Carbon dioxide is a gas which plants "enjoy". Photosynthesis is a complex biological process that I could have sketched for you years ago. But nowadays, the cycle is a generalized concept of which I rarely think. Simply put however, the chlorophyll in plants which makes them green churns carbon dioxide into carbohydrates and oxygen. As you know, oxygen is what humans use to power our body engines, expelling carbon dioxide from our mouths when we exhale and speak. They say it's good to talk to plants for this very reason.
Mo is still not well. Tonight, I had to remove another yellowing branch that serves as a visual symptom of illness. From the biology classes that are now foggy in my memory, I recall the structure of xylem and phloem, funneling nutrients from plant roots to their stems, branches and leaves. Mo is lopsided and I suspect that half of his roots on one side are suffering below the dark soil.
This morning, as I said goodbye before work, I noticed that Mo was salty. That is to say, he was dusted with what I think are bug eggs that looked grains of sodium chloride. Aphids. A few of his leaves looked to be the venues for aphid outings; tiny flat green bugs were gathered and still. Mo looked itchy and I wanted to scratch him.
Miranda reminded me of the brilliant insect food chain and the hierarchy of predators. On my way home from dinner, I stopped at Home Depot to play pimp and find Mo some ladies: ladybugs. Unfortunately, I didn't get any action as they were out so I decided to rid him of the encroachers myself. I could buy him another day's worth of time until I find a harem of spotted red coquettes for my dear tomato plant. He needed cheering up.
So, in a silky black blouse with cream colored lace trim, I stood next to the kitchen sink. I ran Mo's branches gently under a steady stream of water from the faucet. I tilted the pot with my left hand while the aphids were swept into the current of water circling the drain by my right thumb. I brushed the leaves with my finger tips, his spiky hairs rough to the touch. I didn't speak but I breathed deeply and gave him much needed attention.
After the bath, I cut open the new bag of fertilizer. I detected a faint note of delicious cocoa, spooned out the prescribed dosage and mixed it with the soil. Then, an ample shower followed by a patient draining of the excess water. Quick trim of the weakened branch and a few leaflets and he was done.
He's back outside in the cool night air. Tomorrow, I'll try another nursery for Mo's ladies. I'll move him into the sunlight on my way out and hope that he'll be warm and comfortable for the day before I blow him a kiss goodbye. He enjoys the carbon dioxide.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
no you don't, Mo
When I read books about ingredients or "food encyclopedias" as they are called now, I particularly enjoy the entries for various fruits and vegetables. Bereft of recipes, whether it's the Food Lover's Companion or a 1961 Larousse Gastronomique, the produce listings always have detailed illustrations or color plates to demonstrate the painterly allure of everything from artichokes to a strawberry. The description will include the biological origin of the species, the proper names of a few varietals, general directions on how to consume it and maybe a dish name or two. Often, the phrase "out of hand" is applied to how a fruit or vegetable can be eaten. This I know how to do.
What these book don't tell you is that humans are not the only organisms that enjoy fruits and vegetables. I suppose it's not a botany book or a biology book. When the bugs come to nibble at the same succulent kernels of corn, you pretty much have to accept it and salvage what you can for leftovers. Bug leftovers.
I stood before the rainbow of produce at Chino Farm on Sunday, bewildered by the array of perfect specimens. Swiss chard in various hues. French carrots in milk, saffron, carrot, salmon and beet colors. Kale, at least 5 kinds. I can't do justice to these things yet. I cannot wrangle the boldest iteration of a butternut squash using heat and forged, sharpened metal. All I can do is photograph the cornucopia of California's bounty. For Mother Nature's efforts, my respects are paid by holding her gifts gingerly as I taste them, preserving her work and enjoying each masterpiece out of hand.
When I returned to the city and its soot stained palms, I felt a stronger desire to tend to my own plants. I'd been moving Mo, the tomato, to the sunniest part of my walkway but he was still looking spotty and unsure. I'd been told that Mo was ill and that I needed to protect him from the bugs which were slowly eating him alive. The other night, I went to Home Depot and Whole Foods to find an organic pesticide. I couldn't bring myself to purchase anything I saw. The bottles were either horribly marketed to be safe (Home Depot > Ortho "ecosense" all lowercase, pretty pastel colors hiding chemical names pesticide) or expired (Whole Foods > some random probiotic spray that was safe yet 2 years old and probably dead inside). I decided that Mo needed to see a doctor.
So, before work this morning, I took Mo and my basil plant to the Hashimoto Nursery on Sawtelle. The basil plant has been suffering as well with huge holes in its leaves. Someone clearly has been enjoying its sweet flavor, leaving me with nary a whole leaf for what I would call the world's tiniest caprese salad.
Admidst the narrow dirt paths between flowers and vines and pots and bagged soil, I teetered in my fancy shoes; Louis Vuitton purse on one arm, Mo and the basil plant in the other. I showed them to the man at the nursery. Deadpan, he told me that Mo wasn't going to make it and to throw it away. I told him that I didn't want to give up. He didn't seem moved. He suggested a bigger pot, no water for a week because I'd been overwatering and then some fertilizer. I asked him about pesticide and he said not to use any as I'd want to eat the tomato. Tomato. Singular. I'm hopeful that Mo can squeeze out just one, red orb. As for the basil plant, it needed more water and also a bigger pot. Later in the day I would remove two green worms from the underside of its leaves. Hopefully that would make a big difference.
I purchased two new pots, a bag of potting soil and a small bag of fertilizer for about $16. Tonight, after whipping up a batch of cookie dough, I set about putting Mo and the basil plant in their new containers. In lieu of insecticide, the nursery man told me to just use water to wash the bugs away. A shower in both senses of the word. Down the drain the bugs went as I ran the kitchen faucet over the green branches and leaves of Mo and the basil. I even removed a tiny millipede and a worm by hand. Not wanting to leave out the thyme, I put it in a new pot as well even though the thyme is flourishing like a weed. A weed. Not weed.
These plants are under my care and I will not give up their health and wellness without a fight. I know that Mother Nature is responsible for bugs and soil and all the rest, but I'm not letting them get Mo. I cannot cull culinary brilliance out of a bushel of perfect produce but I know how to care for things, especially those that cannot care for themselves. When I shucked an ear of corn from Chino, I tore into the home of a thick green worm, somnolent from carbohydrate overload. I touched it with my fingertip and it twitched at the sudden pressure but didn't feel the need to shrink into the cornsilk and husks. I stared at it for a moment before cutting off that bit and tossing the end and the worm into the trash. This time, I was about to eat it out of hand and house and home.
What these book don't tell you is that humans are not the only organisms that enjoy fruits and vegetables. I suppose it's not a botany book or a biology book. When the bugs come to nibble at the same succulent kernels of corn, you pretty much have to accept it and salvage what you can for leftovers. Bug leftovers.
I stood before the rainbow of produce at Chino Farm on Sunday, bewildered by the array of perfect specimens. Swiss chard in various hues. French carrots in milk, saffron, carrot, salmon and beet colors. Kale, at least 5 kinds. I can't do justice to these things yet. I cannot wrangle the boldest iteration of a butternut squash using heat and forged, sharpened metal. All I can do is photograph the cornucopia of California's bounty. For Mother Nature's efforts, my respects are paid by holding her gifts gingerly as I taste them, preserving her work and enjoying each masterpiece out of hand.
When I returned to the city and its soot stained palms, I felt a stronger desire to tend to my own plants. I'd been moving Mo, the tomato, to the sunniest part of my walkway but he was still looking spotty and unsure. I'd been told that Mo was ill and that I needed to protect him from the bugs which were slowly eating him alive. The other night, I went to Home Depot and Whole Foods to find an organic pesticide. I couldn't bring myself to purchase anything I saw. The bottles were either horribly marketed to be safe (Home Depot > Ortho "ecosense" all lowercase, pretty pastel colors hiding chemical names pesticide) or expired (Whole Foods > some random probiotic spray that was safe yet 2 years old and probably dead inside). I decided that Mo needed to see a doctor.
So, before work this morning, I took Mo and my basil plant to the Hashimoto Nursery on Sawtelle. The basil plant has been suffering as well with huge holes in its leaves. Someone clearly has been enjoying its sweet flavor, leaving me with nary a whole leaf for what I would call the world's tiniest caprese salad.
Admidst the narrow dirt paths between flowers and vines and pots and bagged soil, I teetered in my fancy shoes; Louis Vuitton purse on one arm, Mo and the basil plant in the other. I showed them to the man at the nursery. Deadpan, he told me that Mo wasn't going to make it and to throw it away. I told him that I didn't want to give up. He didn't seem moved. He suggested a bigger pot, no water for a week because I'd been overwatering and then some fertilizer. I asked him about pesticide and he said not to use any as I'd want to eat the tomato. Tomato. Singular. I'm hopeful that Mo can squeeze out just one, red orb. As for the basil plant, it needed more water and also a bigger pot. Later in the day I would remove two green worms from the underside of its leaves. Hopefully that would make a big difference.
I purchased two new pots, a bag of potting soil and a small bag of fertilizer for about $16. Tonight, after whipping up a batch of cookie dough, I set about putting Mo and the basil plant in their new containers. In lieu of insecticide, the nursery man told me to just use water to wash the bugs away. A shower in both senses of the word. Down the drain the bugs went as I ran the kitchen faucet over the green branches and leaves of Mo and the basil. I even removed a tiny millipede and a worm by hand. Not wanting to leave out the thyme, I put it in a new pot as well even though the thyme is flourishing like a weed. A weed. Not weed.
These plants are under my care and I will not give up their health and wellness without a fight. I know that Mother Nature is responsible for bugs and soil and all the rest, but I'm not letting them get Mo. I cannot cull culinary brilliance out of a bushel of perfect produce but I know how to care for things, especially those that cannot care for themselves. When I shucked an ear of corn from Chino, I tore into the home of a thick green worm, somnolent from carbohydrate overload. I touched it with my fingertip and it twitched at the sudden pressure but didn't feel the need to shrink into the cornsilk and husks. I stared at it for a moment before cutting off that bit and tossing the end and the worm into the trash. This time, I was about to eat it out of hand and house and home.
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