The Garden
I like to think of myself as a perma-culturist, a euphemism for a haphazard gardener. I’m the kind of person that if I eat something with seeds inside, I save the seeds. I’ve had peaches, nectarines, pomegranates, tomatoes, cucumber, peppers the list goes on. But, like any fertilized seed, what you get is a bit haphazard as well. Take my peaches, soft, bland and horrible. But now the tree has established itself I consider it my contribution to greening Australia. The same goes for two of my three nectarine trees.
My process was: I refrigerated the kernels over winter, broke them open in early spring and finally, after smashing a number of the seeds, planted the survivors. The results have produced the peaches and nectarines but now the competition for the fruit is a game between the rats, mice, birds, possums and me. I netted the trees but still watched the decimation from the nightly raids.
When the nectarines looked and felt fit for human consumption, I started picking one for breakfast. One tree had flavour, the other two were never going to soften or sweeten. Finally accepting the fact, I looked to find alternative ways of dealing with the glut. I now have stewed fruit in my freezer. I was prepared for this lock-down.
I have a history with vegetables as well. I used to throw my leftovers into the garden working on the principle the rotting scraps would compost. Big mistake in that I attracted the rats, but I’ve learnt. I was a bit slow, but after a few experiences over the years I eventually got the message. One was the nurturing of a “big” Jap pumpkin I unexpectedly found. I watered and fertilized that vine watching as the pumpkin got bigger and bigger. Finally, it was huge and time to pick. Judging it as heavy, I prepared myself.
Cut from the vine, the pumpkin needed to be stored. Knees bent, I squatted, ready to use the power in my legs to lift it. Bracing myself for the weight, I lifted the “big” pumpkin. Pulling it off the ground, I staggered, nearly falling backwards into the roses. It was as light as a feather. In shock, I put the pumpkin down and looked at it uncomprehendingly. Turning the gourd towards me, I saw the problem. While nestled amongst the vines and rose bushes, it looked pristine from the front but, the back had a neat hole, and the insides were eaten out.
Feeding the masses
Before my lessons about gardening really came home to roost some years later, my scraps were still being choofed to compost under the roses. The pumpkin seeds were again generating vines throughout the garden and in awe, I watched them take over my front yard. In my excitement, I learnt how to IVF the female flowers. My morning ritual, coffee cup in hand was to go out to look for flowers, fertilize, then check my growing babies and count them.
When the vines died off, I pulled them back and started exposing the gourds to harden. Finally, the harvest, and I was overjoyed and full of pride at my accomplishment. I had twelve Butternut and six Jap, much too much for me so, as my Butternut pumpkins slowly hardened, some became a gift to family and friends. My last autumn effort pulling out the remaining vines held a surprise. I discovered the largest Jap of the lot, my eight-kilo beauty and I had to take a photograph of my harvest. Moving the Japs and the remainder of the Butternuts onto a table, I sought the best positioning to show off my accomplishment.
I wanted to foreground the biggest, the mightiest, and so, picking up the largest to place at the front, I dropped it. Straight onto my big toe. No shoes of course. #@$%#*& They say swearing helps the pain – bugga! No help at all. But, the pumpkin hadn’t split, saved as it was by landing on my toe, and so I persevered and got my photograph.
Now the evil pumpkin that had done damage, the eventual loss of a toenail, was my enemy. As no one I knew had a family large enough to consume it, I had to find some organisation that would appreciate my effort. Ringing the Hutt Street Homeless Shelter, I was informed it was unwanted. The huffy female voice made me resentful. I’d grown the monster and it was being rejected. What!
There was nothing to do but go back to my usual outlet. The one I used when disaster hit when making homemade Christmas presents, my nougat and pates. It was the Salvation Army Men’s Home in the city. Another phone call and, in my whining voice, I asked if they would be interested. Yes! They would be happy to take the offender.
I was let in through the gates of the Home and into the parking lot where, one of the staff came out to collect the pumpkin. Opening the boot, we both stared down at the magnificent Jap and then struggled to get it out. Finally deposited into the building I was happy to get rid of the giant, the gift that had kept giving.
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