Sugar Pumpkins

My fascination with small things is contagious.  By that I mean that it's not partial to people, places, or events.  It extends to most other objects, living or non-.  And it especially extends towards plants.  This is the first year I've grown the Cucurbit family's admirably compact 6-inch pumpkins; each one affectionately called "Small Sugar".  I gently trained them onto a tomato trellis, in part to keep the giant foliage aerated and dry.  A not-so-sneaky, not-so-effective effort to ward off the infamous powdery mildew.  Well, I lost the aesthetic battle (this was neither heartbreaking nor a surprise), but the plant fruited nicely, having grown a proud display of it's own autumn bounty.  We severed the vines and set the pumpkins out for All Hallow's Eve, piled as high as they'd allow.  And in that spot they patiently waited out the moon.  Thanksgiving arrived.  It was then I brought them in and washed them up, made a soup and served them.  But not before saying aloud, "Thanks, Sugar".  

November Garden

Intermittent soakers of the present, in combination with previous summer heat spikes, appear to have primed Portland's trees, understory, and stand-alone shrubs for great display of autumn leaf change.   Each next one I see is my new favorite.  It's tough deciding between the scarlet Tupelos, Sunset Maples, the various Japanese Maples, golden Elms, Gingkos and more.  At home in the garden, away from these fantastic trees, we've been experiencing some noteworthy change as well.  Our little Jersey blueberry (still a youth) turned a shocking, beautiful red.  And our Fothergilla, oh the Fothergilla, a warm sort of orangey-yellow I could look at all day.  On our own small scale, we're building the patchwork of colors fondly remembered from North Carolina autumns of childhood.  As youths, my siblings and I climbed Hanging Rock as a family to view them.  Here in Portland, we'll be putting out our arborist ladder and leaning it on the garage for us and our visitors to get our bird's-eye view.  Until I've got those pictures, here are a few from the ground.  

So I finally like pears...

  Perhaps you were wondering what to do with all those plump, ripe pears in early September, rather than now.  This year an abundance of Bartletts spilled from our aged and natty backyard tree.  The tree came with the house and, if not for its fantastic explosions of spring blossoms, or its regular gatherings of chatty finches, it would have existed with charms unappreciated.  I won't say unnoticed, because there is no ignoring the routine swarm of fruit flies appearing out of nowhere, every autumn.  Pears have never been a favorite fruit of mine, but this tree has been able to change my point of view.  Previously we composted our pears or passed them on to neighbors.  But this year they simply looked different, and tempted me.  And I brought them inside and cooked them.  

  The following recipe was adapted from Bon Appetit, December 1992.  Those cohabitating with a sweet tooth will be interested in quadrupling the sugar to meet the original intended outcome.  Pear butter is easily canned for future use by water bath.

Fall is here at last!

  Not that I wish the summer over by any means.  It's just that fall is my favorite time of year here in the Pacific Northwest.  The various maples are in the dressing room, changing coats from green to yellows, oranges, reds.  The spiders have grown round in recent weeks, and hang in their webs like grapes at harvest time, full of sugar and ready to pop.  We're relishing the last of the late-bearing fruit harvest as intensely as we did the early sets.  But it's the change of light that speaks first, and loudest - though the entry is usually soft.  Sometime in early September, the heat-washed, pale intensity of summer light just up and left, leaving no competition for the deep, warm shadowed hues of Autumn.  

  This is the light that means the most to grasses.  At least for the favors it shows them, I would assume.  Many species still hold flower stalks ripe with seed for next year's production - or proliferation, whatever the mode of existence.  And it's this richly buttered light that, when draped among the stalks, affects a captivating glow.  Here, the flower stalks of 'Karl Foerster' Feather Reed Grass, in such a light.