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gardening

    BACK TO THE GARDEN

    Deadheading (or Not) Reveals a Gardener’s Aesthetic Leanings

    Blooms are beautiful, but so are the seed pods and structures that follow them

    By

    The flowers of the irises are mostly passed. Almost all the peonies have bloomed, the petals breaking away and collecting on the ground. The baptisia is still going, in white and purple sprays, but these, too, will pass. The roses are in full, bursting bloom. When the rain falls, some let go, tumbling, heavy and wet.

    A rose bloom, surrounded by buds that will flower as this one passes. Seeds will swell below the spent bloom if it is left to grow. (Photos by Kai Potter)

    Flowers are the alluring structures plants make to procreate. They are beautiful by design, to the bees, to the birds, and to you. After a flower has been pollinated, the petals will fall away, and seeds will begin to swell and grow where the flower was held. Seeds are the future of the plant. Seeds and fruit require a plant’s energy. This energy can be diverted into growth or more flowering if the gardener removes the dead flowers. A choice must be made: will you deadhead your garden?

    Deadheading is the removal of flowers that have bloomed and fallen away. It is an interaction between a plant and a human in which the human exercises a choice for the benefit of the plant but, more specifically, for the plant to benefit the human in a way we find appealing. If we want more flowers, we deadhead. If we want seeds and structure in our gardens, we can leave them.

    It’s a choice that in part reflects the kind of gardener you want to be. For me, the choice depends on the plant. Some plants bloom in a single great flush. After this flush, there will be no more flowering until the following season. I often leave these flowers.

    Seed heads of the iris. The flowers have gone by, and the seed heads are still green and developing. These can be cut or left to offer an upright structure in the garden.

    Irises are a good example. They bloom in mid-spring and leave behind a seed structure held high on straight stems — I think it’s lovely. The finer-textured irises produce little geometric oblong pods that stand upright like cattails. The pods split, slowly, peeling back through the season to reveal their precious cargo of seeds. These stems and seed pods will stand in the garden until the next season, providing architecture and shape. The iris is no worse for this, it is exactly what it is here to do.

    Annuals, roses, nepeta, daisies, and a million others will flower in ongoing succession or multiple flushes. If spent flowers are cut, the plant will respond, biologically instructed to make more opportunities to procreate, and put its energy into developing more flowers. If left, these will develop seeds and the structures to support them and will likely not bloom as fully on any remaining buds.

    A rose is a wonderful example of this. A rose will bloom in multiple flushes, and within those flushes, in waves of successive flowering. As the flowers fade, seed structures in the form of reddish berries or single large hips are left behind. When these are removed, they no longer draw energy, and the good stuff that makes plants bloom can be pushed out into more blossoms. The rose will bloom stronger, more profusely, and longer.

    A yellow rose and nepeta — catmint. Both will respond to deadheading by producing more flowers.

    Deadheading stirs up a conflict in me at times. One aesthetic leaning says: keep things neat, controlled, and blooming. Another says: appreciate the successive natural cycle as flower passes to fruit; appreciate the shapes and structures that emerge. These are beautiful, too.

    To garden is to create a controlled reflection of nature. We are trying to replicate the feel of nature and also to hold at arm’s length the very nature of nature itself — which is to run wild and do what it will. In this dance of the chaotic and the cared for, you get to decide the steps.

    The flowers of the rose are something beautiful. The glistening red berries held on delicate stems are something beautiful. So, the question becomes: What do you feel is beautiful? How much control do you want to exercise in the space of a garden?

    Maybe the question ‘What kind of gardener are you?’ is another way of asking ‘What kind of person are you?’

    PLANTCRAFT

    Gardening by the Moon

    Look to the sky before you dig in the dirt

    By

    I’ve been paying attention recently to an old gardening proverb that goes like this: “With the waxing of the Moon, the Earth exhales. With the waning of the Moon, the Earth inhales.”

    Living here on the Outer Cape, it’s easy to be aware of how the Moon controls the rise and fall of the ocean — our tides are visible evidence of this ebb and flow. But what this proverb refers to is the way the Moon also affects water within the Earth.

    That’s part of the idea behind the tradition of gardening by the Moon: to work in harmony with this natural cycle means planting on the days when water is pulled closer to the surface of the Earth and the light from the Moon is strong. Taking it a step further, some gardeners also follow the Moon’s astrological sign, noting its influence on gardening chores.

    Processed with VSCO with f2 preset

    The Moon moves through the 12 astrological signs of the zodiac every two to three days. Each sign is associated with an element — water, earth, air, or fire — that is said to lend the days particular attributes. Water and earth signs are considered the most fertile ones — so, those are the times to plant, while air bodes well for harvesting. And, of interest right now, when the Moon is in a fire sign, that’s the time to weed.

    As the moon moves through the signs of the zodiac, it does so in phases. As it’s waxing, moonlight is increasing, and as it wanes the light decreases. So, using an astrological calendar to determine when and what to plant or do in the garden requires referring both to what sign and to what phase the Moon is in.

    A perpetual calendar is a handy way to keep all this information in one place. Cut three circles from heavyweight paper, each one about an inch or so bigger than the last. Stack the three circles and use a paper fastener in the center to attach them.

    Gardening Notes by Phase

    Divide the smallest circle of your calendar into four sections, one for each Moon phase (two waxing quarters and two waning ones), noting the new and full Moons. Add notes for each phase:

    First Quarter: Increasing light initiates healthy leaf growth. Continue to plant above-ground crops, especially those that produce seeds outside their fruit: broccoli, spinach, lettuce, cauliflower.

    Second Quarter: Strong moonlight leads to healthy leaf growth. Good for above-ground bearing annuals with seeds that form inside the fruit: tomatoes, melons, peppers, peas, beans, squash.

    Full Moon: Gravitational pull is still strong, but decreasing moonlight forces energy down into the earth. Transplant or plant bulbs, perennials, root crops.

    Third Quarter: Complete all planting before the last quarter begins.

    Last Quarter: Decreased moonlight and gravitational pull. Time to prune, harvest, cultivate, fertilize. Mow the lawn. Weed in a fire sign.

    New Moon: Plant above ground crops during this phase. The strong gravity of the moon pulls water to the surface.

    Gardening Notes by Sign

    The largest circle is for the astrological signs and their characteristics. Write your gardening notes along the outer edge of the circle. A little research in the Small Farmer’s Journal and other almanacs can yield more details, but these are the basics:

    The water signs Cancer, Scorpio, and Pisces are the most fertile signs for planting. Best for leafy, above-ground bearing annual crops: lettuces, chard, spinach, brassicas.

    The earth signs Taurus, Virgo, and Capricorn are thought to encourage root growth, so they’re good ones for planting underground crops and transplanting.

    The air signs Libra, Gemini, and Aquarius are also considered the flower signs. Flowers and herbs love a Libra moon. Cultivate, harvest, can, and preserve in these signs.

    The fire signs Aries, Leo, and Sagittarius are considered barren. Plant crops grown for their seed during these signs. Prune fruit trees. And, in Leo, weed.

    Finally, the middle circle acts as the calendar; number this from 1 to 30 along the outer edge of the circle. To use your perpetual calendar, line up the date, Moon phase, and sign to reveal the garden chores for that day.

    PLOTTING

    It’s Time to Start Planning and Planting

    Seeds, soil, and other steps to get your vegetable garden underway

    By

    The earth is coming alive. Beneath the oak leaves that I pile on my garden plot every fall, I am beginning to see the first sprouts of green. Garlic is waking up, and rhubarb is nudging me. It’s time to start the garden season. But where to begin?

    Order Seeds

    Seeds are the first dreams of a gardener’s season. Seed companies have been overwhelmed by demand this spring, which means that, while you can certainly still order some from the bigger companies, your choices may be limited. Some companies have reported as many as a third of varieties selling out, others have limited online ordering to certain time windows, and still others are building new packing warehouses.

    Plant plenty of peas. They can take a late snowfall. And the shoots make an excellent salad.

    I recommend turning to local sources instead. Both the Truro and Wellfleet public libraries have seed libraries — large collections that offer free seeds to the public. And teens from the Nauset Food and Research Garden at the high school are selling a locally adapted line of offerings they call “Nauset Seeds” at the Orleans Farmers Market.

    One way to get out of the seed race is to focus more on perennials — plants that stay alive year after year. While most people associate them with ornamental garden plants, there are lots of edibles. Take the Egyptian walking onion, for instance: I planted a few bulbs in a corner of my garden, and I’ll never plant an annual onion from seed or set again. The tips of Eygptian walking onions form bulbils, similar to a head of garlic (which can also be grown as a perennial), but more open. Left to their own devices, these bulbils will root and form new plants. You can also pull them off and replant them where you want them, to help the process along.

    Asparagus, strawberries, rhubarb, sea kale, and raspberries are other common examples of edible perennials. For more ideas, check out Eric Toensmeier’s Perennial Vegetables.

    Prepare the Earth

    Some years, I start prepping my garden and planting as early as mid-March. An Irish friend in Truro once told me to plant my sugar snap peas on St. Paddy’s Day, and, most years, that’s been good advice. (You can also start potatoes, radishes, carrots, and many greens that early some years.) But after winters like this — with late snow — I wait. There’s plenty to do before seeds go in the ground to keep busy into April.

    Mulch

    It’s best to mulch in the fall. After years of trial and error, I’ve decided the easiest (and cheapest) cover where we live, in the woods, is oak leaves. Soil is not meant to be left uncovered — wind, rain, and snow all leach nutrients and blow away topsoil, which is a precious resource, particularly when you live on a sand spit. That said, if you didn’t mulch in the fall, it’s not too late. There are still plenty of benefits to be had from a spring mulching.

    I like to start with what I can rake up in my yard after the thaw. The job needs to be done anyway this time of year, and I separate my piles by the dominant tree species. I keep the pine needles for my high bush blueberries — they, like hydrangeas, cranberries, blackberries, potatoes, daffodils, and azaleas, along with some others — like the acidity the needles bring. I keep the oak leaves for everything else.

    Some people shred their oak leaves; I don’t have a shredder, but if you do, they yield a finer and more wieldy mulch. I leave my mulch on all through the gardening season. I’ll pull back areas to plant rows of seeds or transplant starts, but once they get established, I push the mulch back into place to keep moisture in the soil and weeds at bay. Over time, the mulch breaks down to become part of the soil, and you can keep piling more on top each fall. Other free and locally abundant mulches to consider include seaweed and salt marsh hay, and if you’re worried about pH or working with a particular crop like strawberries that likes some extra care and lift, you can also buy mulching straw from a garden center.

    Green Manure

    Did you plant green manure? This is a gardener’s term for plants that are grown specifically to add nutrients to your soil. Some gardeners plant a cover crop late in the growing season that has the added benefit of fixing nitrogen. If you planted a green manure crop in the fall, it’s time to dig it in. You want to avoid letting it get tall and unmanageable or, worse, going to seed.

    Soil Amendments

    Perennial rhubarb peeking through a winter cover of oak leaves. (Photos Elspeth Hay)

    My favorite soil amendment is biochar. Unlike most fertilizers, biochar builds up over time — it can endure in soil for thousands of years. It’s a charcoal that’s produced by pyrolysis (burning woody biomass without oxygen), and it boosts soil fertility by creating a soil structure that retains nutrients and beneficial micro-organisms.

    You can make your own, or you can buy it — Redberry Farm makes it locally in Eastham, and it’s available at many garden centers, hardware stores, and farmers markets. It’s more expensive than compost or chemical soil fertilizers, but unlike those it also accumulates. I add some every year. Then I add a layer of compost to any new planting and “spot” fertilize as needed, providing bone meal for tomatoes and following other crop-specific recommendations.

    A Garden Notebook

    I like to plan out my garden each season in a dedicated notebook, to keep track of what I planted when, and how it did. That’s how I learned that kale planted early in the spring does not seem to suffer terribly from cabbage moths and their caterpillars, whereas kale planted when it’s hot out gets destroyed by these bugs. It’s worth tracking your observations year after year, and it’s fun to look back and remember what you’ve grown. The process doesn’t have to be fussy — mine is covered in soil prints with messy scribbles like “4/2/15 — planted potatoes, trying Pinto.”

    First Plantings

    There are plenty of early season crops that do well here. Once you see edible weeds sprouting in the wild (think nettles, garlic mustards, wild onions, beach pea shoots, and fiddleheads) it’s warm and bright enough that cultivated plants can and will thrive, too.

    I always plant my sugar snap peas first, sometime between March 15 and April 10, followed closely by spinach, kale, Swiss chard, beets, potatoes, carrots, radishes, shelling peas, onions, turnips, cabbage, broccoli, mustards, and lettuces. I also almost always forget to leave enough space for the warm weather crops that will follow. In your enthusiasm, try to remember to leave room for heat-loving plants like tomatoes, zucchini, beans, cucumbers, and squash to find a spot come May. After a long winter, it’s easy to get carried away.

    SOIL BUILDERS

    Salt Hay, Biochar, and Other Secrets

    Healthy soil is less about fertilizer, more about microbes

    By

    Outer Cape gardeners can get restless counting the days until they can safely set out their tomato seedlings. But seasoned local growers have some advice on what to do right now: work on soil building.

    biochar amended soil
    The stuff in Andrew Cummings’s hand is a mix of biochar and compost that he uses to amend his beds. (Photos Elspeth Hay)

    Wellfleet gardener Andrew Cummings has been growing in raised beds for several decades. “If you’re building a new bed, dig down into the earth and pack the bottom of the bed with tons of salt hay,” he recommended. “You’ll reap the rewards for 10 or 15 years.” Salt marsh hay helps beds retain moisture and slows down the loss of water and nutrients through the sand.

    Eastham resident Bob Wells has been studying ways to preserve fertility in our sandy soil for over a decade, after learning about an ancient soil amendment called biochar. (See also this week’s front-page story on farming.) Biochar is a charcoal-like substance created by burning wood, brush, or leaves in a controlled process called pyrolysis. The result is about 70 percent carbon.

    It came to the attention of farmers in the U.S. after scientists reported on areas of super-rich soil in the Amazon basin. “They realized these were manmade soils,” said Wells, and that they were made by adding a kind of charcoal along with food scraps and shards of pottery. Wells traveled to the Amazon to see the so-called “terra preta,” or “black earth,” for himself in 2010, after co-founding his company, New England Biochar.

    Peter Staaterman of Longnook Meadow Farm in Truro first heard about biochar when he began growing locally over 10 years ago.

    “I was searching for a way to make it possible for whatever nutrients I was putting in not to wash away, and I was very frustrated,” he said. He learned Wells was not just creating ready-to-use biochar, but also building machines that people could use to make their own. Staaterman purchased one and now produces enough to meet the needs of his farm.

    “Biochar doesn’t decay like compost,” Wells said. “It changes the way the soil acts and the way it hosts microorganisms and plants.”

    This is important, explained Staaterman, because healthy soil is less about adding fertilizer and more about creating a healthy microbiome. “The thing about soil that most people don’t understand is that plants don’t really consume fertilizer,” said Staaterman. “They consume the byproducts of bacterial action — basically bacteria poop.”

    In addition to biochar, Cummings recommends mixing existing soil with amendments of aged manure from horses or chickens, a general soil conditioner, and compost, with more targeted add-ins if you’re growing specific plants.

    Mulch Master will enhance your plants
    When salt marsh hay isn’t available, Cummings swears by a store-bought dressing called “Mulch Master.”

    For tomatoes, for instance, Epsom salts can provide a boost in overall health. “I just sprinkle a ring around the base, say six inches from the stem,” said Cummings, who credits the abundant minerals in the salts with fighting off blights and preventing tomato skins from splitting. He also saves the racks and skins from fish he catches whole and fillets at home. He freezes all the trimmings and bones in a bag until he’s ready to plant. Then he buries a little beneath each tomato.

    Eastham turnips are another crop that can require extra attention. “I was having a problem that a lot of people call hollow heart,” said Staaterman, “where there’s an air space inside the root.” The culprit turned out to be a boron deficiency, apparently common on the Outer Cape. “You can add boron back but it can be dangerous — a tiny bit goes a long way, and if you put too much in it becomes a poison for the plants,” Staaterman added, though through careful research he was able to find the right balance.

    Nearly every seasoned grower recommends getting a soil test. But testing for pH levels through the Cape Cod Cooperative Extension and complete nutrient analyses through the Soil and Plant Tissue Testing Lab at UMass have been suspended because of the coronavirus crisis.

    “Soil can be complicated, but that shouldn’t deter anyone from trying to learn,” said Staaterman. Cummings added, “If you don’t want to worry about your soil, plant strawberries.” For them, he said, our sandy soil is just perfect.

     

    KITCHEN TABLE

    The Faithful Asparagus

    It takes years to grow but just minutes to make

    By

    The vegetable garden is in a spring shambles. But some parts of it are waking up all on their own. I can see from inside the house that the parsley has a new lease on life. And if we can just get out there and feed the asparagus, soon it will be feeding us.

    Asparagus
    Parchment paper under the asparagus makes the roasting pan cleanup easy. (Photo Robyn Mac)

    Chuck Reese, editor of the Bitter Southerner, wrote a letter recently likening his publication to asparagus. It’s my favorite online magazine, with excellent stories and photographs that delve into what Reese calls “the duality of the Southern thing.” But it is just as surely about something my neighbors here on the Outer Cape understand: the curious contradictions of love of a place. At the moment, their online shop sells a T-shirt that says, “John Prine — Original Bitter Southerner.”

    In his letter, Reese asked, “Do you know which crop is the greatest act of faith to plant?

    “Asparagus.

    “Can’t harvest it for three years without killing the plant or stunting its growth too soon. But if you tend it well for 36 months, it will give you food for up to 40 years.”

    Gathering up our faith as we all are right about now, it is surely a good time to think about planting asparagus. And about starting independent publications. There’s plenty of tradition behind both endeavors — a history of the first in Eastham and of the second in Provincetown.

    Here are two worthy ways to cook asparagus, once it is up.

    Roasted Asparagus With Parmesan

    for 4 servings

    One bunch (about 1 lb.) asparagus

    2 small shallots, minced

    ¼ cup grated Parmesan cheese

    ¼ cup panko

    2 Tbsp. olive oil

    Kosher salt

    Heat the oven to 400° F.

    Trim the woody stem ends off the asparagus. (Simmer them with onion for asparagus stock or throw them into the freezer with other trimmings for vegetable stock later on.) Wash the asparagus and set it on a clean tea towel to dry.

    Spread the asparagus out on a baking sheet, toss it gently with the olive oil and kosher salt. Roast for about three minutes, then toss on the shallots, shake the pan once or twice to turn the asparagus, and roast for two or three more minutes, until it’s bright and just tender.

    Remove the pan from the oven and switch the oven to broil. Scatter grated Parmesan and panko onto the asparagus, give the pan a good shake to distribute everything, and broil for a minute or two, until the cheese and panko are golden brown.

    Blanched Asparagus With Sauce Gribiche

    for 4 servings

    One bunch (about 1 pound) asparagus

    1 hard-boiled egg

    2 cornichons

    1 Tbsp. capers

    1 Tbsp. Dijon mustard

    1 Tbsp. wine vinegar

    3 Tbsp. olive oil

    1 Tbsp. minced parsley

    1 Tbsp. minced tarragon, if you have it

    Kosher salt and black pepper

    Trim and wash the asparagus. Bring a skillet-full of salted water to a boil. Add the asparagus and simmer it for two minutes or until just tender. Remove the asparagus, first to an ice-water bath, then to a clean tea towel to dry.

    Grate the hard-boiled egg into a small mixing bowl. Chop the cornichons (or a few bread-and-butter pickles) and add them to the bowl. Stir in the capers, mustard, and vinegar. Whisk in the olive oil.

    When you’re ready to serve, mince the parsley and tarragon (or dill is good, too) and add the herbs to the sauce, then season to taste with a pinch of salt and few grinds of pepper.

    Serve the cooled asparagus with big dollops of the gribiche.

    A Tricky Match to Make

    Asparagus is notoriously tricky to pair with wine. Part of the problem is its highly vegetal nature — that lovely green taste. But it also contains compounds that can make wine taste weirdly metallic.

    A good rule of thumb is to go with a crisp, citrusy white wine that plays up the bright flavor of the vegetable. If your asparagus is prepared simply, say with butter and some shallots, I’d recommend a New Zealand sauvignon blanc, French Sancerre, or a Grüner Veltliner from Austria.

    If you’ve made it richer and added umami, as with the Parmesan cheese or the sauce gribiche here, you might opt for an unoaked chardonnay. That’s what France is for, of course. But to expand your repertoire, try one from Oregon or Australia. Salud! —John Guerra

     

    ON THE LANDSCAPE

    Pruning Is a Good Thing

    Purposeful cuts are an act of rejuvenation

    By

    Pruning
    A well-placed pruning cut, made on an angle. (Photos Danielle Sargent)

    Hacking. Butchering. Murdering. These are all terms we hear when the subject of pruning comes up. These words betray a widely held belief that pruning is an act of brutality. Proper pruning is not. At its core, pruning is an act of rejuvenation. It is the intentional manipulation of plants to achieve an intended result. Pruning is a good thing. Get cozy with it.

    Armed with a little information, you can walk out into your yard this spring, not as a figure of death, cloaked in dark robes, carrying your scythe, off to mangle some poor shrub. Instead, you’ll be a bearer of good fortune, removing the flaws of the woody plants that surround your home, encouraging beauty, and guiding your trees and shrubs toward optimum health.

    As the ground warms and the spring rains begin to fall, plants begin to awaken. Their juices start to move again, bringing water and nutrients out from storage and into sleeping branches. Your job, as the pruner, is to decide where these resources will go. By selectively removing stems and branches, you are helping the plant direct its growth most effectively.

    Mid to late March is a great time to get out and prune many of our plants. The great growth push of spring is about to happen. This means that stored resources will help pruning cuts to heal quickly and efficiently. And with trees and shrubs standing bare, you can see the structure of the plants and access the areas where pruning needs to be done.

    Because I love overly indulgent metaphors, I’m going to explain the basic concept of pruning like this: Picture a tree. Now imagine the tree as a river. The river is flowing upward from the roots, up through the limbs, splitting off into smaller and smaller branches. Water and resources flow through this river, from roots to tips. When a branch is removed, you are redirecting the river’s flow.

    And this brings us to the intention part. Pruning is done for a purpose. The cuts you make are chosen — to improve health, create strong structure, achieve a desired shape or look, or to encourage fruit and flower production.

    A tree or shrub left to grow wild will do just fine. It doesn’t need you. It will flower and fruit and grow. But we prune to achieve something. Pruning is the interaction of a wild plant and a human mind.

    A sharp saw makes pruning a satisfying process for all parties involved. It’s a good idea to support branches being pruned so they don’t break and tear away from the trunk.

    When you set out to prune, your first step is to envision an outcome. From there, the reasons for your cuts will be clear. The way you will prune an apple tree to produce fruit is very different from the way you will prune a privet hedge to screen your nosy neighbor.

    Some woody plants are better pruned after they flower, while others respond well to an early season cutting. Find out what is true of each specific plant you plan to prune. Five minutes of reading about its needs could save you the entire growing season of wondering why your hydrangeas didn’t flower after they were cut to the ground in spring.

    A pair of hand pruners, a small pull saw, a pair of loppers, and a pair of hedge shears are the tools required to make your purposeful cuts. Keep them sharp. Your plants and your hands will thank you.

    Pruning cuts, when possible, should be made at an angle, near the site of a new bud or where a branch splits off. Remember the river analogy; give the flow somewhere to go. The new buds or spared branches will be the recipients of all that good growth juice that’s just now beginning to flow.

    This spring, get to know the needs of the plants in your yard and you will feel a greater sense of purpose and confidence as you approach them with pruners in hand. Then, when you step back, you can take a big, easy breath instead of a gasp.

     

    FARM AND GARDEN

    Sal Del Deo’s Garden and Its Bountiful Memories

    It’s a piece of the Old World in Provincetown

    By

    Sal Del Deo
    Imitation of life: Del Deo and a painting he has made of his garden. (Photos Elspeth Hay)

    Salvatore Del Deo sits in his kitchen on a snowy December afternoon, holding a jar of dried beans. “My favorites of all the favorites,” he says, holding them up to the light. “These are Romano beans, but we call them Portuguese beans, because they were given by an Italian farmer to a Portuguese guy from Provincetown about 100 years ago. I swear to God, they are the most wonderful beans in the world.”

    Most people know Del Deo, age 94, for his paintings — he’s been a major figure in the local art colony since he moved to Provincetown as a young man. But tucked away in the woods of the East End is his garden plot, a living masterpiece that he says “isn’t what it used to be” but that nonetheless captivates with its artistry and history. Starting last year, Dani Niedzielski, co-owner of the Captain’s Daughters tea shop in Provincetown, began helping him bring it back.

    In its heyday, Del Deo’s “homestead,” which he tended with his late wife, Josephine, included pigs, goats, chickens, ducks, numerous fruit and nut trees, and a large garden area. The chickens, some trees, and the garden remain, and Niedzielski added a beehive last year.

    “The thing that is really striking to me about the property is not just the fact that it has been this working farm in the center of Provincetown but also the incredible history and heritage of some of the things growing there,” she says. “Last spring, I harvested rhubarb from a 100-year-old plant and made five strawberry rhubarb pies. Everything on the property has a story.”

    Sal Del Deo photo
    Sal Del Deo tends to his chickens at his secluded East End Provincetown home.

    The rhubarb came from a plant given to Del Deo by Alan Chace of East Orleans. According to Del Deo, the two men were on a committee working to create Cape Cod Regional Technical High School in the late 1960s and became friends while trying to get an agricultural program started at the new school. “He showed up at my house one day with the cutting from a rhubarb planted by his grandfather or great-grandfather,” says Del Deo. “They were an old family with a big farm, and the rhubarb still produces quite a bit.”

    “Another thing that’s really special are the two fig trees,” says Niedzielski. They were given to Del Deo by his father and uncle, and “represent a tie with my family in Italy,” he says. “The unusual thing about figs that most people don’t realize — if there’s a severe storm or an unusually cold winter, the tree will appear dead.” It is dead on the surface, says Del Deo, but not underground. “Chances are it will resurface. It’s very hard to kill a fig tree. Mine are each over 100 years old.”

    Most of Del Deo’s favorite vegetables are also Italian. “We always planted the Di Ciccio broccoli,” he says. “These days it’s popular in the stores, but when we first started, it was hard to find.” He also recommends “rapa,” a bitter broccoli relative in the Brassica genus. “What an acquired taste — it’s fabulous! I steam it with olive oil, water, lemon juice, salt and pepper, and a couple of red pepper flakes to get that tangy flavor. Steam it till it goes limp. It’s a marvelous vegetable.” And he loves to grow a variety of hot pepper called quadrato. “It means squared,” he says. “And they are — they’re square and very prolific, green, and red.”

    When Del Deo started his garden six decades ago, the soil was pure sand. “So I got the bright idea of going to Shank Painter Pond with a couple of five-gallon buckets every day and taking the silt from the ponds,” he says. “By the end of the winter I had a 12-foot-square patch of soil that was pretty good.” Then he went “whole hog,” feeding two pigs with scraps from Ciro & Sal’s, the restaurant he once co-owned in town, and adding goats, chickens, ducks, and geese.

    “After that I didn’t have to go back to the pond, because I had all these animals for manure,” he says. “In all my years, I’ve never used commercial fertilizer.”

    The first year he and Josephine kept pigs, Del Deo slaughtered them himself. “What a mess,” he remembers. But he didn’t give up. In the following years, he brought the animals to New Bedford to be butchered. “[Josephine’s] great joy was to be able to take the head of the pig and extract the meat from the jowls to make scrapple,” a cooked dish made by mixing cooked meat from the head with broth and cornmeal into a savory pudding.

    Though Del Deo’s family is Italian, he says he has learned a great deal from observing Portuguese gardening traditions in Provincetown. “I had apple trees,” he says, “but I’ve realized over my 72 years here that the Portuguese people who settled here all had pear trees because they do well here. Apples — not so much.” Apples prefer a colder climate, Del Deo explains, but the pears — planted before dwarf varieties were introduced — can grow to be 40 to 50 feet tall locally.

    “One tree was enough for three or four families,” he says. “You could fill bushels and bushels. Only one or two of these trees are left, but there used to be more.”

    Some of the fruit trees in Del Deo’s garden “we just joke about,” says Niedzielski. “My cherry tree has been the love of my life and the bane of my life,” Del Deo says with a laugh. “I think of the hundreds of cherries this tree has produced, I’ve only ever eaten one.” Most are taken by the birds or hit with blight. But ultimately, Niedzielski says, the fruit isn’t the point. “I love listening to Sal tell me what it’s been like.”

    “I believe in regeneration,” says Del Deo. “I’m not one of these guys who gets old and says, ‘Oh, it was better before.’ ”

    Niedzielski laughs. “If I told him tomorrow that I’m bringing 12 pigs and 20 goats, he would be thrilled,” she says, adding that she feels a garden, 10 chickens, and a duck is plenty. “But that’s Sal,” she adds. “He’s a dreamer.”

    ON THE LANDSCAPE

    Structure and Shape in the Winter Garden

    Reminders of the bones required to support summer’s softer beauty

    By

    I used to rent a small house with large windows. The windows overlooked a meadow of grasses and wildflowers framed at its edges by low oaks and autumn olive. In the days of summer, of lush green and fullness, of breezes that push through blades of grass, the meadow was nearly overwhelming in its richness. There was energy and growth, constant motion, competition, flowers, and color.

    As the seasons passed, and then the years, I became aware of a change, both in the meadow and in myself. I started to look forward to seeing my meadow in the winter. I loved the color and the energy of the warm season, but it wanted so much attention. It demanded constant vigilance; if I failed to look every day, something might be missed.

    seed head photo
    A seed head’s intricate structure revealed against a winter sky. (Photo Kai Potter)

    In the fall, as the nights grew longer and the petals dropped away from the flowers, the leaves browned, curled, and fell, and the truth of the meadow was revealed. Here was the naked bone structure behind summer’s full, soft face. The structures that supported the leaves and flowers stood, still and black in the wet mornings, sculptures against a stark backdrop. The stoic forms of seed heads and the skeletons of flowers remained against the wind and rain, a reminder of the bones required to support summer’s softer expressions of beauty. The winter garden is bare and simple and honest.

    Most of us plan our gardens and search our landscapes only for their flowers. But the structures left standing when the softer parts fall away are as intricate and delightful as any flower. They do not advertise loudly; they do not ask to be looked at. They require a more discerning eye and a bit of patience, something the slower days of winter afford and encourage.

    There is a Dutch landscape designer who has brought a great deal of attention and appreciation to this idea. Piet Oldouf creates vast, stunning fields and meadows. He works using large swaths of color, broad brush strokes of texture and massing, and designs with great emphasis on the winter garden. His gardens are amazing in all their seasons, but reveal their genius in the winter. When they are etched in frost, wrapped in a winter haze, they will make you go still, sit down, and weep.

    “The garden in winter is an emotional experience,” he says. “You think in terms of decay and disappearing and coming back. You feel the life cycle of nature. If you make a four-season garden you have to learn to accept decay and see the beauty of it. It’s about texture and shape, the seed heads and the skeletons. So instead of using the scissors, you use your eyes.”

    This time of year, we go to our gardens with pruners and cut them down. It gives us a clean slate to begin again the follow spring. It looks clean and helps our minds feel organized and clear. But what if we left some of the more enduring structures? Let the sedum stand and watch as it collects a cloud of snow on its dark branches. Leave the elegant firework forms of the Queen Anne’s lace and the allium and let them be draped in spider webs. Wait until early spring to cut the Echinacea, which will feed the birds, the Actaea, with its spiraling stems, the cinnamon plumes of the astilbe, and let the dew settle on the tall, powerful spikes of the Verbascum.

    Alliums photo
    Leave your alliums this winter, for structure. (Photo Kai Potter)

    Nature is an architect. In her ceaseless mission to protect and perpetuate life, she has developed shapes and structures to serve this function. These forms and patterns resonate in us. They speak to us on a level deeper than aesthetics alone. They are the inspiration for the things we find beautiful and sublime. The vaulted ceilings of a cathedral are not beautiful simply because they remind us of structures found in nature. They look that way because that’s what works. Because nature, in her incessant evolution, has discovered and created the most beautifully functional forms. We recognize these as beautiful because they are themselves the designs, shapes, and forms of life.

    These forms are found in the winter garden. In the vaulted interiors of seed cases, the arching, umbel flower stems, in the fluted stalks that stand through the north wind and the snow. Our gardens are not dead in winter. They are sleeping. The winter is a time of rest and transition, of stillness and observation. There is decay, but there are also the quiet embers of life held within the sculpture forms standing in the fields and gardens.

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