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Summer Preserves

February 16, 2020February 16, 2020 / PK Read / Leave a comment

**Kangaroo Grass**
Dorinth Doherty
Digital Collage made from x-rays captured at PlantBank (Australia)

My late grandmother had a shed out behind her house that was always lined with jars of summer preserves, but she was dismissive of her jewelled shelves. She claimed she did all the work out of pure habit. When she was a girl, they did real winter preparations. It was serious business, drying the grains, shaving corn, getting flour milled. It was the stuff of survival, not the modern day practice that was just in case they got snowed in for a few days.

She was born in 1910 and grew up on a farm in Washington State. During the summers I spent with her in the 1960s and 70s, she was still performing remnants of her girlhood training during WWI and then the Depression: Putting up preserves for the long winters. When she was young, preserving the harvest from the previous season also included the seeds of the next’s years crops. Properly dried, put up in sacks and hung from the rafters (at least, that’s how she described it).

**Eucalyptus I, II, III, IV**
Dorinth Doherty
Digital collage made from x-rays captured at PlantBank (Australia)

By the time I was visiting her, she was using store-bought seeds for her gardening, and didn’t truly worry about not getting through the winter. After all, there were always freezers and supermarkets. By my time, people had started putting up preserves as a hobby, not as a means of survival.

These days, preserving last years crops has taken on a whole new meaning. Around the world, seed archives have been created to safeguard plant species in the face of the climate crisis. As habitats change and disappear, as the climate heats up and becomes less predictable, we are stocking our shelves for tomorrow.

**Thirst**
Dorinth Doherty
Digital Chromogenic Lenticular Photograph

My grandmother Helen passed at age 101, but she would have been fascinated by the new preserves, the stuff we’re putting away for the long summer to come. We are placing hope in our future selves that we will be able to protect biodiversity then, even if we are failing at protecting it now.

All the images here are from the portfolio of Dornith Doherty, who is documenting these archives around the world in her Archiving Eden project.

Unique examples of the world’s plant life, not just for our consumption. They may have to last a lot longer than my grandmother’s winter preserves.

Golden Bounty

July 28, 2014July 28, 2014 / PK Read / 4 Comments

I went for a run in a solid summer rain this afternoon, and returned home to the refreshment of some ripe mirabelle plums, straight off the tree. But the next couple of days will be devoted, at least in part, to picking and processing the plum bounty before the rain ruins them all.

The mirabelle plum tree in our garden is small miracle. When we moved here almost 20 years ago, it was a stubby, dead stump. The previous owners told us the ‘peach’ tree that had been on that spot had long since succumbed to old age, they had just never gotten around to pulling up the roots. It was in a quiet corner of the garden, they had planted flowers all around, so the stump was left untended and unnoticed.

The pear tree, the green gage plum tree, the apple trees, the cherry trees, all the redcurrant bushes and raspberry canes: These got all the attention for many years. Then pear tree died one hot summer; the green gage plum tree started dropping large branches like leaves, and the raspberries were too shaded by a large cherry tree to produce. All are gone now.

But the dry stump? It sprouted after a couple of years, and we were curious to see what would happen. What happened was a mirabelle plum tree, the discreet bearer of a few tart, golden plums every year. Until this year, when the tree suddenly thrust out 10 kgs of delicious plums.

The mirabelle plum (Prunus domestica subsp. syriaca) is thought to have been introduced to Europe from Asia Minor and was established in France by the 16th century.

The Lorraine region of the country produces 15,000 tonnes of the fruit annually, 90% of which is made into jam or eau-de-vie. A non-native crop that has, like many other favorite European fruits, thrived in its adopted home.

My first batch of mirabelle jam, a simple concoction of plum halves macerated overnight in sugar, cooked up into a fine treat.

Today’s jam version will include a few sprigs of fresh thyme from the garden. Tomorrow’s mirabelles will go into making a few batches of different liquors: vodka, brandy, eau-de-vie. All to be aged and served up in winter.

A reminder of the rewards of patience when it comes to small miracles, and of time spent under a golden tree during a warm summer rain.

Plein Soleil

July 7, 2013July 7, 2013 / PK Read / Leave a comment

I was listening to a local radio station show on gardening and all the topics they discussed had to do with the awful weather we’ve had in the Lake Geneva region over the past few months. How to salvage trees and plants from the recent hail storm; the damage done to local greenhouses (one didn’t have a single pane of glass left intact); the lack of cherries this year due to a freezing spring and too much rain.

In our own garden, none of our fruit trees (cherry, apple, plum) will be producing much this year, and the reliably abundant grape vine is almost bare. The only exception is our red currant bush, which I will be harvesting over the next couple of days and putting up as jam.

This red currant bush is a holdover from the old garden - it used to be lost in a patch of scraggy raspberry canes. When we laid down on a stone path and raised bed, we left the currant bush where it was. This is its first year on its own. It looks happy. Photo: PK Read

This red currant bush is a holdover from the old garden. It used to be lost in a patch of scraggy raspberry canes planted long ago by previous owners. When we laid down on a stone path and put in raised beds, we left the currant bush where it was. This is its first year on its own. It looks happy.
Photo: PK Read

We are finally, finally in full summer mode and I thought I’d put up a few images that contrast my running path during this last freezing spring and yesterday.

This is a crossroads where I can either head back home or loop around for another round 2-mile round. Photo: PK Read

This is a crossroads where I can either head back home or loop around for another round 2-mile round. A bit dangerous with all the ice.
Photo: PK Read

The same spot in summer. And yes, this time I went for a another round.
Photo: PK Read

Then there are the fields. Winter planting always strikes me as an ode to hope and optimism in the coming of spring even as the days grow ever shorter.

A winter-planted field, thrashed by wild boar.
Photo: PK Read

The same field, ready for harvest.
Photo: PK Read

Finally, the fountain that is one of my running touchstones. It’s at the top of a steep hill that marks the halfway mark of my regular round – passing it means the rest of the run is homeward bound.

A local fountain in spring, still covered in winter algae. Actually, the fountain is drained over winter, and only allowed to fill following the spring thaw - but we had approximately three spring thaws this year. Photo: PK Read

The fountain in spring, still covered in winter algae. Actually, the fountain is drained over winter, and only allowed to fill following the spring thaw – but we had approximately three spring thaws this year.
Photo: PK Read

The summer fountain, clean and flowing.
Photo: PK Read

For the first time, a pair of northern goshawks (Accipiter gentilis) has taken up nearby residence. At least, that’s what I think they are. While there are always many hawks, large and small, that circle around and scout the fields, this is the first year I’ve had a pair regularly sweep within an arm’s length of my office window before swooping up over our garden. Big birds, their forms fill my window and I can hear their wings cut the warm air of this summer that took its time arriving.

Not the actual birds that fly past my window, but the same kind. And this is pretty much what I see for a brief moment, once or twice a day. Photo: birdskorea.org

And while it’s neither French nor pastoral, this remains one of my summer song perennials.

champagnewhisky

Never cry over spilt milk. It could've been champagne. Or whisky.

#jam

Summer Preserves

Golden Bounty

Plein Soleil