Food from our own garden

My dream of growing our own vegetables has almost rained away. There has just not been enough sunlight for the vegetables to grow properly. In addition, there has been so much rain that some plants have simply drowned. It was actually so bad that green algae grew in the little puddles that formed around the vegetable beds, since it was never dry enough for the soil to absorb all the water. Because of all the moisture, the peas as well as several other plants have developed some sort of fungal disease.

The only things thriving in this weather are slugs, which have feasted on my fragile flowers and vegetables. Can you imagine, they ate up all my radishes, except for one. The string bean plants that were large and lovely when I planted them out, were quickly reduced to unsightly stems some of which only produced a single bean.

It is easy to give up in such miserable conditions, but I was nonetheless determined that all the hard work should result in at least a couple of dinners. So today I went out between the rain showers, and harvested a small selection of vegetables as an accompaniment for the meatballs.

Well, this isn’t exactly the bountiful vegetable basket I had planned for, but it will suffice as dinner for two. Here we have potatoes in various sizes, carrots in more or less obscene shapes, a few string beans, some pea pods, a small onion, two tiny leeks, some sugar snaps, and a single cherry tomato. None of the other tomatoes have ripened yet, and I doubt whether they ever will, now that we are struggling with a growth defeating combination of low night temperatures as well as a lack of sun. However, I have not completely given up. I have brought the smaller tomato plants inside and placed them in the bay window, hoping the fruits will ripen there.

Here we have the result: Meatballs in onion sauce, potatoes, carrots, peas and green beans. Aside from the meatballs, everything comes from the garden, as does the blackcurrant juice, by the way.

Home grown produce harvested from the garden less than an hour previously tasted wonderful! I just wish there was more of it….

Turn it off!

Once I had a Persian cat. You know the sort, with a flat face and a superior attitude, as spoiled and grumpy as only a real Persian can be. She took it for granted that I lived only to cater for her every need, and as the self-appointed servant that I was, I did everything in my power to make her life as comfortable as possible: I offered her my snug and cosy lap when it was windy, found the big, warm sheepskin pillow when it was cold, and provided a shady resting place when it was hot. There was only one thing I couldn’t do anything about - rain. A fact which, needless to say, vexed her terribly.

Puss enjoyed the outdoors, but simply couldn’t bear to get her fur wet. Whenever she felt like a bit of fresh air, she wandered over to the veranda door and meowed compellingly. If, to her dismay, it was raining outside, she stood there with her backend safely inside and sniffed the air disapprovingly, before she turned and stared reproachfully at me, as if to say: Turn it off! Make this damned water falling from the sky stop!

It has been many years now since Puss departed from this life on earth. I think she is probably resting blissfully in heaven, on one of those tiny white clouds, far away from the wind and wet weather. I don’t think of her as often anymore, but I remembered her today as I stood with the veranda door ajar and stared miserably out at the rain pouring down for the umpteenth day in a row. I found myself looking up towards the weather gods, imploring them: Turn it off!

I'm so tired of rain! The consolation for summer being over, is supposed to be that autumn is so beautiful, with its warm, vibrant colours and crisp, cool air. Not this year. Now it's just grey and brown, threatening dark clouds and mud.

I don’t know if the weather gods read house blogs, but in the offhand chance they might be looking for some easy reading, I will take this opportunity to tell them what sort of autumn I would like to have:

I wish for blue skies and a sun that makes the trees look like huge flaming torches with their beautiful yellow and orange leaves.

I would like to enjoy the sight of rowan trees showing off their crimson berries.

I want to go strolling in the woods, playfully kicking through dry leaves. When I'm tired, I’d like to rest my legs and sit for a while on a dry and sun-warmed wooden bench.

I want to sit in a shelter and admire the view over a valley, while I enjoy a hot cup of coffee from my thermos.

I’d like to see sun-ripe stalks of grass bowed over, heavy with seed, promising me that they will provide green meadows when spring comes next year.

I want to see rows of hay bales, (in Norway they are covered in white plastic, and we call them “tractor eggs”.) so that the farmers and their animals have what they need through the winter.

I’d like to look at a lake reflecting the clear blue colour of the sky, and a late afternoon sun that will make even an old rowboat look picturesque.

I wish for red rosehips, bursting with promises of fragrant, pink petals.

I want to see a timeworn old fence, and run my hand over the brittle, weathered wood, knowing that it won’t rot away this autumn either.

Is it too much to hope for, you think?

Hedge funds

We’ve got plenty. Not of the monetary kind, unfortunately, but if shrubberies were legal tender, we’d be rich.

Where hedges are concerned, we are in over our heads, literally. (And that is saying something in Hubby’s case). Whoever said that boxwood grows slowly, had obviously not seen ours. The green monster in front of the veranda reached epic proportions while we were away for a few weeks. Worse still were the juniper bushes that were growing inside it, along with a few other unidentified leafy green things.

SHAPELESS. In the spring (before we painted the house) we could see the hedge was becoming way to big and completely impossible to shape nicely. As the summer progressed it threatened to take over all space. 

Although Hubby pruned it regularly with the hedge clippers, it was getting out of control and it became increasingly difficult to reach the tops.

To make matters worse, the shrubberies seem to be a favoured spot for bees. Frequently it looks like a large green buzzing mass from all the bees swarming in there. And they are not to be trifled with, as Hubby found out the hard way, a few weeks ago.

He was out attacking the boxwood again, when I suddenly heard cursing and swearing that would not be out of place in a dockside bar frequented by brawling seamen. As you can gather, Hubby is not a man to suffer in silence (what man is?) and from the level of shouting I thought he must have cut off a finger or something. But then he very quickly started to lisp and came charging into the kitchen with a hugely swollen lip. I leapt into action, and dabbed the stung lip with vinegar while desperately trying not to giggle as he spluttered “’amn it, it ‘uhts like ‘ell!” Poor, poor man!

Well, for the last week or so, the bees seem to have abandoned their favourite spot, so we figured it was safe to have another go. Obviously we knew that attacking it with secateurs would be useless, but armed with tree shears, a small saw and the hedge trimmer, we thought we’d get to the bottom of things. Alas no, as we worked our way in, it became apparent that we needed a chainsaw. The trunks and branches were thicker than a grown man’s thigh. Hell, some of them were even bigger than my thighs (All the people who’ve seen me now gasp: “Never!”)

After hours of backbreaking work we finally got the worst of it. The problem now is that the garden is strewn with enormous piles of green waste. The wheelbarrow seemed small and futile. To me it looked like we would need a tractor to clear it all away. But Hubby assured me that a wood chipper would do the trick. So off he went to the hardware store and returned with the top model from Bosch, same brand as the hedge clipper. I have to admit that I grumbled something about why it was necessary to always buy the most expensive, and he produced a copy of his DIY magazine electing this model “best in test”. So there! (Same magazine also proclaimed the clippers to be best, I think, and truth to be told, they are pretty good.)

Be that as it may, I now feel that I should get absolutely no trouble next time I want to buy something expensive. Whatever it may be, I’m sure I’ll be able to dig up a test somewhere. (“Yes darling, L’Occitane soap is expensive yes, but it’s the best and as you’ve told me – quality costs.”) Hm, come to think of it, this hasn’t turned out all bad after all.

Only thing is, of course, we should have had some real hedge funds to afford it all.

ASSUMED LOST. The nice pot from Spain suddenly appeared under all the green. 

Well, speaking of L’Occitane, there is still a chance to join in our summer lottery where you can win travel-sized soaps and creams. Good luck to all the contestants!

Mowing moves

I may not have very green fingers but today I certainly have green toes – a result of mowing the lawn in open-toe sandals.

It has been said that “A perfect summer day is when the sun is shining, the breeze is blowing, the birds are singing, and the lawn mower is broken. ” Ours however, is in perfect working condition.

Well, we should be thankful for that, I suppose, because in our battle to beat the moss, we fertilized the lawn, and the grass is now sprouting at record speed. It has to be trimmed at least twice a week. That is normally Hubby’s job but since he was busy doing other things, the task was appointed to me – after long deliberation about whether I could cut it, so to speak.

You see; my lawn mowing skills are not exactly up to Hubby’s rigorous standard. First of all I don’t empty the grass box often enough, it seems. Secondly, and more important, I don’t follow the rules of direction. I mow a little here and then a little there and I find it easier to go around in concentric circles rather then back and forth. This makes Hubby cringe. According to him, proper English lawns should apparently have very straight lines. He even pulled out a book his father had sent us to show me pictures.

However, although I personally don’t see the point of having rules for cutting grass, I’m willing to go along with the idea that there is such a thing as the right way to do it. After all, Hubby is completely unable to see the point of folding towels correctly, even though there is obviously a right way to do that. (Into thirds and then into thirds again - of course. Unless it’s a bath towel, where you fold it double first.)

Anyway, after this theoretical introduction to the topic I was taken outside to be given a practical demonstration – down in a straight line, then turn and come back, overlapping the last cut ever so slightly. Then he proceeded to do the edges around the whole garden twice. Only when he saw that I was getting so impatient that I was about to walk off and leave the whole thing to him, was I finally entrusted with the lawnmower.

He remained standing for a minute to supervise, before a hostile glare from me sent him scuffling around to the other side of the house.

I will let you in on a secret: I do actually know how to mow the lawn. I can do it beautifully. It’s just that I like it better when Hubby does it, so I fake a little ignorance and let him feel that he does it sooo much better than me. But don’t worry, it’s not like I’m taking advantage of him. This technique works both ways. I’m pretty sure that deep down he knows how to fold towels.

I may not have concealed my skills well enough today though, because after I was done he complemented me on a job well done. Dang.

PERFECTLY MANICURED. Our garden with more or less straight mowing stripes.

IN FULL BLOOM. Our rhododendron bush looks fantastic at the moment.

Mowing

There was never a sound beside the wood but one,

And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.

What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;

Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,

Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound—

And that was why it whispered and did not speak.

It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,

Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:

Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak

To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,

Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers

(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.

The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.

My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.

Robert Frost

Dreams of Eden

Neither Hubby nor Husfruen, we must admit, are blessed with green fingers. Nevertheless, since we are now blessed (or shall we say cursed?) with half an acre of land surrounding our house, gardening is an inevitable hobby.

Division of labour came naturally to us. Hubby, being inspired by the well-kept English lawns of his native homeland, immediately took charge of the grass. While anything flowering was left in the care of Husfruen.

Last summer, which was our first here, we didn’t do much. We wanted to see what came up from the ground. As April came along with an abundance of crocuses and daffodils, we couldn’t wait to see what other surprises were awaiting us. But apart from a few rhododendron bushes, that was it. Flowers had apparently not been high on the agenda of the previous owners.  The flowerbeds were in a terrible mess, full of totally overgrown bushes and weeds. In fact, everything was overgrown. Secateurs were not the appropriate tool to get it all under control, we needed a chainsaw to fight our way through the thicket. In some patches of the so-called garden it felt like something out of The Day of the Triffids. Really, the only thing that was not overgrown was the lawn, mainly because moss had taken over.

So, the plan is that this summer we’ll have a proper go at it all. We’ll let you know how it goes. Unfortunately there are no spectacular results just yet so we haven’t got much to show you in the way of photos. Instead we thought we’d let you have a look a garden we visited on the English/Scottish border a couple of years ago. On a terraced and narrow, steeply sloping piece of land, the owners (delightful people, by the way) had managed to create a little Eden of flowers. We have probably never been so impressed by any private garden before or since. Funny thing was when the master behind it showed us around this lush and colourful paradise and Husfruen asked what he considered to be his pride and joy of it all, he pondered for a minute before he replied: “Hmmm, that would probably have to be my cucumbers!” We never saw those, but by God, they must have been some real whoppers to outshine those flowers.

Here are some pictures from it. Isn’t it a great inspiration?

The measles?

Oh no, oh no, oh no! What has happened to our lovely pansies? We’ve watered them and cared for them and removed the deadheads to encourage blooming, but today we found that half of them had developed funny white spots.  Where did we fail?

Does anybody know what’s wrong? Can they be saved?

Unfortunately, there is no doubt what has happened here. Those blasted slugs!