by Tim Matson
Three vegetable gardens, a patch of herbs, a spreading orchard, a bed of blueberries, and a field of raspberries and blackberries––when people first see this place, the question is bound to be asked: “Isn’t it a lot of work?â€
The answer is yes. There are days in the thick of the growing season when he carrots need thinning and the potato bugs need zapping and everything aches for a water. That’s when visions of white blankets of murderous frost dance in my head. Or at least that’s how I used to feel, before I discovered some shortcut crops that help trim garden overtime. Now instead of growing everything under the sun, I relax a little. While the neighbors are out raising plastic cloches in the spring mud, Ellen and I dig into a fresh salad. Friends are likely to be planting in the middle of a gale while we’re adding greens to an omelette. Where the food comes from is just outside our kitchen door.
About ten days after the snow disappears, roughly May Day here in the North, the first crop is up. Dandelions. Pity the folk who consider the “Lion’s Toothâ€Â a nuisance weed. After the marathon Vermont winter, a feast of fresh dandelion greens is survival medicine. We eat the greens fresh in salads or cooked with a slice of homegrown bacon. Raw, the taste is sharp, refreshing, almost like quinine. Cooked, it’s milder. In a half-cup of cooked dandelion greens we’re getting three times the Vitamin C and 20 times the Vitamin A in an equivalent helping of cooked carrots, for instance. Not bad for a weed.
A portion of our dandelion crop comes up wild in the garden, and I yank the plants by the root, weeding and harvesting in one motion. The boiled root tastes a bit like an artichoke heart, but it’s a nuisance to peel. The roasted root can be powdered to brew an ersatz coffee, but we leave that alone and are content with the greens. Elsewhere, most of the dandelion crops grow scattered about two-acre clearing around the house. I leave these roots intact so we can have greens again next year.
The harvest opens in the sunniest spots and moves down into the cool shady hollows as spring ripens. It’s important to track the young dandelions and to harvest before the flowers emerge and the greens grow too bitter. Our dandelion season extends to the end of May, when our clearing lights up like a galaxy of suns. I celebrate the end of harvest by gathering a pail of golden flowers and brewing a gallon of dandelion wine.
On the heels of the early dandelions comes spinach––and we haven’t yet touched a spade since last fall. The trick is to plant a row or two late in the preceding summer. In this region (zone 4) I’ve found that mid-August is about right. The idea is to start the crop about a month before the first frost. Come autumn, the spinach will die back and then sprout reborn in spring. It’s important to choose a rich soil location with ample early spring sun. I don’t plant in the middle of the garden or it fouls up springtime tilling. Spinach winters over best if the roots lie insulated under snow. To help guarantee its comeback, I mulch the spinach under six inches of hay and peel it back in the spring.
Meanwhile, in the herb garden, Ellen is clipping chives to add an oniony zip to the dandelion and spinach salad that’s forming. This hardy perennial is easy to start from seed or root division and it likes the full sun. For best eating, the green tops should be snipped before developing purple flowers. If you crave extra spice, add garlic chives to the patch.
Our born-again spring crops are not limited to salad greens. A 20-foot row of parsnips planted last May turns into 20 pounds of sweet roots this spring. Kin to the carrot and celery, the parsnip is a vegetable born for the North. The roots contain about 18 percent carbohydrate, in starch, during the summer. While we are out skiing, the starch changes into sugar. In spring the ground thaws and the parsnips lie in storage, waiting to be uprooted and baked or put into soup.
I’ve learned to harvest the parsnip before spring advances too far along; otherwise, the roots spend energy making seed, and the plant tastes like balsa wood. I start off pulling as many as we need for the moment, right out of the ground. Once I see the green tops sprout more than an inch, I harvest the whole crop and pack it in peat moss down in the root cellar, which is cooler than the garden soil. The only problem with parsnips is that they are too sweet. By the end of May we are likely to have a surplus and no takers among our neighbors. That’s when the roots make one last transformation. They contain enough natural sugar to produce a fine dry wine, without the addition of extra sweetener.
Parsley is another crop that winters-over well in the North. Like many early spring plants, it yields rich amounts of vitamin A, B, and C. I’ve found that this biennial comes back strongest when planted in mid-summer. Late planting seems to ensure vigorous second year growth as well as longer picking season before the plants go to seed. Spring rebirth is enhanced by a layer of insulating mulch applied in autumn, and parsley should be given a place of its own where it won’t interfere with tilling.
In addition to the dandelions and the spring come-back crops, I’ve come to savor couple of mid-season wild edibles: lamb’s quarters and milkweed. Known also as pigweed or wild amaranth, lamb’s quarters pack heavy charges of vitamins. We mix the greens in salads or cook them like spinach. They grow almost exclusively
in the garden. Instead of weeding them out entirely, I allow the plants to stand wherever they don’t crowd other crops. I’m careful to permit a bunch to go to seed so we can welcome them back again next year. Milkweed lovers boast that everything about the plants is edible: shoots, flowers, and pods. I’ve tried them all and it’s the flowers that I favor, just before they pop open. I boil the flowers briefly, drain off the first water, add fresh water, and boil again. Changing the water flushes away the slightly bitter taste. I know the milkweed is ready when the purple flowers turn green in the pot. With a little butter melted on top, this is a dish to stay home for.
Asparagus  and  rhubarb  are the  classic  perennials.  Once established, they’ll return each spring as sure as Canada geese. And it you are lucky enough to discover a patch of fiddlehead ferns, keep it quiet. Few springtime treasures are so sought after or as tasty. I could add more labor-saving crops to the list, and gardening books and wild-food guides are stuffed with them. But there’s no sense in overdoing––the idea is to make less work for yourself, not more.
Editor’s Note: This article first appeared in the book A Country Planet: Smart Ways to Rural Success and Survival by Tim Matson. The book is now out of print. However, watch our blog for several more reprints of Tim’s great articles from this book!
Tim is also the author of three books offered at Lehmans.com: Earth Ponds A to Z, Earth Ponds Sourcebook and The Book of Non-Electric Lighting.
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no rain no veggies here in texas
Milkweed! How interesting.
I’ve been picking dandelion greens. Looking forward to trying overwintering spinach though.