Eating Bugs

Equipped with thousands of tiny teeth the furtive slug rasps through bok choy, leaving a trail of slime behind. The mollusks even find their way inside heads of lettuce, munching undetected until harvest time. I dunk the heads in a sink full of frigid water, swishing to unloose slugs of all sizes and smiling in satisfaction as they swirl down the drain. The juicy morsel is on the dining list of insects and vertebrates alike, but I have no appetite for the thought, let alone the reality of eating a slug. And yet the escargot, a snail purged of its stomach contents and fattened on cornmeal, has achieved gourmet status. Once or twice a season, a garden slug manages to hold on tight and survive the water bath I subject it to, as well as the subsequent preparation process. It rides out to a table on a nine-dollar salad. There is no amount of skilled finessing that can turn such a situation from a dining disaster into a positive realization. “This is authentic farm-to-table dining,” is the rational conclusion to be drawn from the moment. But we are not rational when it comes to bugs on salads. 

Nutritionally speaking, there are good reasons to eat bugs. A cup of cooked caterpillar provides 100% of the daily requirement of iron, copper, zinc, and thiamin. Tanzanians eat honeybee larvae along with the honey, and benefit from the higher protein content. West Africans feast on termites, grasshoppers, beetle larvae, and caterpillars. In Bali, dragonflies are charcoal grilled. It is only westerners that recoil in horror. Vincent Holt, author of a bug-focused Victorian Cookery Book, suggests stripping locusts of heads, legs, and wings, and sprinkling them with salt, pepper, and parsley. Fried in butter and finished with a splash of vinegar they make an excellent dish, he writes. 

I am intrigued, but not quite ready for fried grasshopper. On coming upon a small colony sucking the juices from a tender spinach shoot I place a single aphid on my tongue and savor the nothingness. Tasteless, soft, almost imperceptible … it is not an experience that inspires recipes, but not one that provokes repulsion either. If the aphid population is kept in moderation—no easy trick—I have no qualms about harvesting the spinach. There is the danger that, despite double-washing, an aphid or two may end up on someone’s salad plate, but, I now know, this will not affect taste. Aphids suck sap and exude sugars; what is the downside to eating them? The FDA agrees. The food defect action level for aphids, that is, the point at which frozen broccoli is deemed defective, is 60+ aphids per 100 grams. In other words, when one eats about a cup of broccoli, one might also be eating 59 aphids. 

This would surprise most consumers; in this modern age food is expected to be unsullied. At the same time, we favor products vaguely labeled “all natural.” How many consumers realize, as they sit down to dinner, that growing food naturally means accepting that insects that naturally favor the foods we grow are very much a part of the process? Some will be part of the product. 

In the greenhouse, aphids appear sporadically in great numbers. When the succulent center leaves of romaine become specked with tender green bugs it is my cue to plant a non-host crop, such as carrots. With two greenhouses, I switch susceptible crops back and forth, attempting to stay only one step behind. Wendell Berry likens farming to a conversation with nature. “If I try to starve you will you go away?” I ask my aphids. Some tomato aphids are red; some are green. These I squirt with a stiff spray of water, allowing a few to remain to attract ladybugs, which may, if I’m lucky, migrate to other plants. It’s possible that aphids will migrate as well. Pest management is a game of wits; pest “control” an impossibility. 

When scientists developed technologies for transferring genes from a soil bacterium to corn so that plants could protect themselves against insects, the Prince of Wales accused them of playing God. A bullying maneuver on multiple levels, genetic engineering certainly changes the tone of the conversation. But consumers’ desires for flawless corn and potatoes are what drive researchers to employ the same technologies that produced human insulin in their quest to fulfill impossible expectations. When health care is at stake, playing God is fair game, but when it comes to what’s for dinner, the rules change. If a consumer were forced to choose one or the other—100% insect-free food, or food grown using traditional seeds and processes—which would he pick? The problem is, we want it all. 

Someday a star in the culinary world may take on gourmet insect preparation and transform it from freaky to fashionable. If grasshopper canapes are what it takes to bring sanity to the subject then bring them on. Personally, I don't have much faith that caterpillars will ever find their way, intentionally that is, to America's dinner plates, and would settle for a less hysterical response to the occasional "unavoidable defect." If eaters, that is, human beings, were to spend more time with their hands in the soil, they may begin to feel a kinship with the miraculous system that begins with the sun and the soil and ends at the dinner table.

As plant eaters, we are in plentiful company. Aphids and caterpillars are part of the deal--we compete with them and occasionally, wittingly or un-, we eat a few. If we continue to strive for the complete elimination of all competitors we will stray further and further from "natural." Awareness of the staggering complexities involved in growing food "naturally" may or may not entice diners to sample a slug, but it will introduce the language of living systems to those who have no tolerance for imperfections. 

Step by step, we will draw them into the conversation.  

My flagstone patio!

For two months I’ve been meaning to post this photo of my beautiful new flagstone patio, built by my son Kevin of 14-acre Farm. But distractions diverted my energies. First it was the head-to-head with groundhogs (more on that to come), followed by the Forest Ecology class with a wonderful, young, conscientious, you-must-toil-for-these-3-credits professor. Now, a thousand pounds of tomatoes and a trip to Santa Fe later, I am enjoying the Caryopteris and begonias spilling onto Kevin’s geometric patterns. This is the challenge I presented: Use my circular piece of flagstone as a focal point, and connect the utilitarian concrete slab that was poured (without a thought to aesthetics) behind my house many years ago to the part of the lawn that enjoys morning shade. 

Graciously. 

Plus, I want more garden space. 

To be honest, the part about garden space was implicit. Kevin knows that I always want more garden space. Which brings me to the point of this post, that is, addiction. Harmonious, unrepentant addiction. Are we not so very fortunate to be afflicted with the need to dig holes and scuff up the earth around petunias rather than, say, plunk our paycheck into a slot machine? A recurring mental image comes to me each time I see a person in mental dis-ease. It is a line, in the dirt or in the sand, take your pick—or, (apologies) shovel. One step over the line takes me from the garden to the dark side, where addiction is not tolerated by the same society that delights in colorful and textural displays, the creation of which occupy my mind when I drive, shop, live. We addicts are cut from the same cloth. Positively, it is called passion. Negatively—mania, compulsion. Our saving grace is that the world we manipulate in our obsession is endlessly fascinating. We dig, we learn. We strive to understand. We teach. Three-year-old Chloe, visiting from New Jersey, held a sowbug last Sunday and watched it roll into a pill. She stroked a swallowtail butterfly larva that was eating my parsley and laughed when out poked its putrid-smelling retractable orange antennae. She showed her mom. She learned, she taught. How many more can we lure over the line with the force of our passion? 

It feels, sometimes, like a race against time.

Tomatoes in Containers, part 2

Tomato season has barely begun, but I have a good feeling about the 2011 AAS winning hybrids, ‘Terenzo’ and ‘Lizzano’.  Time will tell whether Terenzo will grab the  “My Favorite Container Tomato” title from ‘Husky Cherry’. The new tumblers are literally a breed apart from the stocky upright soldier that won my admittedly limited trial of 2009. 

2011 AAS winner 'Terenzo'

Terrenzo’s relaxed limbs that have already exceeded the 20-inch width described in the AAS literature splay from all sides of the container. Its fruits are large for a cherry, and, so far, borne near the center of the pot. Although they can’t touch ‘Sungold’ for taste (what cherry tomato can?) they’re a more than adequate prelude to the season. 

'Husky Cherry' on July 3

I’ll revisit the two (Husky Cherry and Terenzo) in September to see which delivers the most. But perhaps there’s no point in choosing a favorite. There’s a place in the garden for both the upright soldier that perseveres even in the heat and humidity of a Pennsylvania summer and the prone and precocious charmer.  Success, happily, has countless faces.

Carefree Delight, Indeed

“The rose is a rose, And was always a rose …” 

So wrote Robert Frost. 

But roses have many poses. One may take top billing. 

Magic Meidiland

Another may be part of a chorus line, made all the more stunning by the flash and glitz of a glory repeated many times over. 

I particularly like a rose that can adapt to being a part of an ensemble, a bit player in a big show, playing off of the strengths of the other members. The doggedly gifted might achieve superstardom. But the rest of us must feel our way through the tangle to reach the spot in the sunlight that allows us to spread our own distinctive brand of joy for a moment in June. 

And again, perhaps, in August. 

 

Carefree Delight and cutleaf maple

 

“… You, of course, are a rose But were always a rose.”

Garlic Mustard Day!

Pulling garlic mustard always inspires me. 

Today’s inspiration is, on so many levels, brilliant. I propose that we declare a regional garlic mustard holiday! Imagine watching, watching, watching … then, when the flowers begin to flash along the roadsides but the seeds are still a few days away from causing mayhem, everyone shall take the day off to pull the troublemakers out by the roots. And, clip, clip, off with their heads—just for insurance. And spite. Side by side, bankers and second-graders, mechanics and professors, will find satisfaction and community in yanking out the aliens that (with sinister intent, I suspect) alter soil chemistry and produce prodigious numbers of offspring. At the end of the rewarding session garlic mustard carcasses will lie severed and wilting, a generation thwarted. 

 

And the beauty of it is, the date of the holiday is to be determined by those who have the most to gain from it: school children. They will be the watchers of the roadsides. They will observe the elongation of the second-year rosettes, and the formation of the four-petaled flowers. “Soon, soon,” they will tell each other. “See? The maple leaves are beginning to open … that’s a sign! And look, the dandelions are blooming.” 

Not only will the understory be made safe for bloodroot and Jack-in-the-pulpit, but children will have a good solid reason to observe what’s going on outdoors. Shall we declare an arbitrator? Or just determine that when the peony buds are the size of peas, the time is right, and allow the twitter-vine to determine that this is the day. 

Allee-allee-out-free! 

Yes, I realize that success would doom the holiday, but I have faith that children will not let that happen. They’ll figure it out, and “forget” a patch, leaving it to spew out next year’s bounty. 

And there are those, to be sure, who will stand up for the right of garlic mustard to flourish; who will bemoan a world without garlic mustard pesto. I say, let them eat groundhogs! 

And solve another garden problem.

Ramps

“Ramps.” 

This was the third time the subject had been raised. I sensed in chef Jason’s questioning tone a distinct dash of demand. The first time I had brushed it off. “What do I know about ramps? I’m a gardener!” The second time I suggested that he contact the person who alerted him to the bounty of ramps and ask him exactly where “down by the stream” they could be found. It seems, however, that neither of these approaches was satisfactory. 

So I did what I always do in these situations: I called my son, the farmer. When Kevin was half my age he had the questions and I had the answers. Now that the ratio of our ages is 7:12 the situation has reversed. It is a beautiful thing. 

Ramps, Kevin explained, are not the same thing as the rampant onion grass that grows in every garden crevice. “The leaves are much wider, about the width of daffodil foliage, and the stalks are purplish red.” Known as wild leeks, they are native to North America and grow in the rich forest soils under sugar maple, ash, and beech. Where Dutchman’s breeches and bloodroot grow, wild leeks might also be found. And the time to find them is right now … which explains chef Jason’s escalating insistence. “He should call Chuck,” Kevin advised. “He’ll know where they are.” 

I dutifully emailed Jason with this information, and Chuck’s phone number. I can imagine him opening this email just as he is preparing to shave a batch of yellow carrots, or unleash his considerable powers on the fresh Hakurei turnips I harvested yesterday. Ramps-on-a-platter is what he wants. Not the name of a person who can explain which part of the muddy ground he must tramp through to locate the elusive cache. 

I give him beautiful yellow-ribbed chard and baby arugula. Mizuna at its spicy peak, golden beets, and bundles of thyme. He wants a wild plant gone trendy because it is hunted not nurtured, desire driven by a vestige of primal survival. To put on my Costa Rican rubber boots and go mucking through the woods in search of ramps would, in truth, be preferable to further testing my strained knee with a garden fork. But can I risk an hour of not planting cauliflower, checking groundhog traps, and inspecting pea seedlings for the mere possibility of finding ramps? 

Who will win: the gardener? … or the naturalist. 

The word hovers. It slinks around the edges of my weekend. From the car window I scan the hollows for lily-of-the-valley-like foliage. 

Ramps.

Nature vs. Garden

My inner naturalist and my inner gardener are at war.

I knew that for certain yesterday when I found a baby bunny in the lettuce, in the greenhouse, and picked up the little critter and threw him outside. Maria, the Great Pyrenees "watchdog," just happened to be there and, well ... you can guess what happened next. And ok, I was sorry, but just the tiniest bit. I was in gardener mode, and the mystery of who was nibbling the chard to the ground had been solved.

And yet ...
I like the non-human world. A lot. Just last week I discovered a new fondness for crows, of all creatures, as I sat on a bench and listened to the assorted cadences of their calls. And I admired the hovering honeybees as the collected water to thin their honey for the young 'uns.

My inner conflict displays itself in other ways too, such as in my fickle relationship with native plants. I appreciate them for their eco-services and their looks. However, when it comes to covering a bank with something beautiful I pick 'Tidal Wave' petunias over fragrant sumac. And yes I understand that robins and catbirds love native viburnums, but when planting my own garden I was seduced by the perfectly elegant way the berries of the Chinese tea viburnum drooped. I'll take tea, please. With a spoonful of guilt.

I learned, in the course of field journaling, that many of the plants I unapologetically rip out happen to be natives. Clearweed is loved by butterflies; Enchanter's Nightshade is a favorite of native bees; Bur Cucumber is a good source of nectar and grows at such an amazing pace that the naturalist in me can't help but marvel ... as the gardener yanks its tendrils from the treetops.

The naturalist and the gardener are working on communications skills. To this end I entered the war zone today with a conciliatory heart to look for the one that got away. He is still in there--somewhere--eating MY chard, I mean nibbling cutely, as baby bunnies do. I did not find him but did uncover another nest of four newborns. After nudging them gently into a box I carried them outside and eased them into a protected hole, covering them with the same straw/fur mix their mother had used ... knowing full well that they would probably not last the night. But it felt, nonetheless, a little gentler.

Keeping a field journal, I find, maintains the conflict. I believe this is a good thing. If you find yourself similarly conflicted please join ne in a three-Saturday "Art of Nature Journaling" class at the Morris Arboretum in June.

And please don't ask me about the fat mouse--the one with the belly full of bean sprouts--that I spotted while looking for the bunny.