Gardening in November? It's the leeks.

Leeks in November. They were completely ignored for three years. PK thought they might be goners. But no.

Mucking around in the dirt a couple days ago, after the rest of the garden had been yanked up and spread  into the field to melt down, I decided to dig up a clump of leeks, just to see what they look like. Several years ago, a gardening pal gave us clots of leeks, which we stuck into the ground and ignored. I noticed this summer that they had gorgeous white flowers and made a note to check out the action below the soil.

A clump of leek bulbs striving to reproduce.

Here's what I found about a foot down. Numerous leek bulbs, all the way from small onion-sized to thimble-sized, full of vigor and sprouting. Not at all expired! I broke up this clump and saved the largest bulbs for cooking.

Leek bulbs seem a lot like shallots. They're very delicate and best eaten cooked rather than raw.

To the right, a couple of jalapenos and tomatoes All went into a chicken soup.

 The smaller bulbs I gave away at my yoga class, along with advice that they could be planted now in the deep trenches advised by gardening gurus. Truthfully, I haven't found any info about planting leek bulbs, just info for sowing seeds or baby leeks. But why wouldn't leek bulbs work? I plan to dig up another clump and establish a real leek bed, trenches and all, before the rains begin. That means I need to hurry. Wet weather will arrive any day now. I'll have to wait til spring to see the results, but waiting and patience is what gardening is all about, especially in November. 

Blog drought

Johnny Jump-ups make February appearance.

Or maybe that should be blog paralysis.  I've been mulling several topics, all of them languishing in the draft stage. But the following sentiment, or something similar, depending on time of day, obstructs my progress: Who the hell cares?  I should just go watch the Olympics. (Not unlike my thoughts when I started this blog.)


At this moment, I should just go for a walk! or get ready for a vacation that starts in a couple days. But I've decided. I'm not going until "this" is finished, even though I'm not sure what "this" is. I learned during the years I wrote a weekly newspaper column that even though I often had NO IDEA what to say, a looming deadline—like the next morning—would spark an idea. So I'd perch before my primitive 1980's computer and start typing. Anything. Just like I'm doing now. Over time, I developed faith that thoughts that had been roiling in my brain would bubble up and spill onto the screen. They always did, of course, because I took those newspaper deadlines seriously.

Lots of those columns were absolute dogs. But recently I've been looking them over and thinking, Hmmmm. Not bad.  So my younger self is inspiring my 25-years-down-the-road self to keep trying, even though I recognize that deadlines=discipline, and the only deadlines I have for this blog are self-imposed—which could mean more drought.
But anyway. For you faithful (and much beloved) few who check periodically to see if I've been able to cough up another post, here are some topics rumbling in my drafts file:

• I'm jealous of my kids.
• Life is senseless. But I like it.
• Not a goddess. Uh uh. 
• Southern Oregon Soul Food (series)
• Characters in ordinary life. (series)
• Why get out of bed?
• Girdles are back. Aack!
• Changing places. (caring for 93-year-old mom)
• PK's the Man!

Cold frame lettuce abounds.

See anything interesting?

And then, of course, there's all those fascinating garden updates and irresistible "what I made for dinner last night" recipes. Speaking of garden updates, you must be dying to know what's up in February. Quite a lot, really, considering the fabulous spring-like Oregon weather we had for the past couple weeks. (Rainy today, however.) Here are a few edibles ready for harvest, or nearly so. I have trouble configuring blog photos, so bear with me. The captions for photos below are consolidated under the last photo.

 Cilantro not quite big enough to harvest. Magnificent Russian KALE and fall-planted broccoli that survived 8 degree nights in December. We aren't quite rolling in produce yet, but give us another month.