female owl is a fidgety creature. I guess that's understandable when you spend all day and night inside a large tin can filled with nothing more than your accumulated eggs and whatever tidbits of food your devoted mate has deposited on your doorstep. Flying insects, moles, mice, lizards and spiders are among the edibles screech owls consume.

When the female fidgets, she makes the eggs roll, reminding me of balls in a bowling alley. Without a lip to hold them in, it's no wonder she lost three eggs from the first mailbox.

Eastern screech owls lay one egg every other day until a clutch of two to eight eggs (the average is four) is produced. Incubation lasts 28 days, counted from the time of the first egg. While screech owls mate for life, their partnership includes definite male/female roles. For instance, the male plays no part in the actual incubation. His job — and it's a job at which he excels — is to be a loyal protector and provider of food.

Every day, while his partner sits in her metal hothouse, Mr. Owl positions himself in one of three nearby perches, on a branch of a bottlebrush tree, in a clump of bamboo or next to the porch door. It is his job to sit there, less than 20 feet away from his family, to watch over and protect them.

A screech owl's small size — less than 10 inches tall and weighing under 8 ounces — makes it vulnerable. Predators include larger owls, raccoons, weasels, snakes and even blue jays. By spending his daylight hours so close to his mate with a clear view of her nest, the male owl is ready to thwart potential attacks. I have yet to see him defend his nest, but every day I watch him watch his surroundings.

The male's job description changes at night. Dusk signals the end of guard duty and the start of provider mode. A few days ago, I sat outside just before dark to see if I could watch the male owl leave his perch to catch food for his mate. I parked myself in a chair less than three feet from his perch and commenced waiting.

He saw me. I saw him. He didn't seem the least bit threatened or disturbed by my presence.

At one point, he stepped a few inches closer to the edge of his perch, a signal that flight time was imminent. I put my book down and focused all of my attention on the male screech owl. I consider myself an astute observer. Nonetheless, I missed his takeoff. An owl's flight is so fast and silent, even a mindful watcher can be caught unaware.

Being privy to the screech owls' steadfast devotion and unwavering patience reminds me of a nursery rhyme I learned long ago:

The wise old owl
Sat in an oak.
The more he saw,
The less he spoke.
The less he spoke,
The more he heard.
Why can't we be like
That wise old bird?

Making memories one berry at a time

Third generation picker, Atom Fischler, feeds a ripe blueberry to his grandpa

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 2, 2011)

Picking fruit is one of our family's favorite pastimes. Our fruit-picking fervor is obvious by the stains on our fingers and the smiles on our faces.

We're as passionate about the start of each fruit's season as most Americans are about the onset of their favorite sports. Hang a bucket from our necks and point us in the direction of some early Sharp blueberries or white-flesh peaches and we're as excited as ticket-holders on the way to the stadium.

In Central Florida, late April through May is blueberry season. This year, that most-anticipated period coincided with a visit from our daughter and son-in-law. Jenny and Brett are (for the moment) our only children who don't live in Florida. They live in Massachusetts, where forsythias and daffodils are blooming but blueberry season is still several months away.

Two days after I picked them up at the airport, we woke up early, packed the van with our assorted gear and headed over to Mark's Blueberries in Minneola. We've lived in Groveland for 20 years and, if memory serves, we've been gathering fruit at Mark's blueberry fields for that entire time.

Picking berries has always been a whole-family event. As soon as they were old enough to walk on their own, our children learned to follow rudimentary u-pick rules:

•Pick only ripe fruit.
•Don't break plants in the process.
•It's OK to eat a little as long as you pick mostly for the bucket.
•Don't dump a bucket over, especially when it's full.

Diaper-clad toddlers, like my grandson, are just beginning to understand these lessons. At 22 months old, Atom is in the "green berries are yucky" stage of learning. He listens attentively to directions like "just pick the blue ones," then proceeds to pluck whatever berry he can grab. He has the concept down, but it needs fine-tuning.

My children were equally oblivious when they were little, but repeated exposure to foraged food sped up the learning. When they were little, we went road-trip-crazy, picking our way cross-country and back and forth between Cape Cod and Florida.

Whenever we traveled, we sought out local u-pick farms. During those trips, we picked all kinds of edible delicacies, including apricots, figs, peaches, apples, cherries, assorted berries and tropical fruits. One farm worthy of repeat visits was Westmoreland Berry Farm in Colonial Beach, Va. It's a long, tedious drive from Florida to New England, and it helped to stop along the Rappahannock River in the northern neck of Virginia to gather quantities of red raspberries, plump blueberries and sweet peaches.

Memories of those long-ago times drifted back to me with Jenny and Brett visiting. Returning to Mark's with our children and grandchild reminded me of the days when our own kids were little and we spent so much time outdoors enjoying one another's company while picking fruit.

On Saturday, Amber and Atom joined us at the blueberry field. Together we trolled the rows in search of the largest, sweetest, most flavorful fruit. When Atom tired, we took turns holding and talking to him.

As usual, Amber was her industrious self, picking only the cleanest, sweetest fruit. Jenny was less fussy, as was I. To me, it's all about filling my bucket. I care less about variety and size than I do about quantity. Fill it up, take it home, start eating — that's my philosophy.

My husband is a grazer. He likes to mosey along in search of that elusive bush no one else has found. For him, each blueberry-picking excursion is a quest for that perfect find: a bush heavy with clusters of tasty, ripe berries. Despite our diverse picking styles, we managed to score enough fruit on Saturday to last until Wednesday, when Mark would reopen and Jenny and Brett had to leave.

The plan for Wednesday was to pick berries before heading to the airport. Amber, Atom and Jenny's brother Tim joined us at the field, and together we gathered more than 20 pounds in less than 45 minutes. When we returned to the house, Brett added three boxes of blueberries to his already bulging bag, and before long, another batch of fresh-from-Florida fruit was en route to New England.


I was sad to say goodbye to my daughter and son-in-law but I was glad to send them off with a taste of home. The flavor of love makes everything sweeter. With Mother's Day around the corner, it pleases me to know one of our most basic family traditions is being carried on by the next generation. A family that picks together sticks together, and in Florida, during May, that means blueberries.

Dueling Vines

A wall of jasmine covers a large section of the clay wall

 

Simply Living

Two flowering vines are competing for my attention.  Japanese honeysuckle and Confederate jasmine are both blooming right now.  Cloying aromas fill the air.  In our yard, both plants grow next to each other on the clay wall, about 40 feet away from the wisteria, which stopped flowering just before the others began.  When I walk outside and take a whiff, it’s impossible to tell which fragrance is which. 

I’ve always liked vines.  In addition to their enticing scents, I find vines inspiring.  They offer so much potential.  Filled with strength and determination, these botanical climbers twine upward, stretching toward the sky.  Wispy tendrils wind around whatever material is handy in a steadfast quest for support and height.  Their movement is compelling.  Even when vines sprawl on the ground, they do so with abandon. 

“Mine!  Mine!”  They seem to exclaim, “The world is my banquet!” 

A vine’s hunger for real estate is insatiable.  If something nearby is climbable, the vine is right on it.  It doesn’t matter if it’s a tree or trellis, wall or woodpile.  As long as there’s something to cling to, instincts kick in and a steady rise upward and outward begins.

Often, that rise is a vine’s undoing.    

An overly ambitious climber might warrant removal.  Several years ago, my son and I painstakingly tore out a solid wall of passionflower vine, which I had foolishly started from a single small plant.  I did the same with wild morning glory, another equally aggressive grower.

Both vines thrived along the clay wall.  They liked it so much they proceeded to sprawl across the wall and up the hill like out of control steamrollers.  However, instead of flattening every living thing in sight, the vines embraced them with smothering hugs.   

That’s the problem with some vines.  Their very nature gets them in trouble. 

I have an uneasy feeling that past mistakes are about to be repeated.  The problem isn’t with the honeysuckle or even the more aggressive jasmine vines.  It’s with the wisteria.  The wisteria took off this year as if injected with growth hormones.  Pumped up and on the run, it’s become the Barry Bonds of botanicals.

From my office, I look out at the clay wall.  To the right I see the wisteria, no longer blooming but lush with verdant foliage.  It fills about a 30-foot-long stretch.  To the left is a 20-foot expanse of Confederate jasmine, the white star-like flowers aromatic and full.  Both vines have managed to encompass large swaths of land while the less aggressive honeysuckle has stayed in small islands of resistance. 

“Don’t let us die!” honeysuckle vines seem to cry.  “Don’t let us be buried beneath botanical bullies.” 

It has happened before.  Neither Mexican flame vine, coral honeysuckle nor cypress vine could hold their own against more dominant climbers.  The phrase, “survival of the fittest,” usually refers to animals but it applies just as easily to plants.

My intention with the clay wall has always been to see it covered by a succession of flowers.  I envision a wall of color and different scents, one bloom and fragrance fading into another as months go by. 

Unfortunately, it hasn’t exactly worked out as planned.

Apparently, vines don’t coexist as harmoniously as I had hoped they would.  Each species is greedy for as much square footage as it can grab.  In that way, I suppose vines are like people.  They want their space and their neighbor’s space too.  Harmonious succession?  They could care less!  Cooperative interaction?  I don’t think so! 

That’s too bad because vines have so much potential.  Then again, so do people.