Post by daisyhill on Jun 27, 2014 10:31:19 GMT -5
A few years ago, we planted potatoes in a new spot. The soil was pretty heavy clay, and it was a dry year. In spite of heavy mulch, the potato crop was pathetic. After digging around for what we could find, I surveyed the lumpy, heavy soil, the remains of the old hay mulch, and the tall weeds and decided that the spot needed some serious treatment. So, I began to "uppen" the soil. For three winters, every time I cleaned out the calf stall and horse stall, I dumped the manure and wet bedding on the old potato patch. We dumped on grass clippings, kitchen compost, and the weeds from the nearest garden.
The first year, I had a few volunteer potatoes in the heap. I dug them up, and enjoyed having the earliest potatoes I'd ever had--I suppose I harvested five pounds or so. I didn't have time to turn the pile, or pull up weeds. I just dumped more manure and bedding on top of the weediest places, hoping to smother the worst of them.
The next year, the pile was deeper, and lots of tall weeds volunteered. I didn't do the best job of getting them chopped down, and the whole thing looked pretty messy. I kept piling on stuff, and that year I had more volunteer potatoes, some lettuce, and a pepper plant (also volunteer). I started calling it my "un-garden" (sort of a play on "un-schooling"--I just let it do what it pleased, kept piling on the manure, and enjoyed the harvest).
One more winter of manure and bedding made the whole thing about two feet higher than it had been, but the pile was too spread out to compost well and the straw and weeds were matted nastily together. My father and the front-loader on the tractor helped push the manure pile onto the back half of the garden, where it immediately began to steam and cook.
The front half of the un-garden was a new world. In place of the heavy blocky clods of yellowish clay, I beheld fluffy, black humus. It smelled so good, I almost thought about eating dirt. Mad with joy, I planted thirty-six broccoli plants, some marigolds and zinnias (since every garden has to have at least one row of flowers), and four extra tomatoes that didn't fit in the tomato garden. I mulched everything with grass clippings, and sat back to watch it grow.
A few days ago, I was sitting down to a big bowlful of dark green broccoli, watching a chunk of brilliant yellow butter melting its way down to the bottom of the dish, and wondering what could possibly be more fabulously delicious--and what could be the possible relation to the objects called "broccoli" and "butter" in the grocery store.
I also noticed that amongst the broccoli, pushing their way out of the mulch, some more volunteer potatoes have come up. For a moment, I was going to pull them out, since they spoiled the look of the lovely rows of broccoli--but then I thought, oh well, why not leave them? By the time the cabbage butterflies start to infest the broccoli and the heat makes it bitter, I will be delighted to have some potatoes to dig. In the compost heap behind the broccoli, a beautiful squash plant of unknown variety is covering and beautifying the pile. It looks to me like some kind of pumpkin, but I'm not sure yet.
The first year, I had a few volunteer potatoes in the heap. I dug them up, and enjoyed having the earliest potatoes I'd ever had--I suppose I harvested five pounds or so. I didn't have time to turn the pile, or pull up weeds. I just dumped more manure and bedding on top of the weediest places, hoping to smother the worst of them.
The next year, the pile was deeper, and lots of tall weeds volunteered. I didn't do the best job of getting them chopped down, and the whole thing looked pretty messy. I kept piling on stuff, and that year I had more volunteer potatoes, some lettuce, and a pepper plant (also volunteer). I started calling it my "un-garden" (sort of a play on "un-schooling"--I just let it do what it pleased, kept piling on the manure, and enjoyed the harvest).
One more winter of manure and bedding made the whole thing about two feet higher than it had been, but the pile was too spread out to compost well and the straw and weeds were matted nastily together. My father and the front-loader on the tractor helped push the manure pile onto the back half of the garden, where it immediately began to steam and cook.
The front half of the un-garden was a new world. In place of the heavy blocky clods of yellowish clay, I beheld fluffy, black humus. It smelled so good, I almost thought about eating dirt. Mad with joy, I planted thirty-six broccoli plants, some marigolds and zinnias (since every garden has to have at least one row of flowers), and four extra tomatoes that didn't fit in the tomato garden. I mulched everything with grass clippings, and sat back to watch it grow.
A few days ago, I was sitting down to a big bowlful of dark green broccoli, watching a chunk of brilliant yellow butter melting its way down to the bottom of the dish, and wondering what could possibly be more fabulously delicious--and what could be the possible relation to the objects called "broccoli" and "butter" in the grocery store.
I also noticed that amongst the broccoli, pushing their way out of the mulch, some more volunteer potatoes have come up. For a moment, I was going to pull them out, since they spoiled the look of the lovely rows of broccoli--but then I thought, oh well, why not leave them? By the time the cabbage butterflies start to infest the broccoli and the heat makes it bitter, I will be delighted to have some potatoes to dig. In the compost heap behind the broccoli, a beautiful squash plant of unknown variety is covering and beautifying the pile. It looks to me like some kind of pumpkin, but I'm not sure yet.
