Reprise: Getting Started with Vermicomposting

This article first appeared over at ecowaza.com, a lovely little website where I wrote a regular column for a handful of years. It is the second part in a series on vermicomposting (composting with worms) covering how to get started and using the lovely materials provided.  - JB

Photo courtesy of James Kemp.

Budding vermicomposters can make their own bins or order a kit from a variety of sources. Kits usually include a container, worms, and plenty of instruction and support needed to get comfortable with your new little helpers.

Bins can be made from plastic storage containers where holes have been drilled in the bottom or constructed from scrap wood for a custom-made fit and look. The possibilities are only limited by your imagination, the materials at hand, and the space available. 

Do your research.

James Kemp, importer of Australia's Can-O-Worms composter, says a little reading goes a long way when it comes to vermicomposting. They are, he says, living creatures.

“It's important to read the manual, and there is plenty of advice and info on the internet,” he said. “The failure rate is for beginners is fairly high, though” said Kemp. “People don't follow the instructions or they feed them the wrong food."

Worms Eat My Garbage by Mary Appelhof (Flower Press, 2003) is a charming guide to vermicomposting offering tips on building your own to long-term management and problem-solving. 

Websites like Kemp’s (Japanese only) and Can-O-Worms offer plenty of useful advice and contact information if a vermicomposter runs into trouble. Other sites such as UNL and OneMore can fill readers in on the joys of vermicomposting.

A Few Things to Keep in Mind

Vermicomposting is relatively easy, but there are a few things to avoid and some best practices, too, to keep worms healthy, happy, and composting.

• Choose the bins location carefully. Worms don’t like extremeness in temperature, so find a slightly sheltered place on the balcony or in a garage for the bin. “You need to be aware of your environment. Worms don't like to get too hot, so if your worm farm is in direct sunlight all day during summer, then they will almost certainly die” warned Kemp.

• Don't use insecticides or sprays around your worm bin. Worms are quite sensitive to chemicals, even those commonly used for cockroaches or dani. If you must use these items, then remove the worms and wait until returning them to the environment.

• Don't use garden soil as bedding for the worms. It may seem logical, but garden soil is an unpredictable medium for the worms. 

• Don't be afraid of visitors. After you've had your worm bin established, you may notice other creatures besides the redworms, especially if you keep your bin outdoors. Most of these are beneficial because they help breakdown the materials. These helpful creatures include springtails, sowbugs, pill bugs, and millipedes. 

Remember, vermicomposting is a great way to reduce household waste and turn it into something your plants will love. Have fun!

My interview with Juliet Kemp in Urban Farms Magazine

Permaculture isn't just for those with vast garden spaces, according to Juliet Kemp, author of Permaculture in Pots, and she's quite right. In the January/February, 2015 issue of Urban Farms Magazine I talk with Kemp about turning balconies, window sills, and back patios into productive permaculture havens and why it matters. You'll have to buy the magazine, but it's worth every cent!

Vermicomposting over at Ecotwaza

Photo courtesy of James Kemp at grege.

I am a big fan of worms, and I'm a big fan of compost. So, it was with great pleasure that I penned this month's piece at Ecotwaza about vermicomposting. Thanks to James Kemp at grege, importer to Japan of the Can-O-Worms vermicomposter,  for his lovely interview and photos, too!

Thursday Snapshot: Praying Mantis in the Garden

Watch out! Praying mantis on the hunt.

This little fellow was spotted roaming about near my new garden in Kanagawa. Tiny but fierce and ready to feast on any unwanted critters that come near my tomatoes, beans, ginger, and zucchini. There's plenty of places for him to hide as I've left many things grow around my cardboard garden in an attempt to see what will happen. So far, things are responding well to their external green companions, enjoying the shade, pollinators, and other beneficials like this guy.

Building a Cardboard Garden

Two of seven cardboard 'beds' in place.

As readers may have noticed, in March we moved house. We left Tokyo for the wilds of Kanagawa Prefecture and new jobs at a new university. My husband's five-year contract limit had been reached, so we bade farewell to wonderful friends in a beloved place to strike out again on our own. We have landed once more in university housing with plenty of farms and orchards all around. While I won't be wheedling my way onto a local farm this year (writing and a new teaching job are keeping me plenty busy!) I have started a garden and flower pots are starting to fill balconies and verandas.

Unlike my Tokyo garden, this one is not on a farm. It is, instead, in a small park-like space behind our building. Once well-used and well-tended, the space when we first saw it late last year was full of weeds, moldy furniture, and unpruned shrubs. The manager said I could do whatever I liked there, and so the thinking and planning began. 

I've decided to follow my own advice to other growers, which is to start small. I've also opted to try and be as noninvasive as possible. I've had the pleasure of reading a number of terrific books these past few years for pleasure as well as for review, and one of the things each instilled in me is an ever increasing  respect for the soil. Tilling, chemical fertilizers and pesticides, and mono-cropping are no way to take care of it and the community that resides in it. My plan, therefore is to return to a method that works well and creates good soil as well as good vegetables: lasagna gardening.

But with a twist: lasagna gardening in cardboard.

Taking a bit of inspiration from Amber over at The Cardboard Collective and her most awesome cardboard garden, I gathered together a handful of similarly sized boxes left from our recent move and took them down to the garden. Taking a few hints from Juliet Kemp and other permaculturists, I positioned them in good light, but out of the way of folks who might want to use the space for a picnic or a bit of afternoon fun. (We have cleaned the garden up considerably, so there's plenty of room now to play, nap and barbecue.) I filled the boxes with compost from the three bins left by previous residents, alternating the layers with the dried stalks of various grasses and weeds cut down during the great tidy.  

Cinder blocks and some landscaping bricks that had been lying about got set along the outer edges of the boxes as additional support. My fear was that the boxes would melt in the rainy season while my plants were still in them. Under the cinder blocks I placed the cut off flaps of the boxes as a weed deterrent. More dried stalks and grass got laid on top as mulch. Then I watered whether they had been planted in already or not. Once the cardboard does fade away, a nice bed of rich soil will be left behind.  So far, so good! 

Thursday Snapshot: Ice Needles in the Garden

Ice needles in the garden.

This time of year finds Jack Frost making nightly visits. Yet, the wonders he works at the farm are impressive indeed. We can't start work until about 9am because his frosty paint is still too fresh. Shortly after, though, we crunch our way out to harvest a few leaves from the greenhouse or under the row covers. And what we often see all around and underfoot are these lovely little ice needles or shimobashira in Japanese. As the ground freezes, the water is drawn up and out of the soil where it freezes in the colder air.

My Review of Edible Cities at Permaculture Magazine

Living and farming as I do in one of the world's largest cities, I am instantly drawn to books that discuss innovative ways to grow food in an urban environment. And now that I'm preparing to move to a place where my garden will be as much on my balcony as it will be in the backyard, I'm even more interested. So, it was with great pleasure that I found a review copy of Edible Cities: Urban Permaculture for Gardens, Yards, Balconies, Rooftops and Beyond by Judith Anger, Immo Fiebrig, and Martin Schynder waiting for me. What did I think? Well, read the review at Permaculture Magazine and find out!

Egg Carton Greenhouse

Egg carton garden in it's homemade greenhouse.
Please excuse the free advertising for my hometown grocery store.

Spring, of course, is when everyone's mind turns to seeds and new green things. I am no exception, especially as we are busily planting things almost every day at the farm or tending to things that will be planted shortly. As usual, I decided to start some seeds of my own at home. I'm thinking of a green curtain, of course, for the summer, and this year I'm going with morning glories. I love them, and their blue trumpets and generous heart-shaped leaves make ideal shade long into September when the sun still manages to beat down on our little apartment.

So, I made my own little greenhouse. Inspired by Cardboard Collective's numerous ingenious ideas and an aversion to plastic, I turned an egg carton into a planter and an old grocery bag into a greenhouse. So far so good, and it was easy to boot!

What you'll need:

• seeds
• cardboard egg carton
• seed starting soil (preferably. It tends to be light enough and often comes a bit pre-loaded with what seeds need to sprout.)
• a large-ish container
• shishkabob sticks, about eight
• a plastic grocery bag
• a small waterproof tray
• a clothespin
• a sunny window

Dampen the seed starting mix.
Plop some of the mix in a bowl or container and add some water. You're aiming for a damp texture, but not absolutely dripping. Dampening it first means you don't have to water once the seeds are planted, which can wash the seeds about and out of place. Especially if you're me and you don't have a watering can of any kind at home. Keep mixing until the soil sticks together in your hand.

Egg carton garden ready to grow!

Fill the egg carton seed starting tray.
I filled both sides of the carton. The side where the eggs sit is nearly made for seed-starting, and the other side when laid open flat looks like a miniature garden. Leave a centimeter (give or take) of space between the top of the soil and the rim of the carton. You want this to be well-filled, but don't press it in too firmly. Seeds and roots need a bit of elbow room to grow and breathe, and a tightly packed soil doesn't give them any space for either of those things.

Plant your seeds.
I planted watermelon on the left side where the eggs sit as I had some leftover seeds from last year. (Sadly, these didn't sprout. A fresh egg carton is underway even as I type.) On the right I sprinkled morning glory seeds. I covered them with a thin layer of the seed starting mix and pressed it down firmly but gently over them. (The rough guide here to covering seeds is to bury them only about as deep as they are thick.) The seed needs good firm contact with the soil in order to sprout, but it can't be so tightly packed that the sprout can't push up to the light and the roots push down into the soil.

Set up the greenhouse.

• Place the egg carton on a tray (or other object) that fits squarely inside the bottom of the plastic grocery bag. The cardboard does get a bit soggy-saggy almost immediately, so having a tray of some kind or another keeps things under control.)
• Insert tray and carton inside the plastic bag. Check that it fits well enough that you can pull up the sides of the plastic bag easily and close it.
• Insert shishkabob sticks in the four outer corners and the four inner corners of the egg carton tray. Water will condense inside the bag as the interior heats up. This in turn will make the walls heavy. The sticks are just enough to help keep the plastic bag above the seedlings once they've sprouted. Not keeping them off the seedlings crushes them, but also makes a nice environment for molds and fungus that are not helpful in this situation.
• Lift the sides of the bag up and tie the handles together with a clothes pin. This helps the interior temperature of the greenhouse rise, which is what will encourage the seedlings to sprout. Periodic opening helps satisfy your curiosity, but can also keep a bit of air flowing, which helps prevent those molds and fungus' from growing, too. Be careful, though, as too much peeking will lower the temperature and result in slower sprouting or no sprouting. 
• Set it in a sunny window and wait for your new friends to appear!

Snow on the Farm in Tokyo

Snowy Monday afternoon at the farm in Tokyo.

Snow in Tokyo is an extraordinary thing, and yesterday we got a good 7cm of it. It started in the morning as rain, but by 8:30am it turned to snow. Big, fat flakes fell at a slant past our windows quickly framing the outside world in white. The frame soon filled in with more and more, and the view out our window became something more reminiscent of home, Hokkaido, and Nagano.

Needless to say, I was thrilled. Once I filed a new story with my editor, I dashed out the door to...shovel. Then I dashed about in the snow in a manner similar to when I was ten. (I'm considerably beyond those two numbers now.) I made a snow angel in the pocket park behind our building. I was happy as a lark.

The hubby and I walked over to the farm, helping push a stuck motorist to a safe parking place along the way, and laughing as two little girls threw snowballs at each other. They felt as much glee as I did with my snow angel, although I had a proper hat on. They wore sento towels on their heads. I'm sure it seemed a logical choice when they ran out the door.

Everything was coated in snow and it kept coming. The hubby suggested going in the farm gate and knocking some snow off the row covers. I said it would just melt. We shouldn't worry.

Famous last words.

My garden under snow.

This morning, after the snow had stopped and every surface had turned to ice in the night, I walked to the farm. (Biking was out of the question.) Groups of people were out chipping at the ice and shoveling away as the sun rose and gradually warmed things up. The fields sparkled beautifully when I arrived, but upon closer examination it was clear not all was well.

The plastic tunnels bowed under the weight of the snow, but the net tunnels over the norabo had broken. Nearly without exception they lay flat in place, hoops cracked and split. Somewhere under all that were the plants. Norabo is hardy, but I still worried. Unearthing them proved to be a rather delicate process as the sun had quickly warmed the snow enough over the netting to make it difficult to move in one piece. As I excavated I tried to remember exactly where the plants were located. A little squashing did occur.

Turns out all is well. The little norabo survived with flying colors as did the rest of the plants in the netted row. (The sun reflecting off the snow made photos out of the question.) Now, we'll have to see how they fare with the coming freezing nights.

Seasonal Jet Lag in the Garden

Bee in last of the basil flowers. Who am I to deny his harvest?

After three years of gardening and farming in Tokyo, I should be accustomed to the turn of seasons. I should know that these hot September days belie the fact that cooler temperatures are coming, but I just can't believe it. My Midwestern seasonal sensibilities tell me otherwise. Vaguely lower temperatures (88-degrees versus 90-degrees) don't seem much different in the blazing sun as I sweat similar amounts whether working in the fields or trying to write at home. Winter is a far-away land, a dream. To my Midwestern self, summer remains firmly entrenched. My beet and kale seeds will surely protest. My inner calendar remains out of sync. It's a sort of seasonal jet-lag.

Since returning from China I've gone to the garden every day. Four weeks off in total - two in Hokkaido and two in China - meant a long list of chores. My first day back, Takashi-san told me what I already knew: "It's time to get ready for winter vegetables. Summer is over."

Intellectually, I understand that he is right, but I still struggle each year, each season.

My biggest problem is that there are still viable plants in the garden. It goes against my inner grain to pull up a still blooming marigold or basil plant and toss it on the compost heap. I have the same problem in spring when my komatsuna and other greens bolt and blossom. Green life is a beautiful thing that my eyes and soul feast on in all forms. My garden is not a utilitarian space devoid of aesthetic pleasures, although tidier folks will heartily disagree. The bees and pollinators are so happy, the flowers so pretty (and edible) that it seems foolish and wasteful to remove them. Am I lazy? Am I just a poor planner? Does this make me a bad farmer? Am I just a gardener? (No offense intended by that last question. I'm having a green-thumb identity crisis.)

The corn and daizu were easy - they had finished up before we left for Hokkaido and I let them dry standing. I cut off the corn stalks before heading to China and laid them out to dry. The daizu I simply left standing. When we returned, the beans rattled in the pods (two plants of heirloom varieties still stand, though, as they are too green yet) and the stalks were pretty much ready to be chopped up and added to the rejuvenating layer of the lasagna bed. I'll plant the garlic in about a week or so.

Lone watermelon with sunflower and daizu in background.

The same was true of the watermelon. I returned to find eight luscious lovelies lolling about in their fruity and vegetative come hither way. I gave away four and ate one with friends. The remaining two are destined for my stomach and the tatami master who kindly passed me another seven old mats the other day to finish lining the path and cover over the newly topped up lasagna bed where the garlic will go. (My idea is that they'll prevent some erosion from promised rains and speed fermentation.) These final pushes of summer heat dried the vines in short order before I added them to the lasagna cum garlic bed.

Standing beside the row, I console myself with the fact that those marigolds and basil will mulch the rhubarb, and that the handful of green tomatoes will be a tasty dinner experiment. I think how beautiful and delicious the purple daikon will be and how happy I will be to cut fresh greens for our winter salads. I think of the seed tray I'll be starting this morning of kales and calendula, and how lovely they will be. I look at the nira blooming nearby and some tall graceful weed with lavender blooms going gangbusters in my wild west wall bed. "Those pollinators will be just fine," I think as I bend to cut and pull.

Marigolds beautifully mulching the rhubarb.

Then the butterflies arrive. Not the white cabbage moths that party like college freshmen on my lavender, but a majestic black and white fellow nearly the size of my palm lands on the basil flower. A smaller orange and black one drifts over shortly after to see what the marigolds have to offer. And now I see a busy group of tiny bees working away at those same blossoms, and I feel guilty and sad. Who am I to remove these things in the name of seasonal progress? What does that mean, anyway?

I let an afternoon shower shoo me home. I plan to go back and map out the winter beds. Surely, a concrete vision will give me the gumption to do what should be done. But here I am with no map yet drawn and butterflies on my mind.

Home from Parts Beyond

Note: My apologies for the lack of a photo. Seems the site I use to resize photos is on the fritz. Fingers crossed it's up and running soon!

Whew! We are back in Tokyo and getting resettled into daily routines. An early morning visit today to the farm and garden found a few winter crops already in and other fields ready for daikon and Chinese cabbage. The eggplant, peppers sweet and spicy, and moroheya are still kicking it, bless their vegetable hearts, but the tomatoes are done. Takashi-san and I peered through the greenhouse doors to see their withered selves drying in place. It makes them lighter, easier to remove, and they break down a bit faster in the compost pile. It will be a dusty clean-up job, but it wouldn't be any fun if we didn't get dirty.

My garden is nearly ready for turnover as well, although a few late watermelon sat wallowing in the sun. And the tsuru murasaki is wrapping everything in sight in its tender arms. (Drop a note if you'd like a bundle. I've got plenty to spare.) The daizu are ready to go through the drying process, and it goes without saying that the weeds took full advantage of my absence. Busy days ahead.

Piddling on the Vegetables

Well, not exactly, but something similar is happening in my garden here in Tokyo. I'm not installing a potty in the garden, but I'm planning to surreptitiously transport a bottle of fresh urine there once a week. There I'll mix it with water and pour it over my plants in an effort to offer them some needed nutrients and give the soil a boost. If I forget to take it (an event which has already occurred in my jet-lagged state) I'll simply pour the contents over the compost pile to add nutrients there and speed the breakdown process. (Check out this article at The Ecologist for a good summary of urine's benefits.)

Why am I doing this? Oh, heaps of reasons, but mostly it is because I have found organic urban gardening to be mildly confounding. My previous garden in Michigan in the country was an easy affair in comparison in terms of sourcing compost, manure, and straw. It was easy to build compost bins, potato towers, and lasagna beds. Unbeknownst to me, it was simple to build up my soil and grow great vegetables, flowers, and herbs, with extra material to spare for the pear and apple trees.

Here in Tokyo I don't have a lawn or neighbors with horses, sheep, or cows. There is a chicken coop  up the road, but I've not seen the owner yet. I don't have a wood stove from which to gather wood ash to sprinkle over the beds in fall, and there is no nearby source of straw. I can buy all of these things from local nurseries and home centers, but it's expensive and the sight of all those plastic bags in my garbage is an incredible downer. I do smuggle in the occasional bag of leaves that result from my neighbor's yard tidying days, but this last year the leaves have been suspect due to radioactive fallout from the March 11th earthquake.

So, I literally lie awake at night wondering what options exist so that my garden can thrive in this urban setting without the benefit of imported manures and plastic mulches. The tatami mats and lasagna beds help, but they aren't quite enough. More strategies need to be put in place so that the critters living in my soil and compost bins (other than the rat I spotted the other day - ugh), can happily feast and do the work they need to do so I can have a ripe tomato to much or a few string beans to make one of my all time favorite dishes.

Enter urine. Emma Cooper first exposed me to this idea in her book, and since then the idea re-emerges periodically on Twitter or other blogs I follow. There's no shortage of urine in our house (or anyone elses, I imagine) and we simply flush it away. We already practice the "If it's yellow, let it mellow." philosophy, but this morning at 3am I decided that I ought to take that a step further. (I have no good rhyme here, but perhaps I can work up a haiku later.) Japanese farmers have long taken advantage of this resource by collecting night soil, setting up toilets near their fields and along roadways to encourage travelers to relieve themselves, and even collecting it from public toilets at train stations and elsewhere. (See Farmers of Forty Centuries: Organic Farming in China, Korea, and Japan by F. H. King for more dirty details.) I figure I'm just taking part in the spirit of mottainai.

Green Curtain Time!

Morning glory (Asagao) blossom from a curtain. Lovely, isn't she?

Lovely and idyllic as these spring days are the heat of summer is surely on its way. And with the shut-down of all of Japan's nuclear reactors, that also means conservation strategies need to be put in place now. And that can mean only one thing: time to plant the green curtain!

I've written about this before in some detail, so I'm not going to set folks yawning with yet another telling. Instead, I'm going to suggest you get pen and paper ready to jot down a shopping list, and grab a ruler to measure the space you've got in mind for the green curtain to cover. Later we'll talk about recipes if you decide to do an edible version or recommended reading if you opt for ornamental and get lots of wild visitors. Edible or ornamental, the shade makes a lovely spot for sipping a wee bit of umeshu or umehachimitsu as those temperatures climb, too.

Morning glory curtain shading west window.

How to Construct a Green Curtain takes you through the whole process from start to finish with more detail than you might need, but I'm a worrywart.

Green Curtain: Variations on a Theme talks about some fun edible options for curtain construction.

Green Curtain Examples Around the City gives an all too brief tour of curtains large and small (gargantuan, in some cases) I've seen around town. I'm sure I'll see more this summer, too, and will post photos of the more interesting ones.

And speaking of which, if you know of a great green curtain or have an idea for one let's hear it!

Tatami Mat Break Down: The Story of Mulching Innovation Continues

Bonus: leftover tatami bits feed the soil.

Two years ago I spotted old tatami mats used as mulch at a small neighboring farm. I'd just done a fairly serious weeding session in my little garden after returning from what has now become our annual summer romp in Hokkaido, and was looking for a solution. I am not a fan of weeding, because it usually happens in the heat of the day and because as I learn more about permaculture and organic gardening I see fewer and fewer plants as weeds. Many, like fleabane daisy, offer pollinators and other beneficials important sources of food and shelter, and I'm beginning to think more and more that I need to learn to cooperate.

So, one year ago I got brave enough to ask our local tatami master if I could have some old mats. He said yes and a friend helped me haul them to the garden and lay them out between my rows. I still use plastic sheet mulch for the plants themselves as organic matter, like leaves and straw, can be hard to come by at the right time. A solution for that also exists, but I've not discovered the right one for my garden just yet.

The mats blocked weeds effectively while letting water soak through, and they staved off some of the erosion that commonly occurs with Tokyo's high winds and heavy rains. They did blow about a bit in the occasional typhoon, but overall they survived quite nicely. When I made my latest lasagna bed - committing a whole long row to what I firmly believe is the best idea ever for building soil vitality - I used the mats to cover the whole of it twice over. (Some mats stayed between the rows, but others had to be taken up when Takashi-san plowed and set the plastic mulch in place.) It helped keep the beds warm so active decomposition could occur, and it again kept things from eroding.

The benefit of the mats that I didn't anticipate was their decomposition. As the mats break down the igusa (grass used specifically for making tatami) slips away from the string that previously held it all together. As I pick them up to move them from place to place, the igusa is often left behind as a valuable soil additive. The nylon string is proving something of an annoyance, but I'll just ball it up and bag it with the mint on burnables day. The old tatami themselves, I've decided, will go at the bottom of the compost bin when I turn it in a few weeks time. Or I'll experiment and slip them between layers of turned compost, perhaps, as a different sort of lasagna bed. Oh, the possibilities!

Got an experiment in repurposing that worked out well? Even if it didn't that's ok. We've all been there. Let's hear it either way!

Back in the Garden

Early April, 2012 in my Tokyo garden.

A friend recently said that he thought some of my best writing was about gardening.

"It's when I really hear you," he said.

And for some time now I've not written much about the garden. The last year was intensely busy and the garden took a back seat. Truth be told the garden wasn't even in the back seat. It was in the trunk under an old blanket. I'd visit to harvest and then quickly leave. Spending more time than that meant thinking about chores I didn't have time to do, plants that were neglected, things I didn't have time to buy. Rather than a joy it became a sorrow to be there, and it seemed best to hurry away.

This year I'm still busy, but marginally less so. I'm making room for the garden again. And for marmalade. And reading. I need that dirt under my fingernails (and subsequently a new nail brush) and a few good rounds of weeding to bring me back around to the physical and metaphorical space I want to be in again.

So back in the garden I am with camera, notebook, pen, dirty fingers, and knees. Weeds and birds are all around this breezy spring afternoon, and I'm more than pleased to see the praying mantis egg cases in the mint and bamboo canes. Those damned aphids are back, too, but a good round of squishing paired with harvesting of my kale for ourselves and friends ought to improve air circulation and set them back a bit. A handful of winter greens - komatsuna, karashina, and mizuna - are flowering as usual, but the scent is thick and sweet and the yellow blooms bring in little pollinators for a feast I'm happy to provide. The mint and bergamont are running away with the show, and I've just managed to free one of the emerging rhubarb plants from their grip. Tulips stand at the ready with buds ready to burst into color at the first chance while crocus leaves gather fuel for next year nearby.

The tatami mats are decaying pleasantly in place, and I'm already plotting what little gift to take over to the master this year for a fresh round. Some of those broccoli side shoots with a few sprigs of lavender or mint? The lasanga bed remains unattractive and I feel a bit unsure of the wisdom of creating it although the garlic looks happy and the worms I saw earlier seem a testament to its soil-building ability. Although, as I work along I can hear a passerby comment that they don't know what it's all about. I've learned the blessing and the curse of urban gardening and farming is the audience. As much a part of my garden as the praying mantis, stray cats, aphids, birds, butterflies, and the occasional lizard, the public is there. I try to think of them as good language practice even if I don't always like what they have to say.

The afternoon light shifts to orange and the shadows grow long. I look up to see the full moon rising over the buildings lining the station street a block away, and I hear the five o'clock bell toll. There's lots of work to be done yet, and I know as I pack my tools away in one bike basket and a small harvest in the other that I'm already behind. The beans aren't in and if I'm going to plant those blue potatoes I bought at the Nippori Farmer's Market I'd best get busy. The compost bins need to be turned, a bed cleared and prepped for the popcorn, and the tomato seedlings need to come back in for the night.  But it's alright. It feels manageable. It feels good to be back.

The Joy of Dirty Hands: Reprise

It feels like I'm rooting around in the attic these days, sorting through old photographs and trinkets for fun and nostalgia. The end of the year is almost always a time for reflection, and I seem to be hearkening back to our first days in Japan at the moment. (Early writing again, so bear with me.)  I'm also thinking hard about farming, gardening, food, and writing, and so re-reading posts like the one below (first appeared on this blog on December 19, 2009) and Farmwork Thoughts seems appropriate. Perhaps I'm taking inventory, reassessing, or just plain checking in with myself. Hope you enjoy it, and let me know what you think. -JLB


Photo Note: This photo was taken in March, 2011 while I was on crutches and a few weeks after the earthquake. The garden was the only place I found peace in those days, so it seems a good fit here. 

When I was a kid I hated gardening. My mother asked me to help her in the garden, and I'm pretty certain I whined and was such a miserable companion that she finally found great relief in letting me just stay indoors to read or watch TV. It was too hot. It was boring. It was dirty. And tomato hornworms were just too gross for words.

Gardening is now something I find I can't live without. Our move to Tokyo in March of this year was only feasible in my mind because I had a chance to have a garden. (That first one fell through, but then another and even better opportunity presented itself.) I didn't even have a garden of my own until we moved into a farmhouse in Michigan more than five years ago. There, along an old fence, I dug out the sod in a strip about two or three feet wide and about ten feet long and planted my first tomatoes, beans, kale, swiss chard, basil, parsley, and beets. It wasn't long before nasturtiums and johnny-jump-ups, and a couple bush squash plants were added. The next year the garden jumped the fence - literally and figuratively - to become about four times larger. Popcorn, cardinal climber, morning glories, potatoes, cosmos, chives, and peas joined the green chorus.

Morning found me in dew soaked slippers with a steaming coffee checking the progress of seedlings or just soaking in the thrill of seeing those plants. Before heading into the house after a day at work I'd walk over to the garden to see how the day had gone, and more than once a nice skirt received a swish of dirt from an irresistible urge to weed "just a little bit" before even greeting my husband.

I found in gardening a chance to do something concrete. It put food on our table, in our freezer, on the pantry shelves, and made for some great gifts. Canning tomatoes, drying herbs, and whipping up batches of pesto for winter pasta remains satisfying work. And the task of eating them is work I tackle with relish.

I found great beauty. Thick veined cabbage leaves are one of the most beautiful things I think I've ever seen. Cobs of homegrown popcorn glinting in the sun thrill me to the bone. My own eye for color and composition is still developing, but I confess I don't work too hard at that. I like the increasing madness of my garden as the season progresses.

I made new friends. The praying mantis, the assortment of bees, the birds, and the occasional neighborhood cat are welcome visitors. Not to mention the instant bond that develops with a fellow gardener when we learn of each other's passion. There's nothing better than a good chat about growing vegetables. It's what bonded the Takashi's and I almost instantly despite a language barrier.

It's in my blood. I've written about this before (not for publication), and I think about it more often than not. I come from a long line of farmers (who doesn't, really?), and the joy I find in planting, weeding, harvesting, monitoring, eating from, composting, and viewing the garden (mine and others) courses through my veins. The rolling landscape of hay, corn, horses, wheat, and cows with woods, rivers, lakes, and kitchen gardens the same square footage as many homes in new developments is a part of my heritage of which I am most proud. As I tend my own small plot or work with the Takashi's to tend their fields, my mother and grandmothers and friends and family (here and gone) who've gardened and farmed before work beside me. The joy in that alone wheels me out to the garden and farm again and again.

Gardening and farming presents a chance to explore my own history, the history of others, to find common ground through food and the growing of it. It presents an intellectual and creative challenge each and every day of the year. And an element of surprise in the volunteer nasturtium, the sneaky fresh potato crop. I could write about this for hours, years, and thousands of words, and still not quite hit it right. But when I see dirt still stuck under my fingernails while at my office (I only have so much patience with a nail brush) it reminds me of who I really am and what I love best.

Inspired by the essay contest over at Gardens of the Wild Wild West. This is probably too long, but it was too much fun to stop.

A Few Gift Ideas

I do love giving presents. My favorite spouse watches our stock of jams, marmalades, pickles, and shus like a hawk to make sure there is enough left in the larder for us to enjoy as I tend to lift jars out on the spur of the moment for sharing. And this time of year, of course, finds me pilfering our stock left and right. It is a double pleasure to see our shelf space open for future jars of goodness and later see the delight on the faces of those receiving the gift.

So, in that spirit I'm going to share a few ideas for gifts that I would love to receive.

Green Curtain Kit – Give the gift of summer shade with a homemade green curtain kit. Easy to assemble – one pretty pot, some seeds, and a bit of netting – all packed up in a pretty furoshiki, the kit is sure to please. Choose morning glories for their heart shaped leaves and brilliant blue blossoms or the classic goya for a curtain that supplies the main ingredient for scrumptious chample. Cucumbers, gourds, watermelon (a little heavy, but so yummy!) or other vining plants make fantastic curtains, too.

Winter Salad Set – If summer feels too far away, why not consider a few winter vegetables? A wide variety of edibles enjoy winter's cooler temperatures and friends will enjoy a fresh taste of the season. Leafy greens such as komatsuna, mizuna, or spinach adore this time of year as do peas, kabu, violas, and herbs like cilantro and parsley. Head over to a nearby nursery for seeds or even seedlings, a cute pot, and give an edible gift that's green in more ways than one!

Handmade Tokyo – A creatively written work documenting a community workshop examining one of the best and greenest things in this metropolis: its gardens. Braiterman and Berthelsen's work combines photography and text to share and explore green spaces large and small and their meaning to Tokyoites and beyond. Arriving in its own handmade wrapper fashioned from cast-off kimono's, there's no wrapping to worry about!

Tokyo Flower Walks – Sumiko Enbutsu's classic should be in the hands of any resident of Tokyo or visitor who happens to be a garden lover. Her seasonal walks range over the city and guide followers of her detailed directions to some of Tokyo's best corners. Clear maps mark the route as well as local points of interest, recommended restaurants, and shops. Each section introduces a particular flower or plant with a narrative description of its relevance to Japanese culture. A great way to explore the city and start developing satoyama sense!

Got some ideas of your own? Let me know and we'll add them to the list!

Photo credit: The favorite spouse took this during our trip home in February while out for a ski on the family land. It was a perfect, perfect day.

A View of the Wargrave Allotments

England is full of castles, assorted ruins, historic sites, cathedrals, museums, churches, and gardens. Not the least of the latter are allotment or community gardens, which I'd begun learning about via Emma Cooper's The Alternative Kitchen Garden and fantastic website. Allotments popped up almost everywhere I went, but opportunities to step inside were rare.

One morning, though, before breakfast and touring I snuck over to one in the village of Wargrave for my own little sight-seeing trip. Established in 1903, this allotments patchwork of flowers and vegetables plots made a feast for the eyes of color and texture, and looked as lovely as any formal garden might. Opening the massive metal gate and venturing up a brick-lined lane an old apple tree stood sentry as much as greeter. The fruit that didn't prove a mild tripping hazard made a tart snack while exploring. A bulletin board sported posters for classes, meetings, and garden workdays along with a stern reminder that taking produce from a garden without permission constituted a criminal offense. Strawberry thieving, while understandable on some level, was also understandably not appreciated.

Purple kale (really a variety of brussel sprouts, I learned from Lane Cottage at the Ludlow Food Festival) along with dinosaur and curly, artichokes, tomatoes, peppers, zucchini, winter squash, runner and pole beans, calendula, sunflowers, dahlias galore, assorted fruit trees, raspberry canes, strawberries, and rhubarb were just a few of the lovelies I met with there. Old bathtubs filled with water dotted the landscape at regular intervals as did various kinds of compost bins. Mini-greenhouses and cloches also dotted the landscape now and again, while a few plots had chairs or picnic tables. Judging from the amount of netting (as seen in the above kole crop photo) and scarecrows local birds must be fat as Thanksgiving turkeys from eating so much.

Seeing these vegetables growing was a pleasure, of course, for a gardening geek such as myself, but it was also a reminder of some of my favorites. Japan is home to many a wonderful fruit and vegetable, but root crops can be challenging. Beets, sadly, don't exist in my supermarket nor do parsnips or brussel sprouts. My gracious hosts, incredulous as they were at my request, fulfilled my desire again and again.

Squash Trellis: Updated!

Trellis' seem to be a favorite topic of gardeners as the search for space to grow just one more thing continues. Farmers and growers in Japan and Tokyo have pondered the same question for generations. Here's one of the solutions spotted at a nearby farm.

As a self-confessed vegetable geek who helps at an organic farm in Tokyo and has a garden, I still get an irresistible urge periodically to head out to the local vegetable stands to see what's on offer. Inevitably a good deal, I usually come away with a little Japanese practice, a recipe, and sometimes a new vegetable. The other day I came away with a new idea.

Reminiscent of the kiwi carport, this squash trellis is my new favorite find. (OK, it's not really a new idea, but it's the biggest trellis of its kind that I've ever seen and not uncommon on local farms.) Full green leaves fluttered along strong vines sporting not just the usual showy squash blossom but lovely, lovely squash in various stages of growth. Hanging at about head height they did seem like a bit of a hazard, but still stunningly beautiful. Surprisingly, there were no supports for the squash as I thought there might be, although I'm planning to head back again to see how it progresses. Metal poles with sturdy netting running across the top and down the sides made for a perfect little alcove. (I confess I was so transfixed by the squash that I didn't look to see if anything was growing underneath.)

Update: The area underneath is used to grow some winter greens when the squash is finished up. This last year I spotted cabbage happily growing in the space below.

The trellis itself runs along the south end of what is now a large and busy garden, but at one time must have been part of a much larger field. (I surmise this based on the size of the adjacent farmhouse and bamboo grove, both of which are some of the largest I've seen in this area.) A grape arbor with the ripening clusters in little white bags at the moment to protect them from greedy birds and bugs runs along the north end as does a rather long row of sunflowers. The associated vegetable stall while a bit out of the way, is still one of my favorites and always worth a visit.

Update: Another neighboring farm has a trellis made of the same heavy duty materials. The set up is permanent, which means the same crop is planted in the same place each year. This strikes me as risky for disease and pests, which is the only drawback of this kind of structure. On the other hand, the cucumber trellis we set up at our farm is not permanent. The ability to move it around from year to year while mildly tedious is probably safer in the long run.

London's Garden Museum

While staying in London on this trip to England I had the great pleasure to visit The Garden Museum. One bridge over from Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, the museum is a little green treasure. Dedicated to the history of gardening n England, it is utterly satisfying despite being such a small thing tackling such a large subject. In my few hours there, whole new worlds opened up and I found it rather challenging to leave even after I'd seen everything, eaten at the cafe, and done a bit of shopping.

The permanent collection includes a variety of items ranging from a catalog of John Tradescant the Elder's amazing collection of flora discovered while traveling in pursuit of new specimen's for his employers to a thumb pot (a watering can that released water only when the thumb is removed from the top) to an early lawn mower to a seed dispensing machine. Joining these items are an assortment of drawings and paintings of gardens and gardeners, tools for the working as well as the gentleman gardener, and special exhibitions.

Tradescant's catalog deserves a short word as it is thought to be the first of its kind to be published in Great Britain and it is the keystone around which the museum was formed. Published in 1656, this little volume recounts in short entries what must have been an extraordinary life of travel and adventure for the elder Tradescant and his son, John, who followed literally and figuratively in his father's green footsteps. The Garden Museum copy, once owned by diarist John Evelyn, sits rightfully untouchable in a light and temperature controlled space, but thankfully still readable. Peering in visitors can find for themselves what some of the specimens were and where they were collected. The museum's first acquisition, it was an absolutely thrilling read for a gardening geek like me.

The knot garden, through the cafe and out a back door, is another of the gems of the museum. As Big Ben chimed the hour I walked the paved paths past samples of some of the plants the Tradescant's collected as well as their grave. (Captain Bligh of Mutiny on the Bounty fame is also buried here. According to a docent, he lived in the neighborhood after retirement and was an avid gardener in his own right.) Markers, of course, give common and Latin names as well as when the specimen was first collected and where it can be found. Regions represented include North America, West Asia, Europe, and even southern Turkey and Central Iran with dates ranging around the mid to late 1500's. It is staggering to imagine the journey out to find and gather it as well as the return journey with loads of plants, seeds, leaves, and flowers carefully stored in hopes of settling in a new home.

The museum cafe seems as popular as the museum itself. A steady stream of customers flocked in for a latte, a fat brownie or a vegetable tart with soup and salad. I opted for the butternut squash and leek soup with a slice of fresh bread with a plate of one of the more unique looking salads I'd ever seen. Peas, baby radicchio and chard, string beans, red onion, and a few arugula leaves all drizzled with olive oil were the perfect companion to my lovely deep bowl of squashy-leeky goodness. (I still regret not asking for the recipe.) If the series of talks, events, garden tours, and upcoming exhibits wouldn't be enough to make me a regular, the cafe would certainly seal the deal.

From my spot I surveyed the reading tables on the central floor and the gift shop offering an excellent range of gardening books, postcards, seeds, and other gifts of the useful and fun variety. Long wooden reading tables for adults and children alike spread evenly across the hardwood floor making it easy for someone even remotely enthusiastic about gardening to want to while away the hours reading and exploring. Needless to say, I did eventually have to leave, but it wasn't easy.

The Garden Museum

Lambeth Palace Road

London SE1 7LB