Christine H. Lee

Category: Hobbiton Farm

The best time of year to visit my urban farm

April 10, 2022 /
olive and blue eggs from the backyard chickens

It’s April in Berkeley. We have a head start on most of the country when it comes to Spring. (Don’t resent us too much—our summers never get hot enough to reliably produce tomatoes or peppers, and watermelon is impossible. One time I tried to grow watermelon, and I harvested ONE. It was about 3 inches in diameter. It was not SUPPOSED to be 3 inches in diameter. It did not taste good, either). The magnolias finished blooming last month. The snow peas are finishing up production. The lettuce threatens to bolt. And the tomatoes have just gone into the ground. 

I spent this winter replenishing the soil in the garden and started two more hugelkultur beds. For months, the garden looked unpicturesque: mostly brown dirt and piles of compost. But this month, things have taken a turn and the garden has become—green and lush. This is the time of year I wish I could do tours of the urban farm. I hate it when I give tours in late Fall or Winter when everything is either overgrown or browning or worse, barren. It’s like being photographed five minutes after you’ve woken up, hair unbrushed with sleep still in your eyes. 

So for prosperity, I thought I’d give a video tour of my urban farm, as it is. 

The first clip is the patio area, which is where I keep my janky greenhouse and plant starts. This is also where the berry garden resides; when my daughter was (more) wee, she loved putting things in her mouth. She also loved picking berries. So I planted a berry garden for her. There are blueberries, raspberries, black raspberries, tayberries, blackberries, and more surrounding this patio.

The second clip focuses on the “woodland area” of the farm, just off the patio. Here is where I’ve planted begonias, yerba buena, and yerba mate, as well as elderberries. 

This is all en route to the main part of the garden, which resides on a hillside that sheds to a creek. The first part of the main part is the flower and fruit tree area. The soil here is still mostly clay, which is why there aren’t many vegetables planted here. I’m working on remediating the soil in this fruit tree area. (The soil doesn’t seem to bother the trees, which produce tons of fruit each year—the pluerry particularly).

Then we hit the main vegetable area, which is looking great these days. I just put the tomato starts in the ground. The Florida weave is up, too. (Out of all the ways to trellis tomatoes, I prefer this method most—although the downside is that I can’t hop between rows after it’s in). There’s also asparagus and other vegetables like beans and cucumbers and squash. 

I took another clip of the vegetable area from the other direction. There’s jeolla do mustard and a glimpse of the hugelkultur bed below. You can hear Brad the Rooster crowing away in this clip. 

And since Brad the Rooster is calling, we’re going straight towards him where the chicken coops reside. Here you can see Brad the Rooster with the fully grown Black Copper Maran and Black Ameraucana hens. Also, his very very abused daughter, a cross between him (Black Copper Maran) and a Black Ameraucana hen—produces olive eggs. And yes, it’s kind of gross, but she is his “favorite.” And apparently, in chicken land, this is acceptable? 

In a separate coop are the gold sex-link and Silver Lace Wyandotte pullets, otherwise known as “teenage hens.” They’re having a good old time these days outdoors and discovering dust bathing, which if humans practiced it, would be the opposite of clean. In Chicken World, however, this is how they keep clean and practice hygiene. 

From the chicken coop area, we start again in the tomato area—and you get a glimpse of glass that fell out of a window! (Yes, I swept and vacuumed that up with a wet-dry vac right after this video). We head towards the beehives. It’s a little busy with the bees these days; I split a hive to get a backup queen and keep mites under control (by giving the bees a brood break), so there are five hives total. Forgive the mess. I need to dispose of those old deep hive boxes. (I don’t use deep boxes anymore—they’re too heavy for me—a full box of brood and/or honey can weigh over 50 pounds!).

And finally, a look at the farm from the bottom of the hill by the tiny house. You can see where the beehives and hugelkultur bed are in relation to the rest of the garden. The entire farm is south facing, albeit surrounded by oak trees, which are protected by Berkeley ordinances, so there are very few “full sun” spots—it’s mostly partial side.

So there you have it. My urban farm. It’s not particularly huge. There are more impressive urban farms out there. But this is where I get solace these days. I go out into the garden first thing every day to do my “chores,” which are unlike most chores, a pleasure to execute. There’s still a lot to do, like cut back vines—which reminds me, the passionfruit vines need better trellising up there. See how the “chores” never end?

But these days, when I think of the one joy I do each day to give myself peace and joy and hope, it’s to plant. While harvesting can be fun, it’s not where I derive the most satisfaction—it’s the planting and cultivating that gratify me most. 

What do you do each day to give yourself joy and self-care?

Harvest

September 3, 2018 /

I’m teaching a novel structure class. Freytag’s pyramid, which he diagrammed in 1863, describes a 5 act drama.

1. Exposition–or rather, an introduction
2. Rising action–building suspense
3. Climax–the big showdown
4. Falling action–tying up loose ends after climax
5. Denouement/Resolution–the end, whether problems are resolved or not resolved

Late Winter and early Spring is the time for a garden’s exposition. Planning. Buying seeds. Germinating them indoors or in the greenhouse. It is an exciting time full of possibilities. Every year, I also work on a few experimental plantings–like gourds in Berkeley and cucamelons that are new on the seed scene. And many different kinds of peppers in hopes of making hot sauce. I also planted blue sesame plants for the first time. Some other items I planted for the first time: meadow arnica, schisandra, myogi ginger, cherimoya, wasabi, warren pear, coolidge pineapple guava, burdock, rocoto, blacktail watermelon, and a banana.

Then they’re transplanted into the ground sometime in Spring or early Summer, and the rising action begins. New variables like the weather and sunlight and fertilizer and soil quality and insects and pests and diseases come into the picture. The weather warms. But fog might roll in. Things get more complex. The plants spread their roots, begin budding and growing, and produce fruit and vegetables for harvest. Progress is measurable and visible. Sometimes, there are surprises. Like raccoons that party like gangsters in the garden each night, digging up mulch to search for grubs. Or really, just dig up plants for no good reason other than the fun of it. And of course, the clematis vine that never ever ever flowers. And powdery mildew. Always powdery mildew over here.

There are welcome surprises, too. Like one pluerry fruit the first year of a pluerry tree’s planting. Lemon guava fruiting for the first time since I planted it last year. More passion flowers than I can count. Infinite sweet pea flowers. Tomatoes and after tomatoes.

Everything reaches a tipping point. Reaches a crescendo. Reaches climax.

At a garden’s climax, the tomatoes and squash and cucumbers and eggplants and beans and peppers and corn–nearly everything is ready to harvest, almost at once. It is thrilling. This is the point I’ve been waiting for all year.

But also–the problems that existed earlier in the season in smaller quantity become even more evident now; I am battling powdery mildew that threatens to kill my squash vines on the squash arch. It’s coming at me with a vengeance now, because I let the first whispers of powdery mildew go overlooked earlier.

The myogi ginger fell over and died a couple weeks ago. The schisandra is yellowing–and I’m not sure that’s normal (I have to look up whether or not it’s deciduousthank goodness this is normal–they’re deciduous). The blacktail watermelon, which fruited with great hope earlier–has stalled. The watermelon fruit is about four inches in diameter. Yes. FOUR. The cool foggy Berkeley weather has triumphed there. The meadow arnica is tiny but growing. My blue sesame plants never flourished. The raccoons keep coming. Even as the garden is at its peak, it is at its most vulnerable.

Things are literally falling over–dahlias heavy with bloom. Tomato plants busting out of their Florida weave.

And they will fall over–what will follow is falling action. The tying up of loose ends after harvest. Cutting plants down. Building compost. Cooking the harvested vegetables.

I’ll sow cover crops. Sow some winter garden crops like carrots and kale and lettuce. But mostly, I will let the soil rest and rejuvenate. There is resolution–what pests haunted the garden before will no longer be relevant. If one spot was particularly powdery-mildew-susceptible, I’ll plan on planting something different there next year.

But mostly, I will be better off than I was the year prior, because of this garden. Even if a bit tired.

In tragedy, the protagonist is worse off. In comedy, the protagonist is better off at the end than at the beginning.

Here’s to comedies. And gardens. And urban farms.

Going Up

June 23, 2018 /

This winter, I made space.

I thought I’d run out of room–that there was nowhere to go, nowhere to grow new things and expand my garden and life–but then I realized there were ornamentals I could cut down. So I cut those down and worked on mulching the soil. The soil wasn’t very good–and I knew I’d likely have to wait a season before I could plant vegetables in the mulched areas.

You see, skunks and raccoons like to come through the garden in the summertime each year–they dig through mulched areas for bugs and critters, and any little plant is at their grubbing mercy. If I don’t plant anything vulnerable there, then they serve the purpose of turning and aerating the mulch as it composts.  Let’s go with that. Yes. Every setback is an opportunity.

So–I had to find another way to make room. Because there is more than one way to make space. I looked up. And up. And I looked at the plants, stretching their branches and leaves toward the sun.

I would go vertical.

On pinterest, I saw that there are myriad ways to go vertical: bean teepees, lattices, trellises, etc. But I. Wanted. A. Squash. Arch.

I fantasized about a tunnel of green in my garden. With little squashes hanging down from the top in Autumn. And beans in the summertime. Maybe some watermelon with slings keeping them up. I mean, we can all dream.

So I asked my partner for help (he is good with tools and taller than I am–plus it is always good to have help). And I went out and bought cattle fencing, PVC pipe, and fence posts from the hardware store. We already had the twist ties.

This is what you need for a squash arch:

  • Cattle Fencing (a big roll of it is nice–it is about 4 feet wide, and depending on how long you want to make your arch tunnel, you will need a multiple of 15 (it’s about 15 feet per section)).
  • 1 inch PVC pipe + connectors (each section needs 2ish spans of PVC pipe–you want at least 20 feet for each section–and since noone really sells 20 foot long PVC pipes, you will need to buy a connector for each span).
  • PVC pipe cement
  • Fence posts (I bought both 4 foot and 6 foot fence posts–the 6 foot fence posts worked better)
  • Twist ties (a bunch)

This is how you build a squash arch:

  • Figure out where you want your arch to go. You can put it between raised beds. Or, like me, you can put it along a pathway.
  • Connect your PVC pipe. You will also need to cement it in with pipe cement.
  • Hammer a fence post in. Attach the PVC pipe to the fence posts with twist ties. We attached it with masking tape to hold it in place before we did the twist ties.
  • Attach a 15 foot long portion of cattle fencing to the PVC pipe.
  • At the edge of that section, hammer in more fence posts.
  • Repeat.

We didn’t construct it with much precision–so my directions are general.

Finding space isn’t a specific act, either. You make it how you need to make it. Also–if it doesn’t look perfect, the vines will grow over it, and make it beautiful.

Beauty is in progress.

Contact

email: christine DOT zilka AT gmail DOT com
twitter: @xtinehlee

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