Sow There! In search of the next good thing, Oct. 4, 2019

One afternoon last week, I sat in the wooden rocking chair in my classroom. It’s rare that I sit down at school. Once the weight is off my feet and I take a few deep breaths, it’s hard to regain momentum.

I could hear the muffled sounds of students on the playground. The shelves were bare. My collection of children’s books created a pillar of boxes near the chalkboard. Only dust bunnies remained in my desk drawers.

Yep. I am a teacher without a job.

I learned mid-summer that the classrooms at my grade level would be combined due to lower enrollment. The school tried to keep me on board, with a nice gig as a reading teacher. However, this job didn’t last after another round of budget cuts.

I’m thankful. I learned so much. They said I did a good job, but I can’t pretend my heart isn’t broken.

Some of those final moments were rough. Instead of good-morning greetings in the hallway, I saw the sad smiles.

I sometimes hid in my room during lunch, feeling awkward.

Yet, overall, the departure was joy-filled.

I was busy and determined to provide a few good lessons with the time I had left. Then came the grand finale.

We arranged a special lunch with the students from my class last year. “My kids” wanted to sing some of our favorite songs, and Sarah discovered the album of photos from our adventures last year. Just like old times, one child spilled his bowl of rice on the carpet.

Normally I helped with fourth-grade reading groups in the afternoon. One day, I was asked to stay away – in a nice way. The lovely teacher asked students to draw going-away pictures, which she arranged as a book.

Dayton’s drawing included a giant wall covered with books and the two of us standing at the bottom of the grand library. Other students drew rocks and feathers (reminiscent of my nature table), and some depicted me in a flowing purple gown. Lyla wrote, “I will never forget you,” on a page covered with hearts. Several children from my reading groups gave me rocks and crystals, to add to my collection.

Yes, I cried when I leafed through the pages in the quiet of my mostly-empty classroom.

It’s sad to leave a place. Heartache comes when you leave a place filled with so much love and kindness.

On my very last day, I was asked to be the substitute teacher for kindergarten. There’s no better way to finish a gig than by playing with 5-year-olds.

What will I do? Most people have asked me this question.

What’s surprising is that I do not feel wackadoodle. I think there’s another teacher desk and more than two dozen children waiting for a bespectacled, book-lover who may or may not occasionally wear purple gowns.

And for now, the big question is how to fit all of those boxes into my house – pillars of boxed books, dry-erase pens, glue and a myriad of other miscellanea.

I’ll just stare at them for a while until they find a new home.

My plan this year was to buy one indoor plant for my classroom each week. I hoped to be known as the “plant lady.” Good thing I did not follow through. Currently, there are 10 houseplants outside on my picnic table.

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Sow There! Waiting list for a monster of a plant, Sept. 27, 2019

You can’t miss the Monstera deliciosa in the window. Look for the broad, glossy green, notched leaves. (Heather Hacking — contributed)
September 27, 2019 

Yes, I have an amazing Monstera deliciosa plant, and if you on the verge of asking me for a cutting, there is a waiting list.

When I set up my first classroom last year, I brought in three vases filled with overly large, deep-green leaves. Sometimes the leaves have interesting holes in them, as if a child began to make a paper snowflake with scissors.

At my home, I like to put the plants on a high shelf, with a lamp below. In the evenings, interesting shadow patterns are cast on the ceiling.

I said three vases, but another teacher quickly asked if I had more to spare. She has a lovely heart and was instrumental in my decision to teach at the charter school. I decided I could live with just two eye-catching Monstera plants in my partially shaded classroom window.

Fairly soon, another teacher became enamored by the plant, and kindly asked if I had additional cast-offs.

I said I would put her on “the list.”

I understand the admiration. It’s a stellar specimen.

The plant sat mostly disregarded for many years. It lived in a 10-gallon, black plastic pot along the west-facing side of the house, in the shade of the loquat tree. I knew it was fussy because at least twice it melted to a stub during a hard freeze.

The plant was among those from the Handsome Woodsman’s house in Paradise. When he moved to Chico about six years ago, he added it to our shared potted plant collection. After he died, everything he had once touched became vital, and I brought the plant indoors on cold nights.

A close-up of a Monstera deliciosa near the window. (Heather Hacking — contributed)

With the pent-up demand for the plant, I took a few more sprouts and began letting the plant grow roots in water, then transplanted to soil. In water, the roots are robust, and twirl around the bottom of the glass containers. However, in containers, they will die inside my house.

Now that all of the trees have been chopped down on my property, maybe there is enough light indoors for Monstera to multiply with increased indoor sunlight.

My “mother Monstera” is currently on the picnic table, under the outdoor canopy.

When school started this year, there were more requests for “spare plants.” I shared two more, but I needed to think about self-plant preservation. This week, I received news that my job was among those to get the axe due to budget cuts. (Huge bummer at a time when teaching positions have already been filled). Yet, I know myself. If I master the ability to make Monstera babies, I’ll visit my former coworkers and share the wealth.

More on Monstera

With all the hub-bub about this plant, I wanted to learn more.

The Apartment Therapy website,, notes that the plant likes the shade because it is native to the rain forests of southern Mexico and Central America. Monstera is a pretty cool name to begin with, but it is also known as the Swiss cheese plant, Mexican breadfruit or hurricane plant (also very cool names). For simplicity, we can just call it a split-leaf philodendron.

In the wild, it flowers, and produces fruit that tastes like “fruit salad,” the above-mentioned website mentions. The remainder of the plant is poisonous if eaten by people or pets.

The plant is a lot like me, and prefers temperatures between 68 and 86. Too much sun? Also, bad news for the plant.

When these ideal conditions are met, the plant will grow so large it needs a trellis. In a rain forest, the roots will reach out and climb trees.

When I visited the Butterfly Garden in Victoria, British Colombia, this summer, there were Monstera plants that reached to the top of the butterfly habitat. The leaves reminded me of taro plants, only more remarkable because of the notches in the leaves.

Chico certainly isn’t the rain forest, and my backyard isn’t balmy. I might start misting the leaves and placing empty pots near my 10-gallon container. For now, I occasionally yank a new shoot and pull gently so I get a nice chunk of roots, which is about the width of a thick twine.

My research also tells me I should consider transferring my beauty to a larger container.

In the meantime, I’ll hoard the plants and consider trading plants for lunch dates with the nice gals at school.

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Sow There! One shot wonders get all the attention, Sept. 20, 2019


September 20, 2019 at 3:30 am

Cactus are not among my favorite garden plants. Boring. Prickly. Basically idle. Despite my view of them as mediocre, I have a cactus collection of more than two dozen. The plants have an advantage over the more fussy plants in my yard because they can live without me.

Most of my cacti include the night-bloomers that were a gift from the late Suzi Draper. Suzi invited me to her backyard many years ago when her backyard was filled with flowers from the mostly-dormant plants. By mostly, I mean these plants bloom for only one day, and then they have the audacity to put on their show at night.

Last year, I was too busy to notice the fuzzy protrusions that inched their way skyward from the prickly cactus cone. I came home one day and found the flaccid remains of what may have been an amazing, and brief show. The flowers smell like nothing else on this earth and attract night critters including pollinating moths.

Cacti aren’t kept because of their bloom. The flowers are a delightful surprise, as if beauty managed to sneak up on us. If you shop for a cactus at the downtown farmers market, you might think the plants are blooming all the time. Geffray’s Gardens — — manages to display some of the best and the brightest. Why not sell them at the height of their beauty, when the buyer can enjoy the brief and beautiful color for a few days or more? However, the new cactus owner shouldn’t expect to see that again any time soon.

 Does the fact that the bloom of a cactus comes only every so often make it more beautiful?

I think so.

We tend to appreciate things when they’re experienced only rarely, such as exorbitantly-priced tickets to a Pink concert, shooting stars, weddings, first kisses and Bigfoot sightings.

I think gardeners, and perhaps bird watchers, get to experience these fleeting “aha!” moments more often. We’re out there with our eyes open. We’re waiting for magic.

Last week, I was doing a routine once-through of the yard, hose in hand, mind appropriately somewhere else, when I came nose to needle with a rare-to-me cactus bloom. This was an entirely different plant than the descendants of the gift plant from Suzi Draper.

This particular cactus was a acquired from another reader, who invited me to see his cactus garden in the Chapman Neighborhood about 15 years ago. Once upon a time I plopped those cacti in a wheelbarrow filled with mostly sand and a bit of dirt.

The plant is certainly attractive, in its rugged way. Yet, this day it was glorious. The creamy, waxy petals were perfectly arranged, with a slightly different hue of petals creating the back row. In the center, tiny tentacles reached out, like the intense (yet fleeting) sparks of fireworks. The pattern of the interior seemed to invite me in, as if to say “Hey, I’m here. Now. Devour me.”

I did.

I was in a hurry that day, but I lingered. I grabbed my camera. I zoomed in to experience all this flower had to offer. As expected, the next day it was gone.

Ho hum. Nearby, the Vinca Rosea has been blooming all summer. The flowers keep fading and renewing. Every day I walk by. I nod, perhaps with appreciation, but not really.

That’s the way life is, I suppose. Something that will be gone tomorrow will receive more dedicated attention than a million roses on a faithful production schedule.

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Sow There! Too much of a good thing — tomato hoarding, Sept. 13, 2019

Great-grandma’s cookie jar was the perfect keepsake for holding this year’s stash of dried tomatoes. (Heather Hacking — Contributed)
September 13, 2019

Any visitor to my small house can quickly assess that I have trouble with clutter. I’m lucky enough to have lived half a century and each of my collected treasures is important: Books, rocks, seldom-played board games and enough furniture to fill a much larger house. Yet, when you add them all together, you get a busy mess.

My grandmother traveled extensively. Could I get rid of her trinket from India – an inlaid mother-of-pearl image of the Taj Mahal? Could I part with my music box from childhood? A jar of ocean-smoothed glass from multiple visits to Fort Bragg? Have you been to glass beach lately? Tourists, like me, have picked it almost bare.

Did I mention my house is small? And yet, I still have the customary collection of “things” we keep in hidden proximity, such as Christmas ornaments, sentimental brick-a-brack and bad poetry from my teen years.

One night I came across the Netflix show “Tidying Up,” ( with Marie Kondo. I must admit, I resented this woman from the start. She’s so sweet as she walks around other people’s homes, kindly pointing out how simple life would be if one would wear the same pink cardigan sweater four days a week, thus making room under the bed for neatly-arranged shoes.

At my house, I bought plastic risers to hoist my bed up 6 inches. This is where I store my winter wardrobe in plastic bins.

Sweet Marie goes into a solemn place as she suggests holding an item in your hands. If the miscellaneous belonging does not bring you joy, give it away, she urges. Maybe it will bring someone else joy. I’m guessing Marie tossed out all sense of sentimentality when she made her first million.

How many racks of dried tomatoes is too much? Apparently 15 is not too many. (Heather Hacking — Contributed)

I’m easily pleased. Most things, especially my things, bring me joy.

Another helpful source recommends cleaning one section of a room at a time. You can’t stop cleaning until you have decided to give away at least five items. Paperclips and old copies of Via magazine don’t count.

I’ve tried this as well. The problem is, once I decide to toss five things, I stop cleaning.

Tomato hoarder

For several weeks now, I’ve been bragging about my amazing season of cherry tomatoes. I’ll credit my third-graders from last year, who undoubtedly planted those tomato seeds with love. So far, I’ve harvested enough cherry tomatoes to fill my food dehydrator (with five trays), three times. Children? What is 5 x 3? Yes, that’s 15 trays of dried tomatoes.

Of course, I’ve found it in my heart to be generous. I’ve decided a little jar of home-dried tomatoes is the best hostess gift. (This is indeed a hint that I would love to be invited to more end-of-the-summer barbecues). My largess has extended to my close family members, who may or may not appreciate the amazing goodness that dried cherry tomatoes can be.

I eat them like candy, one after another, from the jar.

Here are more ideas from the University of California Master Food Preservers of Orange County: (

  • Add to deviled egg filling
  • With scrambled eggs
  • Garnish for any meal
  • In batter of biscuits, cornbread or any other grain dough
  • Puree the dried fruit and store as a powder, then mix with water when you need tomato paste. Sprinkle the dried goodness on tasteless tomatoes purchased in winter.
  • I wonder how this would taste on popcorn!
  • Tomato pesto. The recipe is basically the same as green pesto, but leave out the basil and add tomatoes.

All this, and you can see why I have come to become a tomato hoarder. With so many dried tomatoes on hand, I am really glad I did not give away great-grandmother’s cookie jar. When I found it in the back of the cupboard, it was the perfect vessel for this year’s ruby red, dried crop.

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Sow There! Dusting off the vacation goggles, Sept. 6, 2019

The mural of Robin Hood is almost hidden now along the northern perimeter of City Plaza. Scott Teeple painted the mural, using Greg Taylor as a muse. Both men are gone now but remain as part of Chico’s artistic history. (Heather Hacking — Contributed)

September 6, 2019 

When I return home from traveling, it usually takes a week or two until the “vacation lens” disappears. As a tourist, even the fire hydrants are beautiful if they are painted a different color in a different town.

When I land my feet on familiar soil, my eyes stay at this same aperture, at least for a while, and I appreciate my own town all the more.

Another way to broaden your perspective in your own backyard is to cruise around with someone walking these steps for the first time.

This month, my friend Patrick asked me to play tour guide for his daughter, who is a recent resident of the Chico State University dorms. I met Patrick a million years ago when we both lived in a cheap-rent apartment complex. Back then, we were young, our world was new, and we had much better eyesight.

I dined with the whole family at a downtown restaurant. My college chum had already unfurled most of his Chico tips from 25 years ago, some of them still applicable. Now it was my turn to download the “old lady tips” I have gathered as a multi-decades resident of the Sacramento Valley.

His kid is on her own when it comes to navigating the hallways of Holt Hall and making friends in the residence hall. I was (somewhat helpful) as I showed her a tree-lined route to the grocery store and to help browse bargains at thrift stores. I know I helped, at least a little. We rode bikes around town for 2 ½ hours. I stopped about 50 times to point out yet another thing that I love about my selected surroundings.

She was 10 feet behind the rear tire of my bike, so if she protested, I didn’t notice.

I’m sure she could use Google to know all that she will need to know. She’s also welcome to call or text to ask “what’s that thing you said about that thing,” when she has idle time.

As a preparation for the tour, my friend Richard and I met up Friday night to watch the band “Hot Flash” downtown. The night was young, and my house was boiling hot. Rather than end the lovely night, we walked and talked. Lucky for him, I worked at the newspaper for 25 years and I know just a bit about a lot of things.

Richard had never really toured the campus, and at least pretended to take interest in all of those wonders I showed him that night. We touched the statue of the three sisters ( near the university Rose Garden. I disliked those solemn gals when I wrote about them for the university newspaper. Yet, now they’re part of my own history.

The landscaping at the campus is always inspiring, but easy to overlook when you’re on a schedule. With bright lighting on campus, we noted plumbago near Colusa Hall and the well-kept oleander bushes. Richard appreciated the creek that runs through campus, and I was a bit shocked he had never been there before. “Catalpa trees,” I pointed out, although by this time I think his brain was full.

Many stops were made to pose the rubber chicken in front of artistic landmarks.

On a roll, we meandered our way back to my bicycle, and I slipped in a mini-tour of the downtown murals (, at least those murals that remain. It’s been years since I ran my fingers across Dayton Claudio’s ( mural on Salem Street or thoroughly inspected the art benches downtown. We pretended to open the mock door on John Pugh’s mural “Academe” ( and sought in vain to see the glass blowers in the window of Taylor Hall.

A few days later, when I rode around town with Patrick’s youngest daughter, I was ready to re-explore even more.

She plans to study biology. I rattled off a long list of things we could do – Llano Seco Wildlife Refuge, Dry Creek Preserve and several locales along the river. My guess is that she’ll make friends in the dorm. Her gift to me is that now I’m inspired to continue being a traveler right here and now.

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Sow There! Give your tree a big hug, Aug. 30, 2019

Lasting love. Did the maple tree grow for the 20-plus years it has been in my life? Did I grow? What I do know is that it has been looking down on me all this time. (Heather Hacking — Contributed)
August 30, 2019

I was 2 ½ years old when my family moved from our first home in Hayward. It was here I learned to crawl and squawk, and apparently learned to love trees.

On the day we moved, our family had a caravan of pickup trucks to haul our treasures to our new house. My parents tried to stuff me into the black Volkswagen Bug with the oval window in the back, but I grabbed onto the tree in the front yard. I’m betting my parents laughed when they took the photograph of their youngest child, squalling like a wounded hyena. I was young, and pre-verbal, but making my first big stand for something I believed in.

“I hate change,” I would have wailed, if I was at an age where I could speak in complete sentences.

We visited the house once or twice before we left the town forever. The new residents cut down “my tree.”

I’ve had other tree loves over the years, including the weeping willow in Auntie Jeanne’s backyard in Benicia. A single rope dangled from the strongest limb. It was here I learned to “fly” on the plank swing.

My aunt and uncle also loved that tree, and tried to keep it as part of the family. However, the tree sent roots in every direction, which repeatedly ruined the plumbing.

In college, I loved many a tree. I liked the gnarled, bush-like tree outside of Laxson, which seemed like it would gladly hug you if you lingered long enough. At One-Mile, I grew fond of a tree near Sycamore Pool, where I wrote poetry and watched strangers from a distance.

Maple leaves, currently green, soon to turn to lovely yellow. (Heather Hacking — Contributed)

Why a tree? I think it’s because when we spend time quietly, we spend time with our most intimate thoughts, and the tree is there as an open-minded witness.

Today, I adore a nearby maple tree. It’s so tall you can’t see to the top clearly without a pair of binoculars. If there was a tree that “knew me,” this would be it. Most of my most embarrassing and triumphant moments have been in the grace of this tree’s shade, and it even wears a few scars of my making.

I do not know if I ever actually “talked to this tree,” but there have been times when I felt it was listening.

Shadeless summer

The older we get, the more we should come to expect things to change. This summer was another big loss. All of the trees in my yard were chopped down. I can’t say that I had any deep-rooted love for these trees, but I sure do miss the shade. I don’t leave the air conditioner on while I’m away. The sun beats down on the roof like an angry hammer of Thor. I now keep my chocolate in the refrigerator and have moved dozens of plants under a sun shade.

When I take walks in my neighborhood, I want to talk to strangers and remind them to give a few minutes of appreciation for the trees in their yard.

“Look at that tree! Look at your shaded porch. Can you imagine life without these trees?”

I would say all of that and more, but I suspect those strangers would think I was a wacko.

Sure, some trees make a mess in the fall or require expensive trimming every decade. However, life without shade is dismal indeed.

And here is the lesson learned, the hard way as usual. Before the trees were lost to the chainsaw, I took them for granted, disparaged them, resented them. The lowly loquat, the garbage-dumping silk tree, the most-hated privet … The mulberry tree alone escaped my scorn. Had I known what 103 degrees would feel like without those trees, I would have talked to them more often. In retrospect, I should have given them more praise.

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Sow There! Hyacinth bulbs a delight no matter the season, Aug. 23, 2019

Yes, ridiculously large, fire-engine red blooms can withstand the pokes from children and stale air of a classroom. Amaryllis can be forced indoors for a huge show. (Heather Hacking — Contributed)
August 23, 2019 

For many years, I have scoffed at the audacity of Costco to sell hyacinth bulbs in August.

I love shopping at Costco. You can wander for hours, rest in their sofas, nibble on snacks and consider what you might need three months in the future. Right now, your child can pick out her Halloween costume. In about a day and a half, Costco will be selling Christmas ribbon and ornaments. Perhaps your child wants to dress as a Christmas tree for Halloween. How lovely to have so many options.

If you’re a good consumer, you can store your costume and ornaments next to the 10 oversized boxes of cheese puffs you bought at Costco last week.

This year, I was pleased that hyacinth bulbs are ready to fall into my shopping cart. In fact, I had been waiting for them. The other day, I roamed the overstocked aisles and asked a nice, helpful man in a red smock: “Where the heck are the hyacinth bulbs? It’s already August!” He assured me they would arrive “any day now.”

Hyacinth don’t have the visual impact of Amaryllis, but the bulbs bloom well indoors, when the bulbs are first chilled. Hyacinth are delightfully fragrant. (Heather Hacking — Contributed)

There’s no rush, of course, except that I have learned that hyacinth bulbs can be forced year-round.

Last year, hyacinth and other bulbs were a great source of joy – for me and for my students.

My first classroom bloom was a hulking, blazing red amaryllis, which bloomed before the weather turned gray. After that, I began on an indoor-bulb-a-thon. Something was growing in a vase until the daffodils bloomed outdoors in the spring.

For the winter holiday, I gifted each child in my class a glass jar, a generous amount of pebbles and their own hyacinth bulb. During winter vacation, several parents emailed me photographs noting bulb status. These moments are among the underreported joys of teaching.

When I bought a huge bag of hyacinth bulbs this week, I immediately placed a bulb in a specially-shaped jar with water, and popped that beauty in the refrigerator. Over the next many weeks, white roots will grow from bulb, reaching with white tentacles. When the bulb resembles a jellyfish, I’ll bring it into the classroom.

Chilling? Thumbs up or down?

Note that there’s some question about whether spring-blooming bulbs need to be chilled if you intend to plant the bulbs in the ground. I’ve read that most bulbs purchased at the store have already been given a jolt of cold. Newly purchased bulbs should be ready to plant as soon as you get the gumption to dig a hole.

I scoured the very small print on my new bag of bulbs, and there was no word on chilling vs. not chilling. I am thinking the bulb-sellers want their consumers to be successful. If the bulbs needed to be chilled, they would probably tell us.

What is chilling?

Many bulbs, as well as other plants, need a time of dormancy before they can repeat their life cycle. Almonds grow well in this area, because trees get enough “chilling hours” in winter to signal the tree to flower and create a batch of nuts.

Several bulbs can also be tricked into thinking it is time to bloom. In this way, we can chill bulbs and then force them (I prefer the terms tease or coerce) during most times of the year.

The quandary over ethylene

Of note: Hyacinth and other bulbs can have their growth stunted if exposed to ripening fruit. My fridge is currently filled with berries and corn, so I’ll be careful. Fruit releases ethylene gas. I skimmed through several scientific articles on the subject, and learned it is tricky to know how much gas from ripening fruit will do damage. I’ve had good luck so far by dropping one or the other (the fruit or the bulbs) into a paper bag and storing in the crisper drawer.

When to plant outdoors

As for planting bulbs in the ground, a garden guru once told me to wait until Thanksgiving. If the bulbs are in the crisper drawer, you can chill them for as long as 16 weeks, or as little as 6-8 weeks. For many folks, by the time Thanksgiving arrives, you need every inch of your fridge for storing pre-meal food, then post-meal leftovers.

Some bulbs do not need a chill. The American Meadows website, ( notes that amaryllis, anemone, crocus, Dutch iris, freesia, lilies, daffodils and ranunculus can be simply planted without a zap of cold.

Tomato outlet

The you-pick peach sale at the Chico State University Farm has come and gone. I did not make it this year, mostly because I do not have any room in my refrigerator.

However, you can still pick yourself a peck* of tomatoes along Hegan Lane at Laura’s tomato stand.

The price is $1.25 a pound and runs on the honor system; You put your dollars in a drop-box. Laura’s dad is a genuinely nice person, and occasional tomato public information officer. He sent me an email so I could share the ripe news.

Laura’s stand is on Bruce Lane, which is just off of Hegan. The best way to get there is to travel south on Park Avenue, until the road turns into the Midway. Travel just past the veterinarian’s office, and take a quick right onto Hegan. Watch for Laura’s signs to Bruce Lane, on the left.

A peck of pluots?

Also from Laura’s dad, the stand that sells pluots via the honor system was also open for business last time he checked. The Pluots ( are a cross between plums and apricots. You can try them, while they last, for $1.50 a pound.

* Peck: As in “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,” is an archaic term for about two dry gallons. We think it’s funny to hear that someone picked a “peck” of something. According to Wikipedia, the “peck” was funny even when the tongue twister was new. Apparently, pickles were almost never picked by the peck, even back then. Who knew?

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Sow There! Dried fruit, and how to hoard it for a rainy day, Aug. 16, 2019


Tomato candy, only 139 calories per cup. (Heather Hacking — Contributed)

August 16, 2019 

I need to stop buying delicious and beautiful fruits and vegetables from the farmers market. I do this every year. I stroll while I’m hungry and end up with a fridge filled with really good eating intentions.

This season, I’ll also blame the cruise ship. During my family’s recent jaunt to Alaska, I consumed (quite possibly) tens of thousands of calories in the form of drizzled chocolate, toasted hazelnut and creamy coconut. After gorging night and day on treats, my body was so saturated with sugar, it’s a wonder ants did not find me in my sleep.

The day I disembarked, I craved spinach and antioxidant berries, and stocked up on zucchini, carrots and kale at the farmers market. For several days, I bought and ate healthful foods like my life depended on it.

Then the tomatoes in my garden spurted a big batch. Next, the seedless Thompson grapes were discovered along my cyclone fence.

On the cruise ship, I experimented with whether one could overdose on chocolate, meringue and lemon curd. (I lived). Can you OD on Vitamin C from fruits and vegetables?

Easy food preservation

If I were a more generous person, I would have donated my excess produce to a local charity. Yet, this thought did not occur to me until I sat down to write this column.

When I brought some baskets of tomatoes to share with my mom, sister and niece, I ended up coming home with a big bag of ripe figs.

Next, I put a lot of thought into how to preserve all this summer overstock to overindulge later in the year.

Tomatoes and grapes are both candidates for freezing. In the past, I would wash grapes from my garden, freeze them in snack-sized plastic bags and add them to fruit smoothies.

Tomatoes can also be frozen ( to use in marinara sauce in the winter. To prepare them for freezing, cut a cross in the skin (for peeling later), then dunk the fruit in a pan of boiling water for 1-2 minutes. Scoop them out quickly and place the red rubies in a bowl of ice water. Once they’re cool, you can easily slip off the peels and pack the tomatoes into freezer-friendly plastic bags.

However, it’s so hot right I doubt even Rachael Ray would bring water to a roiling broil if she lived in the Sacramento Valley.

These days, my air conditioner is burping and gurgling to keep up with the heat.

It’s so hot, I don’t want to run the washing machine and dryer. I would rather wear my clothes a second time and spray them with fabric freshener.

Despite the heat-induced brain fog, I remembered the food dehydrator I tucked away above the silent washing machine.

When I ran the extension cord out the dog door in the laundry room, I could run the dehydrator from the back porch. If possums came to nibble on the fruit overnight, they put the lid back.

Now I have yet another dilemma: Can I keep from eating ridiculous amounts of super sweet Thompson raisins, dried “tomato candy?” and semi-moist figs?

Compared to ice cream, dried tomatoes are a calorie bargain ( at 139 calories a cup. Raisins pack more paunch at 433 calories a cup. However, just a few on my morning oatmeal probably won’t ruin me for my size 10 jeans. Dried figs are delicious when nibbled with a cup of coffee.

Also, I’ll be teaching again in a week or so, and on my feet for at least 10,000 steps a day.

My guess is that dried tomatoes and raisins will be a big hit among my students, if I find it in my heart to share.

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Sow There! Peak season for summer sweetness, Aug. 9, 2019

If berries were art, this would be my “blue series.” Torani dark chocolate blends well. (Heather Hacking — Contributed)
August 9, 2019 

The past several weeks have been prime time for some serious berry gobbling. I would never say that I eat well. If I’m on my own, an obscene percentage of my calories are consumed in the form of ice cream. However, I’ve had a guest staying at my house, which means we’ve been going out and about, and bumping into some beautiful food.

Thor and I went to the downtown farmers market and I rediscovered that mid-summer is a fresh fruit and veggie bonanza.

I bring extra containers when I shop downtown, because more than once I’ve arrived home with fruit mush at the bottom of my reusable shopping bag. The bountiful bargain right now is three baskets of berries for $10, mix and match.

One morning, we poured blueberries over oatmeal. In the afternoon, sliced strawberries and raspberries were added to a salad. Cucumbers, crookneck squash and cherry tomatoes were ready to grab from my own small garden.

When it came time for ice cream, one would accurately presume that a mix of berries was liberally added to each bowl.

Another night, I crafted a simple dish with mixed berries beautifully arranged on a plate, with a small bowl of Torani dark chocolate dipping sauce. To be extra fancy, I brought out my tiny shellfish forks.

My version of “slow food,” is to really savor each bite, and decide which berry goes best with chocolate.

Thor likes geography. Perhaps to justify a second helping, we spent time deciding which part of the tongue registered sweet and tart, and which part of the tongue tingles when chocolate is applied.

A sampling of weet, seasonal fruit. (Heather Hacking — Contributed)

The next week, we opted to add blackberries to the mix. These served well with a breakfast of berries, plain Greek yogurt and a sprinkle of granola. Berry preferences vary. Some folks savor the wine-like richness of the black, while I prefer the electric sweetness of the nearly over-ripe raspberries.

Peaches also shouldn’t be overlooked this time of year. Farmers market vendors offer sweet samples. This is important, because shopping for fruit makes me really hungry.

I always make a point of buying peaches that are still soft-ball hard, this way they don’t turn to mush when you jostle around the market or dance along to the tunes of a street-corner musician. I let the fresh fruit rest for 2-3 days on my warm kitchen counter, then pop them in the fridge.

When you bite into a cold, perfectly ripe peach, your mouth puckers with the sweet and tart, your lower lip gets cold, juice drips onto your fingers. You can’t help but savor the goodness in your mouth, working the pulp like a dog licking peanut butter.

Soon at a farm near you

The Chico State University Farm holds a peach you-pick-it event every year on Hegan Lane. This is the time to buy a bucket of peaches. You can be a star by bringing a huge box to work and offering them to your coworkers.

When I called the farm this week, they expected the peaches to go on sale mid-month.

My school does not begin until the fourth week of this month, which means one more summer fruit fling before I hunker down to a year of teaching.

Call before you head to the farm. The hotline to check for the exact dates is 898-4989.

My guess is that peaches will make a perfect substitute for any of the food combinations mentioned above (yogurt, salad, chocolate). I’m willing to do the research. My hypothesis is that Torani dark chocolate sauce enhances all foods, even sushi.

Keeping it going

Just for fun, please share how you have been enjoying local summer fruit. I’d love to get new ideas and share them with other readers. Also, I’d love to learn how to make an epic fruit tart.

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Sow There! Scavenger hunt at Butchart Gardens, Aug. 2, 2019

Row after row of lovliness at Butchart Gardens in Victoria, British Columbia. (Heather Hacking — contributed)

August 2, 2019 

When the cruise ship pulled into Victoria, British Columbia, I had a quest: Butchart Gardens (

The gardens are renowned for the great number of flowering plants crammed into a small place. Long ago, limestone was mined to build roads in Canada, and to make Mr. and Mrs. Butchart very rich. When the limestone was gone, what remained was a huge, ugly pit.

Jennie Butchart may have felt guilty, or likely was a very kind soul, and used her newly-mined money to pay for wagonloads of topsoil. Over the next several generations, the Butcharts transformed the eyesore into a watercolorist’s dream.

Spanning 55 acres, the gardens grow up and down the terraced cavity, with narrow paths now overpopulated with flower geeks snapping images for social media.

I wanted to see it all. I wanted to linger over every plant. I wanted to indulge in pollination rituals and smell every rose named for a celebrity. Yet, our silly cruise ship tour only allowed 1 hour and 20 minutes for flower exploration.

Less than four hours seemed like an insult. Yet, I was on vacation. Complaints are not allowed when you are intent on family fun. Just like everyone else, I clicked my camera rapid-fire. I would relive those moments when I subjected my friends to three-hour vacation slide shows.

Our timeline at Butchart Gardens did not allow for a snow cone stop, nor did I even consider waiting in line for the bathroom.

Our only stop was to ride the carousel. One of Dad’s many mottos is that you can never walk past a carousel.

Looking high and low

Meanwhile, I was on a quest.

My friend Chrissy had taken the Alaska/Canada cruise the week earlier. We had arranged a game where she would hide a message for me somewhere in the gardens. She found a great spot, hid the note under a rock, and sent me pictures. One picture was of the view I would see when I found the note. The other picture included a stone bench and her elbow pointing toward a rock.

My clue was “up high.”

Garden to-do list

Got it.

View 900 varieties of plants, ride carousel, find note.

For an hour, my family raced around the former limestone quarry. The gardens at the rim of the former quarry were definitely “up high.” I followed them to the bottom of the garden area, and back up again. I did not see a stone bench.

We rode the carousel and I must have become disoriented, because I momentarily forgot about Chrissy’s note.

The path ended at the gift shop, but I had not found the hidden note.

My family said they would stall our cruise ship bus driver – Dad can extend a story with segues and rich detail.

I raced back down the path, razzle dazzle past new groups of garden viewers who had only begun their 1 hour and 20 minute journey. People had stopped in the middle of the narrow path, posing with their extended families and comparing the heads of their toddlers to the size of dahlias.

As I power walked, I heard at least one person say “she must really be in a hurry.”

Around yet another bend, I saw the overlooked “up high” place. A column of rock, undoubtedly not limestone, rose from the center of the garden pit. I knew there must be a steep staircase.

By the time I reached the top, my heart was pounding. The only exercise I had done on the ship for the past week was to run for second helpings of chocolate cake.

I spotted the bench. I turned over the rock. I found the soggy slip of paper. Chrissy had drawn a picture of a chicken and written the words “Hi Heather.”

I was elated.

Snap, snap. I took a picture.

I also knew that my friend Paul planned to take the same cruise to Alaska Aug. 4-14. I hid a note for him in case he visits the garden.

I had no time to be clever. My note reads “Hi Paul.”

The race back to the tour bus was even more harried. Now I was traveling in the opposite direction. I consoled myself in knowing I would never see these people again. I moved quickly, but I know I heard a few comments about the hurry I was in.

By the time I returned to the cruise ship that afternoon, I felt like I had earned that second piece of chocolate cake.

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