Thanksgiving is an exceedingly groovy American holiday. Sure, drunk uncles are an issue. Sure, a small minority of short straw-holding people must do an insane amount of work. But they do so willingly, and typically with unstated pride. For stoics like my mother, the opportunity to cloister in the kitchen, away from humanity, was more feature than bug. For the rest of us, Thanksgiving is a grand, annual opportunity to freeload in another locale, occupy someone else’s comfy chair, fiddle with a strange remote, and consume familiar food with just enough eccentricities to qualify as culinary adventure. And we do this with no requirement other than to show up and depart at times that service decorum …and feign consciousness throughout (a mostly disregarded, Puritanical vestige in some families).
Given its age, Thanksgiving is remarkably consistent across time and culture. But cultural icons mature and shift within the laboratories of subculture, and Thanksgiving is no exception. If you have been fortunate enough to be a guest at Thanksgivings in different households, then you have sampled the diversity firsthand. If you are not one of those people, just accept that your family is weird. Of course, if you married into another family, you knew that already. If not, take my word for it; you’re weird.
We all do Thanksgiving our own way. Like many kids, I spent my early Thanksgivings at the kids table, typically accompanied by at least one stray adult who, unlike my mother, was unable to stow away in the kitchen with a credible alibi. This continued into early adulthood, by which time the term “kids table” was more vestige of history than description of reality. But through all those years, as the ethos of this so-called kids table evolved, many traditions remained stubbornly true to form. One of these – indeed, the essence of Thanksgiving to me -- was… <drumroll>
…fried cauliflower. I have never seen fried cauliflower at another Thanksgiving table. I do not know a person outside of my family who has ever heard of it, let alone eaten it as part of an annual ritual. And I haven’t the first clue how or when fried cauliflower nosed its way into family tradition. In the confusion of creating a Thanksgiving meal for twenty five people, who in their right mind chooses to bread and fry cruciferous vegetables for two hours? Well, my mother, that’s who, who found her peace and solace in the kitchen, where she ruled with an iron pan.
The tradition of Thanksgiving eccentricity traces to its origin, as hardy Europeans and even hardier Native Americans, separated by vast cultural and physical chasms, discovered common ground in a tradition shared deeply by both – that is, giving thanks. For a time there was peace in common values, along with the joy and respect that emerge from appreciation of cultural preferences. Were the deer brought by the natives and the wild turkeys and fish offered by the European refugees eccentricities to some? Probably. Hosting ninety Native American guests for a multi-day feast surely included a few awkward moments.
That first awkward Thanksgiving was, at heart, a harvest celebration. History informs us that the native people offered farming tips and tricks to the newcomers, which were welcome after a treacherous, deadly winter. We still teach children that the Pilgrims learned to use fish carcasses as fertilizer for corn. Apparently, the Native Americans grew things their own way. And you should too. To be clear, I am not advancing the cause of fish carcasses in home gardens. My sense is they would do the job in some situations, but possibly at the expense of vermin crashing your garden party. A more modern way to leverage the power of pescatory plant possibilities is liquid fish and seaweed-based fertilizers. Such fish stories aside, I do mean to encourage you to explore your own techniques, establish your own garden traditions, and do what works for you based on your own skills and resources ...that is, discover your own fried cauliflower.
I grew up without a lot of garden guidance. My godmother gave me my start, and her brother, my grandfather, would offer an occasional comment: “You paid what for 5-10-15?!” [inexpensive, generic fertilizer, to the uninitiated]. But I was mostly on my own to “explore the space”, as Bruce Dickinson would implore Gene Frenkle many years later. And explore I did. And a few of those peculiar habits stuck, still serving me well as I explore the spaces of adulthood.
As a kid with a plant addiction, I lived in a house whose only real sunlight was a southwest-facing bay window. This would have been ideal, except for the front patio roof, and the trees beyond the patio. As all new gardeners quickly discover, it is next to impossible to grow a healthy seedling on the archetypal “sunny windowsill”, let alone in semi-shade. Seedlings require far more light than most gardening newcomers might imagine. As adulthood encroached upon my youth, and I had a few more discretionary shekels to dispense, I discovered that standard-issue fluorescent shop lights meet the challenge nicely – “plant lights” not required. But I had no such luxuries as a ten year old.
So I did with plants as I did with most other things: I improvised. I worked with what I had. When a seed germinates without adequate light, it quickly becomes tall and “leggy” rather than robust and stocky, often toppling to an early demise. I grew a lot of leggy seedlings as a kid, soiling my mother’s prized bay window with failed horticultural experiments. One day, in a moment of innocent desperation that only the 9 year old mind could fully embrace, I started replanting them in deeper pots, burying the leggy stems in soil. Had I known any real experts, they would have frowned. My mother frowned for other reasons. This is not the recommended or approved path to healthy plants (or clean bay windows). But it worked! Some plants, such as tomatoes, will even develop roots along the buried stem. Either way, the soil supports the young plant, and it will typically do fine.
Over time, this workaround matured into a technique. To this day, even with a full complement of fluorescent shop lights and newfangled LED plant lights, and nary a leggy seedling to be found, I still grow most seedlings in a two-stage process that involves early transplantation to deeper soil. This method has other benefits too; I typically sow a lot of seeds in a small space, because I know I will be doing an early transplanting. This saves seeds because you need not overplant individual pots, only to discard most of what germinates. You can also use the very best plants from the entire batch, rather than choose from the best of two or three in each container. My way is more work, as it involves an extra step. But it works for me.
I grow things my own way. I encourage you to grow your plants and your life this way too. Some iconoclasts are born, others made. I suspect I am the latter. Whatever your path to independence, I suggest you find that road and begin the journey. Membership might have its rewards. But so does idiosyncrasy.
Blaze your own trail and don't look back.
Chapter 7 - (Coming Soon!)