NH Outside: Family/Economics/Spending Archives

Digging carrots from the garden in 80 degree weather just doesn't seem natural for the end of September. There were a surprising lot of carrots, considering I never got out there to thin them for salad as I’d promised myself I’d do.

So I suffer now. I spent the afternoon in the kitchen processing the carrots for freezing. Now, the non gardeners among you will be thinking “How nice! People out there are still preserving food.”  But the real gardeners will think, “Why doesn't she just put them in the root cellar”?

Well, these carrots needed to be processed because chipmunks or some other critter started eating the carrots at the top and went as far into the ground as possible, leaving a concave depression with all these little tooth marks and making those carrots no good for root cellar storage.

On the other hand, I'm not overly fond of cooked carrots. Thank goodness for my mother's old Farm Journal Cookbooks, which contain recipes from generations of farm wives. They knew how to preserve food: Take 12 pounds of carrots, etc. I wound up with candied ginger carrots and orange glazed carrots. I’ll be very happy this winter to take them out of the freezer.

The beets also needed gathering. Something bigger than a chipmunk had enjoyed the beet greens, and the roots themselves weren't as time consuming to process. I just picked out the ones that were split or nibbled on and cooked them. I stashed the rest away in a cool place to be brought out much later.

As the sun was sinking, I went out to get a few (I thought) beans for dinner. Lugging the full basket back into the house, I set about preparing them. These aren’t just any bean, but scarlet runners. My friend from England introduced me to this heirloom variety. They not only produce the most beautiful red flowers all summer and fall, but the beans themselves taste better than ordinary green beans. They are so beautiful many people grow them just for the flowers and don't even know how good they taste. You have to pick the pods before the beans inside start to swell. If you have to “string” them, they’re too old, fit only for the compost. 

I got them all cut up and didn't have the heart to do any more freezing that day. As my husband walked through the kitchen he casually asked if I was freezing them. I told him, “No, we’re having some hot for dinner and I’ll make the rest into a bean salad that should last the rest of the month.”

While I’m on the subject of heirloom varieties, the Brandywine tomatoes are hitting their full stride. We got them into the ground very late. Most years at this time the plants would be hanging down in the cellar slowly ripening their fruit away from the frosty outside air. Brandywines are so good! No other tomato beats their taste. And big! A couple of years ago I remember picking with pride the first ripe Brandywine. I washed it and sliced three half inch slabs that completely covered the bread for that first tomato/mayo sandwich. This particular tomato was so large I put the rest of it in the fridge and we had it for a salad that evening. I haven't had one that big in awhile, but I did bring one to share with my hiking group today. Everyone tucked slices into their sandwiches except for the one with the peanut butter sandwich. She ate her share separately.

The winter squash are still out there. If nothing has been nibbling on them, they go right into the cold room. No hassle. Thumbing though my gardening magazine, I found a lovely article on horseradish. Something else I’ll need to harvest before too long.

Have you ever tried to process horseradish? Oh, the tears you shed! After my first experience, my mother told me she used to hold the root outside a mostly closed window and grate it out there. Good idea. I'll put my food processor on an extension cord and see how that works.

My mother gave up canning and freezing well before she was my age. She lived though the time when you had to do it to survive the winter. She stopped when they moved off the farm and thought supermarkets were just great. Well, they are, but home grown food tastes better, at least to me. Knowing what went into growing the produce, harvesting it and preserving it for the long winter gives a feeling of security not just because I can have something to eat, but because I still know how to do it. Will the next generation have these skills?

By Carolyn Enz Page, Community Tree Steward
UNH Cooperative Extension

I never liked the cold and dark of winter. Cold, dark days found me sitting by the fire reading a good book Beowulf outside the Mead Hall in the cold, or King Lear ravaged by the elements, cast out by his daughters.

Then a year ago in December, Memphis arrived in a van from Tennessee. An organization had rescued him from being put down. He is part Great Pyrenees and part St. Bernard, bigger than the other rescue dogs. Despite his size he was at first hesitant in his new surroundings.

He soon adjusted to the old colonial and extended family of adults and children who pass through. He was so affectionate and willing to please that my husband and I began feeling guilty if we did not take him for a daily walk. A big dog needs big paths to run on.

In searching for new trails to walk with Memphis, we have discovered fresh places to explore, and have thereby expanded our own horizons. We go to Stratham Hill and Creek Farm and pore over maps in search of wildlife management areas.

Last winter we discovered the beauty of the frozen, rust-colored marsh. Memphis ran with pure joy, his white coat rippling and tail curving outward as he bounded over the icy cord grass. The expression of delight on his face exhilarated us as we wrapped our heavy coats closer to ward off the wind. We were energized by his childlike delight and graceful lope in the silver light.

Another day we took Memphis ice fishing. Again, we received more than he. The lake lay in great expanse as far as the eye could see, a Brigadoon that appears each winter. Memphis ran past abandoned fishing holes and primitive shacks, scattered communities of people covered in wool caps and lined jackets, and children running at the tilts to pull up the fish.

We exchanged greetings with the area fishermen and their families stamping their feet, offering advice. Later, we sat on a sled and drank beer and ate ham sandwiches. In the sharp air, Memphis raced far and wide, eating the leftover bait, tasting the winter.

We crunched across the temporary landscape,deep snow over ice, a landscape that would disappear in the spring. I experienced a sense of freedom that sprang from some deep collective memory. I looked forward to this winter to recapture that sense of freedom.

On a warm day this January we walked in the woods. Black, gray, dark brown trunks rose in stark contrast to the pale blue patches of sky. Deer prints abounded beneath our feet. The noise of a piliated woodpecker rang out. We heard the sharp crack of tree branches. Later we followed through a mist of snow fog as the snow evaporated in the warm air. With his white and tan coat Memphis blended with the landscape. Dripping snow fell into patterns of sea foam underfoot.

My husband, an outdoorsman, pointed out the protected areas under the greens, hemlock and pine where deer had bedded down. The snow was disturbed where they pawed for acorns or nibbled the hemlock and cedar. The temperature changed as we walked on the path, colder in the lower areas and warmer in the open.

We came to the frozen marsh with the frosting of ice over the inlet tide, our boots crunching down on the frozen bog. The fawn-colored salt-marsh cord grass lay in ruffled clumps. We were the only travelers on the frozen land, the sun a pale wash of light in the afternoon sky.

The woods were colder on the other side of the marsh as we followed Memphis, spirited on by his joy of discovery. The sun broke through and set patterns of shadow and pale, gold light on the east side of the trees.

Later, driving home, we looked up to glimpse the white head and tail of a bald eagle. What a thrill! Recalling my former dread of the cold, dark days of winter, I realized I had entered a whole new realm of winter joy and wonder, a gift from Memphis.

By Carla Marvin, Community Tree Steward UNH Cooperative Extension

I never considered myself a New England Yankee per se. Rather, I thought of myself as a northern born child of New York City transplants. Growing up in Vermont and New Hampshire I was constantly reminded that to be considered a native, you needed to have several generations in the local graveyard.

“But I was born here,” I’d insist.

Which, of course, always brought the old adage, “Ayah, but if my cat had kittens in the oven, I wouldn’t call ‘em muffins.”

It really didn’t matter. I didn’t fit the bill anyway. I was much too gregarious never answering questions with a single syllable when I could give a long winded monologue. I gave extensive directions to out of staters and conversed with complete strangers in the supermarket.

I grew up as part of the disposable generation, throwing away used or slightly worn products and purchasing new ones (unlike my mother, who carefully folded and saved tinfoil as well as twist ties from bread wrappers.) “Prudent,” she called it. “Weird,” I thought.

And then one day, as I was mowing the lawn, it hit me: I’d become a real Yankee in my middle age. The epiphany occurred when I realized that instead of taking my usual walk or jog that day, I chose to get my exercise by mowing the lawn. How Yankee of me!

And there was more: I realized that somewhere in my forties, with tens of thousands of dollars in tuition bills looming, I’d become frugal. I found myself actually saving the rubber bands that held the broccoli stalks together and finding countless ways to recycle and cut back.

This was something I feared some folks in my affluent community would never tolerate. So I decided to call it something else. I told my friends and neighbors that I’d “gone green.”

Mowing my own lawn is a great way to stay fit, I tell them. Practices such as mulching my garden with grass clippings, using compost for fertilizer (I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that Prince Charles does the same thing), and recycling copper pipe scraps (left over from when we built our house) into plant supports are all good for the environment.

Frugal was lowbrow, but green? That was socially acceptable. With Hollywood stars like Brad Pitt and George Clooney driving hybrid cars to help rescue the environment, I found myself suddenly on the cutting edge of shi shi.

I saved a bundle by firing my lawn care company and applied worm castings in a hose sprayer to keep my grass green without the use of chemicals. In fact, I’m now looking for ways to eliminate as much of my lawn as possible. It’s all the rage.

I know I’ll have to be careful so as not to go too far. While driving to work one day, I heard a piece on NH Public Radio about a woman who was taken to court for hanging her clothes outside to dry because her neighbors felt it devalued their homes. It appears that Americans will only go green until it affects their wallets, and then all bets are off and the environment be damned.

But I think my frugality is catching on. I spotted two large barrels in front of the house down the street, hooked up to the gutter drains to collect rainwater. Surprisingly, it didn’t look strange at all. Not for a moment did I think, “That cheapskate, why doesn’t he just pay for town water like the rest of us?” On the contrary, my first impulse was to find out how he made the devices and then try the same thing myself next summer. That way when the inevitable water ban goes into effect, we’ll have reserves to keep the garden alive.

And so it behooves us all to be “Green Yankees” finding ways to be ecologically kind and, yes, saving a few bucks as a benefit along the way. My mother always used to say “just because you have money doesn’t mean you have to spend it.” The old girl knew what she was talking about. After all, there’s also such as thing as New York Yankee.

By Susan Ferber, Master Gardener

The natural world heals, nurtures and sustains me. When I am tired or cranky, a walk in the woods restores my spirits. A vigorous swim in the ocean relaxes and invigorates me.

My father had a love of the outdoors, and some of my happiest memories are about doing things with Daddy outside. Until I was 12 years old, we lived in a suburb of New York City. A happy memory of being outside was raking leaves and burning them in the backyard…this was the New York suburbs in the early 1950s, and burning leaves in the backyard or at the curb was sanctioned, probably even encouraged so the municipality wouldn’t have to dispose of them.

We’d rake leaves in the evening, after Dad had come home on the train from Manhattan. I made small “campfires” of carefully crossed sticks and added dried leaves. I’d come inside, smelling of woodsmoke and take my bath in the old claw-foot tub before getting into bed.

I was an extremely active child—they didn’t use the term “hyper” back then, but I was. In elementary school, we had physical education three times a week—my salvation. We spent time climbing on thick heavy ropes suspended from the ceiling. I learned to wrap the rope in my feet, and using hand-over-hand technique, shimmy up to the ceiling and back down in no time.

So my father hung a rope from a large oak tree in the backyard for me to play on, a heavy rope with a wooden bar attached at the bottom, which kept me entertained for hours. I’d hold onto the bar, run, and swing high from side to side. Often I’d hook my knees around the bar, and swing upside down, my arms free. It was exhilarating and liberating.

My father, mother, and two sisters would go up to Ragged Mountain, in Andover, New Hampshire, for two weeks each summer. We stayed in a rustic cabin, and we three girls slept on a screened porch overlooking Mount Kearsarge.

I loved the freedom of being at Ragged, where we could play and explore. I had a secret path down to the lower ridge, which emerged near my best friend Susie’s house.

Dad taught me to swim in the spring-fed, salamander-rich pond at Ragged Mountain. He would do a flying dive off the dock, while the rest of the adults would walk in. Most impressive! I too always went for the dramatic dive off the dock into the water. You’d have to do a flat racing dive, as it was fairly shallow. That only added to the fun.

I had to prove competence by swimming out to the raft alone. What joy: swimming to the raft, climbing up the ladder, jumping off, then doing it again and again and again. Remembering that total joy gives me a hint of the bliss a golden retriever on a scent must experience.

My father and I were always awake and up before everyone else. It was quiet and no one else was around, and we’d often go fishing for trout in the pond. He taught me how to fly-fish—keep the elbow close to the side, and let the rod do the work of casting the line. He showed me how to gently place the fly on the water so a hungry trout would take it. It was such a thrill to catch a fish, and in the pond it was always a trout. We’d bring the trout home and Dad would clean it, fry up bacon and the trout, and carefully pull the flesh off the bones for my breakfast.

My father also taught me how to row an old-style, heavy wooden boat with wooden oars and open-top oarlocks. Rowing taught me how to pay special attention to pull on the oars so they wouldn’t pop out of the locks and send the rower abruptly backwards; how to keep the rowboat going in a straight line, by focusing on a tree on the horizon in the direction I was facing.

In many ways, my present life is a continuation of the lessons I learned from my father. In 1973 I moved to New Hampshire with my husband John. We lived in a teepee while we built our modest home in Epsom. Soon afterwards, with infant Robb in tow, we moved to Wilmot and started a cross-country ski center. John designed and cut the trail system. I taught skiing and led moonlight tours.

I also developed an interest in vegetable gardening. I put in a huge garden around the time our daughter Jessie was born, “put up” garden veggies, and learned about harvesting wild herbs for healing, making my own tinctures and salves.

I became a Master Gardener and now I teach others to take care of plants and the Earth, and started a garden design business, designing, installing, and maintaining flower gardens for area clients.

Dad died this April at the age of 93. As I look back, reflecting on his life and my own, I realize how much my father shaped the life I lead. We’ll stay connected through the love of the outdoors he so generously shared with me.

Thanks, Dad.

By Nancy Schlosser, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

Date

Does the sharp climb in heating oil prices—already above $2.20 a gallon, with no end in sight— have you dusting off that old wood stove in the corner or researching the latest wood stove technology?

 If so, then you’ll also want to spend some time contemplating where you are going to get your firewood. As a rule of thumb, a cord of dry hardwood fuel yields about the same usable heat as 200 gallons of heating oil, a ton of hard coal, or about 4000 kilowatts of electricity. By comparing the cost of other fuels with cordwood, you can figure out the savings you’ll realize by burning wood to heat your home.

Don’t expect to go out in the backyard when the weather turns cold to cut down a few trees to saw up and throw into the new stove. It takes time to cure and dry firewood. Burning green firewood is very inefficient, and it can be unsafe. The moisture content of green wood averages 60 percent to 80 percent by weight, depending on when it was cut.

Evaporating all that water in your stove will use as much as 15 percent of the potential heat in your firewood, so you are better off letting nature do it for you by air-drying your wood before you burn it. Burning green wood also promotes a buildup of creosote in the chimney, increasing the risk of a dangerous chimney fire.

It will take about six months to air-dry a cord of cut and split wood to 30 percent moisture content and a year or more to reach 20 percent moisture content. So if you haven’t started cutting and splitting your wood pile, you won’t catch up before cold weather arrives this fall. That means you’ll probably need to buy dry cordwood this year and plan on using any wood you cut now during the 2006-2007 heating season.

If you haven’t bought a cord of cut-and-split firewood in a few years, you might be surprised by the prices. A quick perusal of your local weekly newspaper or “shopper” will show advertised prices exceeding $200 for a cord of dry wood.

Don’t be too quick to assume the high price of dry firewood is a reaction to the sudden surge in demand. The firewood business is labor-intensive and requires a lot of transportation. During the 1990’s, when oil was cheap and firewood profits where thin, most large firewood dealers started to automate the production of firewood through the use of firewood processors in an effort to stay competitive. These processors are designed to cut and split log-length wood (16-foot logs).

In response, many firewood dealers started to buy in log-length wood by the truckload from local loggers. This strategy worked well until demand for hardwood pulp surged two or three years ago. Suddenly, firewood dealers who were used to paying $30 to $40 a cord for log length had to pay $80 to $100 per cord for the same wood. They had to pass these costs along to their customers. Add surging prices for insurance (especially workman’s compensation) and fuel to run the equipment, and the old standard of $120 to $140 cord of firewood quickly rises to $200.

If you’re still balking at paying $200 a cord for firewood, don’t delay too long, because prices are bound to increase as winter gets closer and supplies disappear. Dry firewood has been very difficult to purchase the past couple of winters because demand exceeded supply.

If you’re in the market to buy three or four cords of dry wood for the winter, I suggest you look in your local newspaper or “shopper,” or ask your neighbors and friends about dealers they might know. Be sure you are buying dry wood. Ask the dealer how long the wood you plan to buy has been drying since it was cut and split. Learn the species mix of the dealer’s wood, too. The denser the wood, the longer it will take to dry. Oak, for example, may take more than a year to dry to 20 percent moisture content.

Be sure to clarify what measure of wood you are buying. By state law, a cord of wood is 128 cubic feet of air, bark, and wood. That’s a pile of wood 8 feet long by 4 feet high by 4 feet wide. A vendor may legally sell a fraction of a cord, but must represent it accurately as such (e.g., a half-cord). Remember that stacking a cord is an imperfect skill, so the cord will vary in slightly in size every time it is stacked.

It’s a good idea to meet the delivery truck before the load is dumped to make sure you are satisfied by the mixture of species and cleanliness, and to tell the driver where you want the wood dumped. Most firewood dealers don’t want to return to your house to reload their truck.

Unless you’ve arranged otherwise, it’s up to you to restack the pile. Stack it outside in a well ventilated area off the ground (used pallets make a good platform if you don’t have a woodshed). Don’t cover your stacked wood until about a month or so before you begin to use it, to encourage natural air circulation to drive the moisture from the wood.

Even if you’re buying your firewood, the work of stacking it, loading your stove all winter, and removing the ashes will enable you to understand the old adage “wood warms you twice.”

One final note:    Please download our fact sheet Wood burning Saavy to review or improve your knowledge of how to burn wood safely in your home.

By Tim Fleury, UNH Cooperative Extension Forester

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

Date

I built my first fire of the season a few weeks ago. Certainly this is an unremarkable event for anyone who’s lived a long time in the North Country, but for me it marks a rite of passage.

When I moved to this area several years ago, I barely knew how to build a fire, let alone operate a woodstove. In my previous life my “ex” always started the fires. Sure, I’d throw a log on now and then, but that was the extent of it. Growing up as a kid in the suburbs of New York City, we only had a fire going on an occasional holiday.

The truth is, I was always a bit intimidated by fires and generally left them to the men in my life. The one time I did attempt to start a fire on my own resulted in the evacuation of the apartment building I was living in on Boston’s Beacon Hill. In an effort to impress a gentleman I was having over for dinner, I bought a paper-wrapped log at the supermarket. I lit it without knowing I was supposed to open the flue. I made an impression for sure, just not the kind I had hoped for.

Then I landed here. Despite my anxiety, that first winter I realized I would need at least some wood in the event I lost power, which seemed likely. So I arranged to have a load delivered. After it was dumped in my driveway, I stood there blubbering, wondering what I had gotten myself into. Did I order this much wood? Could I possibly burn it all? When I realized I had bought green wood, my tears turned to anger. Right there I vowed to conquer my fear and get this fire and firewood thing mastered.

I used my anger to invigorate the not-so-small task of constructing an orderly woodpile. I decided to move as much of the wood as possible into the shed. On a neighbor’s advice, I stacked the rest in the basement to expedite the drying process.

“Put as much as you can on end. That’ll help some,” he suggested. I thought she ought to know, having lived here the last 65 of her eighty-odd years.

Next, I located the manual and proceeded to familiarize myself with this cast-iron box. Notwithstanding good intentions, at this point I still had no plan to use the stove unless it became absolutely necessary. It did in October when the power failed for three days. I quickly realized the inevitability of the situation. I would have preferred to bury my head under a down blanket, but set about my task as cold began to creep into the house.

The manual was refreshingly clear and presented four concise pages of instruction on how to build and sustain a wood fire. I used most of the Sunday Times to coax the flames that ignited the kindling and the kindling to torch the logs. This first attempt resulted in a diminutive fire at best, but I was ecstatic to see some result. My sense of accomplishment was unabashed.

By day three I figured out how to keep the embers burning overnight. I was learning about the relationship between air flow and the fire, and which controls on the stove proved most effective in regulating it. I realized if I could stoke up a robust fire, I could damp it down for a long-burning, intense delivery of heat.

What I hadn’t anticipated discovering was the magical aura of a fire. The pleasant smell of it. Its mesmerizing quality. The cozy and friendly atmosphere it creates.

This will be my third winter in the North Country, and this year I plan to heat my home with almost equal portions of wood and oil. I can maintain a fire for days on end. A neighbor felled some trees for me last spring. I bought and learned to operate a chain saw, so now I cut and split my own wood. I purchased a tree identification book.

When my mother learned of my undertakings, she laughed nervously and remarked, “You’re using a chain saw? Oh honey, that’s too dangerous. Don’t you want to buy your wood? Do you need money?”

I replied, “It’s not about money, Mom. The sense of reward I get from the whole process is remarkable. And I’m very careful.”

Last month a friend came to visit from Boston and proceeded to help me with my wood tasks. I enjoyed even more the lugging, cutting, splitting, and stacking with his company. I know he found the physical nature of the work as satisfying and stimulating as I did.

A neighbor passing by yelled to him, “Wood warms you up a few times before you even burn it.”

He replied, “Yeah, I’m figuring that out.”

I had to agree. I’m figuring it out, too.

12/13/06

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

A New Hampshire family can eat well and healthfully all winter from a big summer vegetable garden without the fuss and cost of canning or freezing, simply by planting (or purchasing) storage varieties that will keep all winter. Old-timers termed this food-storing strategy “common storage.”

Humble and homely, the underground crops: carrots, beets, rutabagas, parsnips, potatoes, garlic and onions provide the foundation of the stored-food winter diet. Late-season red and green cabbages, kale, and Brussels sprouts offer up salads and cooked vegetable dishes. And the majestic winter squashes, mashable, roastable, stuffable, and suitable for a variety of tasty deserts, shape and round out the vegetable menu.

Most New Hampshire households no longer plant food gardens, but more of us could. And a lot more Granite Staters could pre-order a specified amount of storage crops next spring from a local grower, or join a community-supported agricultural venture (CSA) that offers winter storage crops in bulk.

Whether you grow, buy or trade for your winter vegetables, store only those varieties our grandmothers called “good keepers,” the ones that mature late and contain less water than their summer cousins.

Some tips for common storage:

Brussels sprouts and kale: Late-season varieties store well right in the garden all winter long. Mark the rows or beds with a pole so you can dig ‘em out of a deep snow. Harvest as needed.

Cabbage: Cabbage keeps best under conditions of high humidity with a temperature between 32-40 degrees F. Store only perfect, insect-free, unblemished heads whose leaves show no signs of disease. Keep the cabbages directly off the ground, on pallets or shelves. An old-fashioned root cellar with a dirt floor works best for cabbage and root crops, but inventive gardeners have used insulated bulkheads or outside storage boxes, dug pits in the ground, or built earth berms for the purpose. Humidify the environment with boxes of wet sand, old sawdust, or soil in the storage space.
    
Carrots, beets, turnips, rutabagas and parsnips: Dig root vegetables after the first frost, but before the ground freezes. Dig carefully to avoid damage, selecting only well-formed, mature, disease-free roots for storage. Cut back the foliage to within an inch of the root. Store in a cool (34-40 degrees F.), location in wooden boxes or plastic crates (I use cheap plastic laundry baskets), in single layers sandwiched between layers of fresh, damp fall leaves. Sprinkle the boxes occasionally with water to create the moist environment needed to prevent the roots from drying out.

Garlic and onions: You should have harvested garlic bulbs in late July and air-dried them out of direct sunlight for two or three weeks. Cut off the dry tops an inch from the bulbs and store the bulbs in mesh bags in a cool (below 40 degrees, but above freezing), dry place.

Harvest storage onions when the tops fall over as the “neck” region of the onion plant begins to dry out. Leave the harvested bulbs in the garden a day or two, covered by their tops to prevent sunscald. Then set the onions in a cool, well-ventilated location, preferably on screens, to dry. When the tops have dried, cut them to within an inch of the bulb and store the onions in a mesh bag (old pantyhose work well, too) in a cool, dry location. Reserve “scullions”—onions whose necks don’t seal—for immediate use.

Potatoes: Harvest when soil and air temperatures cool down, taking care not to damage tubers. Cure the potatoes in darkness at 45-60 degrees for a couple of weeks, then store in a cool, damp place at 34-40 degrees, in darkness. Discard any potatoes with green skins. Potatoes stored at higher temperatures or in the same room with apples may sprout early. Remove and discard any sprouts that do form.

Winter squash (including spaghetti squash): Cut squash from the vine with at least an inch of stem when green stems turn tan and woody and the rinds have lost their gloss. As long as the weather remains above freezing, leave harvested squash outdoors a few days to cure; the cut end of the stem will heal and the rind will harden.

Store only perfect, unblemished squash on a pallet or a few layers of old newspaper in a spot with a uniform temperature of 50-60 degrees F. and moderate humidity—under the bed in an unheated guest or utility room, or in a dry, unheated cellar or closet. Check squash often and discard any fruit with soft or moldy spots.

By Peg Boyles Writer, UNH Cooperative Extension

10/25/06

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

Mix two kids, a husband, a barking dog, a wide sandy beach, and a bending tree with a rope swing by a sparkling river, and you have a recipe for summer magic. Under the hot sun, the lone rope hanging from a tree limb over the river pulls us like a magnet. It draws children, men, dogs, and even me on an 80 degree late-summer afternoon.

My two children, Dylan and Nate, will tell you how I avoid the water in New England. You’d never know that I grew up and spent most of my life here. I worship the sun and revel in 90 degree heat waves while everyone else melts and complains. My idea of heaven in New England is a hot tub, not an unheated pool.

Yet, as a kid, I actually swam at Hampton Beach. I’d race towards the ocean 'til I was knee deep and launch into a forward flip so there was no turning back from the ice-cold water. I’d stay in 'til I was numb and blue in the lips. Maybe that’s my problem. I must have given myself frostbite and have yet to recover. I also was born in Pensacola, Florida, which I’ve never gotten over either.

But that darn rope swing is way too tempting. It literally dares me. I hear it. “Go on. Grab me,” it says. “Take a leap of faith. Show your kids you know how to have fun.”

I can’t take that kind of ribbing from a swing. I grab hold and, just to show how brave I am, I climb up on the nearby log to give myself a better jump. And I’m off. I swing out, out, out… I dangle in space… I pass the point where I should be letting go. I fly back to the bank, seemingly faster than I left it. Mike pushes me away from the jagged limb protruding from the bank where I’m headed, and I’m back on the log where I started. The kids double over with laughter and Flash barks and barks and won’t stop barking.

Okay. I can do this. My timing was just off a bit. I can still show my family what tough stuff I’m made of. I can beat this rope. I know how to have fun. I jump again, swing out, out, out, and this time I let go as I reach that magical point of weightless suspension—and it is a magical moment, but gone already. Freefalling, freefalling down, down, down into the murky, freezing-cold depths. This isn’t a river. It’s a melted glacier!

Rising to the surface, my mouth forms a frozen “O.” I can’t breathe. I can barely squeak, “So c-c-c-cold!” as I tread water. No air seems to be making it back into my stiff lungs. Mike, Dylan  and Nate are having trouble breathing as well, they’re laughing so hard. As I hyperventilate, they point at me, “Look how Mom’s mouth makes an ‘O!’” Flash barks and barks and barks. At least my dog worries about me.

There’s only one thing to do and that’s get the heck out of this water and fast! I practically explode onto the beach. Wrapped in a nubby towel, I content myself with simply watching my 9-year-old son, 11-year-old daughter, and age-not-to-be-discussed husband taking turn after turn on the rope swing. Totally immersed in the moment and the magic, they’re not bothered at all by the temperature of the water.

I sense a new directive as my limbs begin to warm in the sun and the reflected heat of the sand. I pull out my Panasonic and begin taking picture after digital picture of each and every leap. If only I can freeze their magical moments, capture the point where time stands still and the body floats in anticipation of free fall. This will be my ultimate magical summer moment.

As we got ready to leave the beach for the day, the sun was lower in the sky, the light bending softly toward the rope swing, hanging quietly all alone by the reflective river. It shone in the light, a beacon in the woods. I sensed it was daring me to come back and try again.

And I’ll be ready for it next time. I can beat that rope swing. I can leap again and again and again into that incredibly cold water just like my kids and my husband. I can be a bigger part of that rope swing summer magic. I can wear a wetsuit….

By Nanette Masi, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

09/05/2006

Recently, I spent a lot of time hanging out at a hospital, not as a patient, but as the spouse of one. My husband had major surgery in June and spent 17 days at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center in Lebanon.

While I drove back and forth to Lebanon, a 50-minute trip over some of New Hampshire’s most demanding highways, I found myself noticing plants that caught my eye. This helped make my many trips back and forth seem shorter and more pleasant. For example, my own private lupine festival was abloom. The majority of the lupines were purple, but the sprinkling of white, pink and pale yellow highlighted the darker colors and made for an excellent display.

During each trip, I took special note of a house in Lyme with an old-fashioned, buttery-yellow rose shrub. It grew beside a hot-pink rhododendron, which faded away and left the yellow rose alone for its 15 minutes of fame. Though I wasn’t able to identify it, I enjoyed its elegance and purity. It gave me a little boost of beauty during a difficult time. It probably blooms only once a season, but it earned its keep by making my day each time I went that route.

Along the side of the road where moisture collects in ditches, I saw what I refer to as “those white plants” that bloom in early summer and could be Wild Parsnip, Water Hemlock or Poison Hemlock, among others. From the distance, I couldn’t always tell which one I had sighted. They always look bridal-like, dainty and white. Later, they’ll be replaced by Queen Anne’s Lace, another look-alike that I love for its delicate, lacey umbels and bird’s nest-shaped seedheads.

Somewhere along my route, I noticed what appeared to be dill growing on the side of the road. Could those be flowering dill heads, so early in the season? As I drove past, it made a little landmark, something to wonder about. Since then, I’ve been able to identify this as Golden Alexander, a wildflower that grows in spring and early summer.

Another house along my route had a pergola that stretched out from the side of the house to cover a patio that overlooked the Connecticut River. I couldn’t help but wonder what would grow and clamber over such a graceful structure. Because of the slightly milder climate of the Valley, my mind’s eye pictured purple wisteria and pink climbing roses; for fall, snowy white clematis paniculata.

As I got closer to the hospital, I saw white lilac trees; they bloom later than the syringa species, and they have no scent, but they appear striking from a distance.

The grounds of Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center are well-manicured and seem to have been planned to provide both seasonal beauty and low maintenance. Earlier, in the spring, there were tulips, daffodils and other signs of mass bulb-planting the previous fall. Now, there are hundreds of daylilies just ticking off the days until they explode and light up the summer with colors I can only imagine, and do.

At the time that I was a daily visitor and occasional overnight guest, rain showers were a daily or at least an every-other-day event. As I approached a glass-enclosed entry on the north side of the hospital, something in my peripheral vision made me turn to look. Drops of water glistened like tiny diamonds on a group of large, seersucker-leaved hostas planted just outside the panes of glass. Not flashy like a neon sign, but subtle like tasteful jewelry, tucked into a niche, visible if you only took the time to look.

And the roses! From the fourth floor, I could see a split-rail fence with four or five pink, single-petaled climbing rose bushes that looked as if they were descendants of a rugosa rose and a more lax-stemmed rose such as a rambling Wichuraiana. If I made cell-phone calls, I went to that window to make them. Not only did I get good phone reception there, but the floral scent was captivatingspicy like cloves and sweet. The hours of worry and tension would melt away as I took a moment to inhale their amazing, instantly refreshing fragrance.

As I looked out our fourth floor windows, the textures and the yellow and blue-greens of all sorts of trees, evergreen and deciduous, seemed to come together to create a treehouse. This effect was amplified by myriads of birds that spent their days flying in and out of the leaves and branches, swooping down to feed on insects and grubs that carelessly left their places of safety in the verdant lawns below. Cedar waxwings fed on the pin cherries, lemon-yellow goldfinches dipped and rose in their curious, undulating flight patterns, fat robins pulled worms from the grass.

We’ve returned to our own valley east of the hospital. My husband continues to improve and get stronger every day. I continue to look out my windows and remember the solace and serenity those connections with nature gave me. Although it’s true there’s no place like home, nature nurtures you wherever you roam.

By Helen Downing, Master Gardener, UNH Cooperative Extension 

07/14/06

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.