I read over last week's post after it came up and realized that one of my pictures was missing. I must have accidentally deleted it while formatting the post. It was the picture of my pomegranates - and here they are.
The four foot tree has quite a few fruits of various sizes and they kind of grow in clusters. Commercial growers thin the smaller ones out so that the others will grow big and unblemished.
I, however, have no one to please but myself; so I've left all the fruit on the tree.
It is a goofy looking tree, with some of the swooping branches actually longer than the tree is tall. In my reading I discovered that I shouldn't have let it set fruit this year. They are too heavy for the young branches.
Mine is supposed to be a dwarf/semi-dwarf, and I hope it is. I'd rather not have a thirty+ foot tree. But they say it is eminently prunable to whatever size and shape you want.
If you've ever wondered what there is to do with a pomegranate, here's a web site dedicated only to them, sponsered by the POM council. Go HERE for everything you ever wanted to know about pomegranates and recipes!
This poem captures my current nostalgia.
Pesto in August
How many times does this ritual repeat
itself, preparation that begins with sweetness
unlocked by the parting of leaves? How many
women have unpetaled garlic cloves, dripped oil
cold-pressed from olives down a bowl’s curve,
ground the edible seeds of pine with mortar
and pestle until the clay was sweet with resin?
Though the legend speaks of love, in Italy
when a woman let basil’s scent seep from
her clay-potted balcony, she was being modest
when she said the smell would tell a certain man
to be ready only for her flowers and her smile.
Tonight I steam pasta until my wallpaper curls
from the walls, slice heavy globes of tomatoes
that separate in sighs of juice and seed,
then toss them with hot spaghetti and the green
my garden has produced with sun, wind, earth,
moon, rain; I remember another legend,
that a sprig of basil given
in love seals love forever.
A clink of plates, of silverware, an overflow
of wine. Say, Love, I am ready. Come. Take. Eat.
from: Atlas. Copyright 2004.
I know I said last week that most of the garden work is done. But even as I said it, new projects were forming in the back of my mind. I think that's the way of the true gardener. Our gardens continue to grow and evolve, even if it's mostly in our heads. I read recently, but I can't remember where, that gardening is good exercise for not only our bodies, but our minds and spirits as well. I've always said that my garden is my therapy.
We took our grandkids to a Harvest Festival near us this weekend. It was at a Nature Center and we learned about the wildlife that surrounds us as well as native flora for our lawns and gardens, there were crafts, talks, and a nature walk.
I also picked up a new book detailing local flora & fauna, The Outdoor World of the Sacramento Region.
We all learned a lot, the kids had fun, and yes, it fueled ideas for more garden projects.
There is no end to garden season. Really.