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| Hardneck garlic bulbs |
Two days ago, I planted half of the hardneck
garlic I intend to put in this year. I had chosen a bed that hadn’t held any last
season and yanked out the desiccated tomato plants (we picked our last green
ones, which are turning red on the porch as I write, about five days ago). Then I loosened the soil
with a fork, weeded what needed to be weeded and planted the cloves that I’d
chosen from among the largest bulbs I’d grown this past year.
Since I first learned about hardneck garlic from Colchester CSA
manager and grower, Theresa Mycek, probably ten years ago, and started planting
it in my own garden, I’ve come to depend on it. Hardneck garlic is terrific
because it’s delicious, beautiful (those tall green tops with the curlicue
scapes are such a nice visual counterpoint to the clumpy greens and beans), and
like a culinary Double-mint gum: it’s two, two, two garlics in one.
The first one is the scape.
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| Garlic heads separated into cloves |
Wait; let me back up a little. First, sometime in late-October
through November, you sit outside on a nice autumn day, separate garlic bulbs
into cloves and plant the cloves about 8 inches apart – I plant in a grid,
others do it in rows – in a prepared
bed. Tuck them in gently beneath straw or some other light but effective mulch.
In spring when the earth wakes up, the green shoots start coming through the
mulch. In about May, you notice that the shoots have grown rather tall – knee
high at least. In maybe mid-June, when the tall stiff shoots have continued to
grow and are now curled around themselves a bit (i.e. turned into true scapes),
you clip or break them off – it’s kinda like asparagus; you snap them where
they are happy to be snapped – bring them in and cook them any one of a number
of ways. We sometimes tempura them, or grill them for a great snack/ hors
d’oeuvre/side dish, chop them into omelets, sauté them with other veggies,
quick-pickle them in the fridge in a vinegar-and-herb-and-peppercorn bath or
hang them by the kitchen door to ward off vampires. Whatever.
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| Starting t form scapes in May |
In July-ish, when the green tops have browned and died back
sufficiently, you dig – or pull, depending on how soft the bed is – the now
cloved-up bulbs, wipe off the earth, and hang them up to dry. (I clump them in bunches of about 6-8 bulbs
and hang them on the back porch). Then you use them. They go into the spaghetti sauce I can during
tomato-and-pepper harvest, into chicken cacciatore (which is ONLY truly
delicious when made in season with fresh garlic, fresh basil and fresh parsley
plucked only a few minutes before chopping into the red-wine-soaked braising
liquid), into the oven to spread on homemade bread with good olive oil, into
salad dressings, well, you get the idea.
But if you’ve planned right and the fates have shined on you and your
little bed of hardneck garlic, you will also have enough to save, separate into
cloves and plant to continue the whole cycle. The miracle of gardening and
life perpetuating itself.
This year, I prepped one bed, but the second bed I wanted to plant was
a knotted thicket of wiregrass, wild aster, which has determined root systems,
and the bind weed just to put a topping on it all. My husband volunteered to
dig it all for me, bless him, so this afternoon I’m going to sit outside with
the dog, separate six more garlic bulbs into cloves and plant that bed.
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| Clipped scopes ready to oil and grill |
When I’m in prayer position on my knees stuffing the cloves – or seeds or anything else for that matter – into the ground, I think about a little garden
plaque a friend gave me years ago that said: Who plants a seed beneath the sod
and waits to see believes in God. It’s an acknowledgement that while we can
become really good gardeners, we are all at the mercy of so many other elements
in life beyond our own control. But I have faith. And I keep on planting.
