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"herbs and raspberries" by s. a. linfert

there will be spring someday

I do like snow, really I do. But maybe this is sufficient. We just got another 15 inches or so; I’ve heard that the Hartford area has had more snow than Anchorage, AK, somewhere around sixty inches this year.  There is a sign posted in front of one of our area churches that reads, “Whoever prayed for snow, please stop!” Guess they didn’t stop. Maybe they won’t stop. But there’s lots of good if you take a moment to look beyond, or around the snow.

herbs and raspberries

It’s no secret that I love my raspberries. Last year’s bounty was a joy and I was happy to share them with any and all. The word goes out to the neighborhood when the raspberries start producing, “Help yourself!” I know that some do and some don’t. But what I never imagined is that my berries would end up as part of an object d’art. In late December I received a lovely holiday card from my next-door neighbor, who is a fine artist, gardener, and an information architect (interesting combination, no?). The centerpiece to the card was the image above featuring, as she described to me, “…your raspberries and my herbs.”  Simple, elegant, almost fragrant.

Today is a great day to share this beautiful image with you. I almost posted a picture of the view from my office window. The snow outside is so high that it now blocks my view. But no, the snow has had more than it’s share of press. Rather,  today’s a day to focus on things more positive, like a picture that holds both beauty and hope in one vessel. Thanks Sandy! You can pick my berries anytime.

both beautiful and practical

There’s another happy thought to share on this snowy day, and it has to do with clearing it all away so that we can go about our business. It’s January; it’s New England. Snow is what we do here, so I’m okay with it, but even “Happytone” (a moniker bestowed upon me decades ago because of my positive outlook) has to admit that clearing it away can be challenging (euphemism for pain in the butt) . That’s why I’m especially grateful to our neighbor across the street who gave us their snow blower earlier in the winter. This snow season would have been much more difficult without their generosity. Will have to double their allocation of raspberry jam next summer!

lessons learned

the first metric -- arugula planted Jan. 11

Besides being a gardener and a foodie, I’m a writer and editor. That’s how I’ve made my living most of my life.  It’s been a satisfying–and often humbling–experience as I’ve learned how much I really don’t know. This is especially embarrassing as you try to market yourself as an “expert.” That’s how I came to learn the word, “metric.” I was editing a stuffy report for an insurance company, and tried to convince the author (obviously he knew about life insurance, but he didn’t know about words) that there was no such word as “metric.”  A little more investigation on my part showed that, yes, “metric” was indeed a word, and a pretty common one at that. Ubiquitous wouldn’t quite describe its use, but not far from it. I was humbled and educated. That’s a good thing. And thanks to the education, I have just the word to use for today’s post!

scientific rigor

Gardening and home food preservation, while relaxing and enjoyable, require a certain amount of rigor, as they would say in scientific circles. Yes, rigor is a good description because both gardening and food preservation are scientific (biology, chemistry, and a bit of physics) endeavors.  Beyond the science, there’s economics, and possibly some art and business rolled into the growth of a little seed. Giving that seed the best chance of performing well requires some discipline, and that’s where the metrics come in.

repeatability and reproducibility

My garden is a scientific experiment, some years successful and others not so much.  To learn from my successes and my failures, I need to have some sense of what factors contributed to said success/failure. If the green zebra and Brandywine tomatoes produced their little hearts out (like they did in 2010), how can I reproduce that event? Or can I reproduce that event? If the winterbor kale never got “off the ground,” why? Is this something unique to this growing year, related to this location, associated with the climate, or none of the above? And how do I really know how productive any of my garden charges are if I don’t really know how much they produced? The short answer to these question is “metrics”; actually documentation including metrics.

the garden log

now is a good time to begin your garden log

It’s still close enough to talk about New Years resolutions; one of mine is to document my gardening activities with greater rigor. While snow blankets the garden, and even my cold frames are covered with several feet of snow, now is the time to reflect on last year’s planting and harvest and glean lessons from the data.

I’ve started a few seeds already, and with my fresh resolve, I’ve dutifully recorded them in my garden log. There’s hope for this year’s log, but as you scroll down, you’ll see that there’s not as much to be learned from last year because I didn’t follow through for the whole season.  But it’s not totally useless. For example, I’m starting my tomatoes earlier than last year (early Jan. vs. late Feb.) remembering that they were still pitifully small when I planted them in late May.

seed starting in early January

 

home economics

The raspberries were incredible this year! Felt like I was making batch after batch after batch of red raspberry jam and chocolate red raspberry sauce. They were great gifts, and gift them I did! It was a joy to share the bounty of my garden with grateful friends and family. Folks have asked how many jars did I make. It wasn’t until a few days ago that I knew the answer to that question. I kept a notebook in the kitchen and made a quick, scribbly entry for each canning episode. This serves multiple purposes. It tells me how many jars I made, yes, but it also gives me documentation to hone each of the recipes. (Go back to the reproducibility concept.) As I tweak the formula for chocolate raspberry sauce, I need to know what ingredients  and process I used, and then change only one thing at a time.

 

red raspberry jam -- the tip of the iceberg

I deciphered these hasty scratchings and converted them to a legible canning log, which documents the production. The full log (not included here due to space restraints) includes a comments column that describes pertinent variables. The log documents what I had felt about the proliferous raspberries: 125 1/2 pint and 14 pint jars of jam and sauce. Not too shabby in terms of quantity; as for quality (most important) I’ve tweaked the sauce recipe to exactly the right formula.  We’re ready for 2011!

 

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