...And That's Just Peachy!

You’ll find out, sooner or later, if you are a return reader of the Jot and Tittle, that I am gardener. (See the previous post called “Pass the Youth Berries, Please”.) I have had a love affair with perennials for years, long before they were popular. Now they are extremely easy to find and sold almost everywhere. I remember when most of my purchases were through catalogues because it was the only place I felt that I could get a decent selection. Wayside Gardens had a fabulous pictorial catalogue, at the time, garnished with lots of information on each plant. I learned so much! I used to study those catalogues, planning and dreaming.



Most plants I recognize when I see them at the market just from reading about them. I amaze myself at times never having seen the real thing, and when I do, the name just pops into my head and I’m usually right. (Not always, but sometimes I wonder, “Wow, where did that come from?”) I have lots to learn. That’s where a gardening buddy would come in handy. I can’t talk to “T” about those living things we call plants. Even though she and I are a lot alike, this is one area where there is no common ground. The only plant she has is the Air Plant I gave her and neither one of us is sure if it’s dead or alive.

I have had four gardening friends at different stages of my life. The first one was a friend of my grandmother’s. I personally came to know her because of her great love of flowers. She lived along the road and I drove by her house all the time. She ordered lots of flowers through the mail, as I did and her yard was too irresistible to pass by. We became friends and every time I stopped for a visit, she gave me the grand tour and we inspected every plant. She always had a bag of dirt, a trowel, and was always trying to squeeze in just one more bulb or tuber amongst the already crowded beds. Her specialty was dahlias; many varieties of dahlias. Most of which were tall, the array of colors tremendous, and some as big as dinner plates; hence the name Dinner Plate Dahlias. Funny, one time when my son was very young, maybe 4 years old, we were driving by Mrs. McCullough’s house and he said, “Mom, is Ann your best friend?” I had to smile at that. He must have perceived how happy I was when I visited with her (and her garden). Ann passed away.

Along came another friend. (If you don’t know it yet, friends pass through your life, very few stay. I wish I were better at holding on to them.) Anyway, she lived in Ohio and our visits were relegated to just a few times a year. We became pen pals and much of our communication had to do with gardening. I came across some of her letters the other day and was surprised by the rush of emotion that came through each thoughtfully penned line. She talked about growing eggplant for the first time, planting a berry patch and her efforts at trying to revive poor soil. Letters were all I had left of her and decided it was time for me to do a little composting of my own. (That paper needs to be recycled!) She’s gone. I always knew she was weird and I loved her for it. Her laugh was nothing short of a cackle and most people, well, they just didn’t “get her”. We had so much in common! What does that say for me? Nothing really. When she got weirder, she just went away like a candle that slowly burns out. That was sad but I finally got over it….“Honey, don’t forget to set out the trash.” (Hey, I have plenty of love and was always a good friend but there’s something to be said for “moving on.”) Luke 9:5 “And whosoever will not receive you, when ye go out of that city, shake off the very dust from your feet as a testimony against them.” And that’s what I did…ten years after the fact.

The next gardening friend that came along was a new neighbor. (Looking back, it seems as though the Lord has always provided someone for me to enjoy the passion of gardening with.) She was different too. (I guess we all are) The first time I met her, I had gone up to their house, knocked on the door to introduce myself and welcome them to the neighborhood. She waved me in and proceeded to have an ugly, loud, sort of threatening argument with her bank over the telephone. I was uncomfortable standing there for what seemed to be a long time. It was almost like witnessing a crime. I wish I could have just slipped back out the door but I was sort of frozen there. Here, I was trying to think of a chivalrous way to get out of there but couldn’t come up with anything other than what would clearly be… an awkward departure. While standing there, I thought about the scripture that advises against “making friends with an angry man”. I understood, at that moment, the peril for doing so, was that I might very well be on the other end of her hurling abuse one day. Hum, scary. But, like a child I stood there wide eyed and waited for scene #1 to come to an end. She, did however, turn out to be a good neighbor. (Not with everyone) We had a reciprocal relationship. We went to a few auctions together and bought everything that wasn’t nailed down and laughed about it. (Just a country auction and mostly junk; shovels, spades, whatever.) I bought a big gold fruit basket for $4.00 that my husband hounded me into getting rid of. My mother scooped it up in a minute and it’s been over her fireplace ever since. I eye it with regret every now and then and promise myself that I won’t be goaded into getting rid of things that I really like anymore, no matter what! It’s happened too many times.

Anyway, my neighbor became my gardening friend. We didn’t see each other during the long winter months but as soon as spring rolled around and the hills and valleys of PA started greening up, she and I would reappear, as though we had been in hibernation, and resume our friendship. Shortly after moving here with her husband she created something in her yard that I didn’t think would work. After all, this was farmland and our houses were situated in “the fields.” Well, it did work. Her garden was lovely, peculiar for our area, just a little town; she had the only garden that was divided in sections, and each section with its own design. Really neat! The road was a little higher than their house making it easy for me to see her garden; a work in progress. They added to the garden, a pond with fish, a pagoda, a trail, an arbor for Wisteria and a lovely patch of Hollyhocks grown from seed. I stopped often for the tour and a chat. It’s a great learning experience. She was generous with me and I with her; sharing snippets of this and that. I still see the Red Hot Poker I gave her, it just gets better every year. Mine, however, seems to have fizzled out. I’ll have to check on it tomorrow and see if it is still there. A lilac bush now shades that spot and I probably need to move the Red Hot Poker to a sunnier, more agreeable location. Anyway, we remained gardening friends for several years until she got a divorce. Turns out her husband was giving her panic attacks. She was on medicine, could hardly work, but when she left him, she said that she never had to take another Xanax. She was healed…or had removed herself from the stressor. Funny, he seems like a nice guy. Who knows what the wild goose knows?? So, gardening friend #3 up and moved away. Her husband still lives there and guess what, he gardens. Trouble is, my husband isn’t keen on me having guy buddies, so I just, drive on by, drive on by, la, la-la, la, la. (Sung to the tune of “Walk On By.”)

Well, then came along gardening friend #4. Ahhhh….she had the prettiest garden on the smallest plot of ground that you’ve ever seen. She and her husband owned a townhome. They had a little patch of grass on each side of the driveway and a few feet of ground behind the house. She cultivated every square inch. No one could have done better; it was adorable and completely charming. I love old-fashioned flowers, shrubs and trees. She, on the otherhand, relished the latest varieties of hybrids, etc.; whatever was new. If it was new, she was the first in our area to have it. I often had no idea what she was growing. Her garden was always interesting, full of life and three dimensional. You name it, it was there: hardscape, sculpture, low-growing, climbing and always in bloom. When she mentioned that a toad was frequenting her garden I bought her a toad house. She chose an adorable, conspicuous location for the house…but the little dickens never moved in. Rats! Toads are so unpredictable. The clay dwelling inscribed “Toad’s House” looked none the worse, it just added more charm, if it were possible, to the already magical place.

She has given me more plants and starts than I could count, especially when they moved. She took most of her garden with her and what she couldn’t haul, she gave to me. This year I see her everywhere I look. My garden now boasts of many new plant varieties. The irises she gave me are large and a dark, sort of bloody red. That fabulous color has added so much to the look of my spring beds on the side of the house. I’m inspired to head in a new direction and revamp the whole thing. We'll see.

Since this is the first spring/summer that she’s gone, and I miss not being able to discuss the explosion of flowering plants and shrubs with her, I decided to write her a letter. With my pen I brought to life all of my garden’s glory, right there on paper. I knew she’d be delighted with every detail. Turns out, like most people these days, she doesn’t write much.

Doesn’t it say that man was not meant to garden alone. (No, I know it doesn’t. But it should, and one shouldn’t, garden alone, that is.)

The guy at the car dealership knows I garden. He’s always good for a solid fifteen minutes of gardening talk when I drop my car off for service. I have a mental picture as to what his garden might look like. I imagine it’s fabulous. I’ve heard him talk about the ground hog that vexes his existence and the year round hunt for the little guy. He, the groundhog, is quite elusive. I told him that my bird dog would take care of the situation within a week. (Of course, she'd have to do quite a bit of digging.) He looks as though he’s been in the military. I think he would rather hunt the enemy and, you know, get rid of him once and for all. No relocation program here. Anyway, gardeners love nothing better than to discuss what’s going on in their back yard. I guess that’s why garden clubs were invented. Hum, my plate is full, no room for a club.

By the way, there is a new housing development in our neighborhood. Approximately 20 houses have been built thus far and there are supposed to be about ninety in total. Maybe a horticultural enthusiast is headed my way. I’ll know just by simply driving by. If I see something more than a scant daylily, I might have to pick a bouquet of sweet smelling flowers and head over there to introduce myself. You know, like the welcome wagon, mulch wagon, whatever.

I’ll let you know if the miracle happens.

FYI - The abundance of peaches are so heavy on our tree this year, that the tops of the branches are touching the ground. We are just hoping to harvest the fruit before the tree collapses by breaking in half. (Time to prune!) This is a late peach variety and the peaches are just starting to ripen. It’s an absolutely delicious peach called The Georgia White Peach. I made my first peach crisp the other day and it was good. I used an apple crisp recipe, which turns out is not right for peaches. They need flour or tapioca, something like that to create to the right consistency. The crisp was a little soupy. Still heavenly, but soupy.

I can’t help but include another recipe. I’ve never had a peach pie like what I’m about to share with you ever! (And we come from a long line of pie bakers – we know good pie!) This recipe comes from my mother-in-law who is in her 80’s now, it was her mother’s recipe. If you want to delight your friends and family with a truly delicious dessert, this is it. It’s more of a glazed pie, you know, like they do with strawberries. The crust for this pie is the perfect compliment and you serve it with whipped cream or ice cream, if you like. Everyone will ask for the recipe….and that’s just peachy!

Fresh Peach Pie

Crust: 1-1/2 C. flour, 1 T. sugar and 1 t. salt. Mix together in pie pan. Add 1 T. mild to ½ C. Mazola oil in a small bowl and whip. Add to flour mixture. Press evenly into a 10”pie pan, bottom and sides. Bake at 375 degrees 10-15 minutes until lightly browned.

Filling: Mix 1 C. sugar, 1 C. water, 2 T. cornstarch in pot and cook until it bubbles – stirring on medium heat. Remove from heat and add 3 T. peach jello and cool.

Add 4 C. sliced peaches (about 7 med. Peaches) to filling. Pour into crust and refrigerate. Top with whipped cream.

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Pass The Youth Berries Please

Tonight I took my plastic containers and headed out to the side of the house where, about 12 years ago, we planted some blueberry bushes. (Currently, we only have two.) Originally we had four. I chose them so carefully from a gardening catalogue and impatiently waited for them to come. When they arrived they were the size of pencils, only in length mind you, and not as big around. They were so frail, I was disappointed. I wondered how many years it would take to get our first berry.

So we thoughtfully chose a spot to plant them and were consigned to watch and wait. What I realized the first year is that I was the only one that could actually see them in the yard, just inches above the grass. (How thoughtless) Our son, who was a teenager at the time, with perfect vision I might add, couldn’t see them. It turns out when the mower is clipping along at 60 mph, a stick that small isn’t visible to the naked eye. I immediately lost two of the plants. We invested in a little bit of chicken wire and fenced the remaining two; saving them from a similar fate.

We had planted them close to the house, which was a great idea (in hind sight) because they are easily accessible and being sort of self- contained, their size was never a problem. We have 4 acres and I know from experience that the old adage is true; out of sight out of mind. Besides, blueberry bushes are easy to care for. I would venture to say that you could plant one just about anywhere, as long as it has an adequate amount of sun. I’ve never had a problem with pests or disease and the fruit, they call “youth berries.” (Ah-hem…pass the berries, please) I always encourage people to plant them. Kids and adults alike, enjoy the hand to mouth experience of picking and eating. It’s so much fun! The ultimate low maintenance fruiting bush.

Recently, I haven’t been picking as much as I should. I’m well aware that the birds get their fill every day. If you look out the window you can see the branches jingling. Most people put some type of netting over their bushes to prevent the birds from doing so, but I don’t. (They can literally rob you blind.) As for me, I get plenty, they get plenty, and everyone is happy.

This evening I had two containers that were quickly filled and I had to go back to the house to get two more. Another little known fact is that dogs love blueberries too. My bushes were so heavy with fruit this year that all the branches have arced outward, bowed down, and the ends are just about touching the ground all the way around. My dogs have become pretty slick at getting their own berries. As I stand there picking, they go under the bush, moving the branches about, and the ripest, juiciest ones fall to the ground. You can hear the dogs under the bush licking their chops and filling their bellies. Every now and then I say sternly, “Get out of there. Go on, git!” It means nothing. They pretend to back off a little and the scene repeats itself just moments later. I turn to see one of the dogs helping themselves to the already harvested berries in my bucket. “Achh…That’s it! Get out of there and go lay down.” They know that this time I mean business and finally settle down. They lay waiting for me to finish as the fun is over and they’re ready to head for the house.

I have two Weimaraners, Maggie and Kia. (My all-time favorite breed of dog; besides mut.) Maggie, we got as a puppy and had her for a few years before Kia came along. Shortly after the flooding in New Orleans there was quite a lot of talk on the news about animals that were in need of homes. I went on the internet just to see what I could find concerning the subject. I had heard about a website called petfinder.com. While nosing around, I happened upon a young Weimaraner, named Kia, being held at a rescue sanctuary in Ohio, unrelated to the disaster in Louisiana. (I don’t want anyone to think that she is their long lost friend and try and step forward to claim her now. She and I would have to go on the run, for I couldn’t possibly give her up. I’m hers now. She’s claimed me. No one can take away “My Little Key.”) That’s a long story that I would love to tell some day, maybe in a future blog. (The perils and joys of pet adoption) However, we must get back to the topic at hand; blueberry picking.

Kia has been with us for about two years and last year was her first exposure to berry picking. I guess she followed Maggie’s lead and discovered the joy of blueberries and even the technique(s) for acquiring them. Even though they are just dogs, they know that I do not want them to eat the berries, at least not too many and I certainly don’t want them lapping at the clusters of fruit. (Especially not Kia with that little potty mouth) Maggie lumbers around the bush and quietly sneak a few berries here and there but Kia, I suppose because she lived the first year of her life as a starved animal, quickly adopted another method that I would say, probably wasn’t more effective but it sure was comical. She would run at us, the bush and I, and grab a few berries right off of the tree and tear out of there making a wide loop in preparation for the next “drive by looting”. Sort of like speed running but with a definite goal. It was funny to watch. (Dogs are so crazy.)

This year she is getting all the berries she can just by being bold and relentless. I still shoo them away and Maggie eventually gives up and lays right behind me. (I’m not completely heartless, I toss a few to her every now and then and she catches them in mid air and watches me steadfastly for more.) Not Kia, she’s working the bush. I shoo her away, she moves to the other side of the bush. I thought to myself, this dog was a starved and abused animal when we got her. Look how far she’s come. She’s eating berries under her vine and fig tree, so to speak. And I’m happy for that.

I’m happy that one living thing that was suffering, is suffering no more. Even if it’s just a little dog with a heart as big as Texas and gratitude immeasurable. I’ve never seen gratitude the likes of which in an animal before, and we’ve had lots of different types of animals through the years and always a dog or two. She remembers where she came from. We see proof of that all the time. (She’s sniffing the blueberry containers as we speak. Silly!)

I decided to include a recipe in this blog. I always clip every blueberry recipe I find. This one is especially good. It’s a cross between “a crisp” and a cobbler. A lot of people don’t make pies etc. from blueberries because, I suppose, they aren’t flavorful enough. No need to worry with this recipe. (I really think you could use just about any fruit.) It’s absolutely wonderful served hot out of the oven with milk poured over it. We used ½ and ½ instead of milk. Oh, it was so delicious! I made it again the next day and I’m thinking of make some right now but I’m too tired.

Tomorrow’s another day and there will be more berries for the picking. Last one down to the bushes is a rotten egg! Kia’s always first. She appreciates the little things.

Blueberry Nectarine Buckle
2 cups biscuit mix
1 cup sugar, divided
1 egg, lightly beaten
1/2 cup milk
1 t. finely shredded lemon peel
1 nectarine, pitted and chopped
1-1/4 cups fresh blueberries
1/2 cup flour
1/4 cup butter
Heat oven to 350 degrees. Grease bottom and sides of a 1-1/2 to 2 quart baking dish. In medium bowl, combine biscuit mix, 1/2 cup sugar, the egg, milk, and lemon peel. Stir until moistened.
Spoon batter into pan. Top with fruit. Mix flour and remaining sugar in a bowl. Using a fork, cut in butter until mixture is crumbly; sprinkle over fruit. Bake for 50-60 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into center comes out clean. Makes 9 servings.
*Serve warm with cream. Yum!

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