Archives for posts with tag: vegetarianism

It’s clear who the alpha squash in our garden is:  the western Supersett Yellow crookneck.  Of the four summer varieties, it has twice the volume of leaves (treating the plant as a hemisphere) as the others and easily four times as many squash growing at any given time.  The other crookneck squash plant and one of the Cavili zucchini are next in size while the remaining zucchini plant is markedly smaller.

Equally clear is the runt:  the Zeppelin Delicata.  In fact, it is not much bigger than the summer squash seedlings were when we set them out back in May.  The Naguri winter squash (a Kabocha variant) cannot be easily compared to the others because it is a climber.  However, if I coiled it up in a pile, it would probably be about the same size as the summer squashes, not counting the alpha.

Why there is such variation is beyond me.  All of the summer squashes were started in exactly the same way, given the same watering and fertilizer, potted up and set out at the same time, into the same soil, and watered by the same hose.  Similarly, the winter squashes were sowed outdoors in the same soil and have been watered along with everyone else.  They all get the same amount of rain and solar exposure.  There are virtually no differences in their growing conditions.

I suppose there is a minor difference in the amount of water each receives.  All six squash plants are on the same soaker hose and timer, along with the cucumbers.  However, due to variations in the hose (there are actually two linked in the run) and the decrease in fluid pressure from the hose bib (high) to the capped end (low), the amount of water delivered by the hose varies along its length.  The cucumbers get the most and the Naguri gets the least.

But I don’t think that explains the differences.  The alpha squash and the runt are adjacent to each other at the far end of the soaker hose.  The difference in the amount of water each receives would be minimal.  I guess that the variations are due mainly to differences between species (crookneck, zucchini, Kabocha and Delicata) and individuals (just as there are differences between each of us).

One thing that is the same about all of the squashes is that each is showing of powdery mildew.  To combat it, I have started spraying the leaves with a solution of milk and water (diluted at a 1:10 ratio).  I’m not very optimistic—the milk is the pasteurized supermarket variety and the spray is easily washed off by rain—but I will give it a try.

While showing (off) the garden to new neighbors who just moved in at the beginning of summer, we were faced with a philosophical question:  Does spraying the squash with milk, an animal product, mean that the squash is no longer vegan?  It makes no difference to me—I’ll eat just about anything—but it could make all difference to a vegan.

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In an article in this month’s (i.e., November’s) Bon Appétit, the writer Michael Chabon describes his family’s Thanksgivings as having never been bound by geography (“Michael Chabon Reminds Us That Thanksgiving Is Where the Meal Is”).  His clan has no permanent host or default cook and each year they do something different (and non-traditional in the strictest descendents-of-the-Mayflower sense).  That got me thinking about the nature of the Thanksgiving holiday and the roles of Guest versus Host in its celebration.

Lately, I consider Thanksgiving to be a stay-at-home holiday, a day when I would need a very good reason to go someplace else.  For many years now, we have been hosts to a small number of guests and we cook a fairly traditional meal.  After much trial and error, we’ve gotten to a point where we can get several dishes on the table, most of them still hot (sliced turkey, for instance, cools off very quickly), at more-or-less the appointed hour.  It is heartwarming to be able to say that for a few of our friends and family, when they travel over the river and through the woods (quite literally), it is to our house that they go.

But this has not always been the case.  When I was a kid, hosting the Thanksgiving get-together was shared primarily by my parents and by my maternal aunt and uncle.  The venue would alternate between our house and theirs but the guest list remained fairly constant and large:  my family’s six, my aunt and uncle’s seven, and my maternal grandparents.  As my siblings and cousins got older, the crowd swelled with the addition of new spouses and—a few years afterwards—nieces, nephews and cousins once removed.

When I left home for college, I continued to be a guest at the Thanksgiving meal although when it was located at my parents’ house, I would assist in its preparation.  This remained true after I met Rachel (being at Cal at the right place and time is something I am eternally thankful for!) with each of us visiting our own family for the holiday.  (One year, Rachel celebrated with the family of her then-boyfriend, but let’s speak no more of that!).

My last year as an undergrad, though, my two roommates and I took our first stab at hosting and cooking a Thanksgiving meal.  We scheduled it for about a week before the actual holiday—when most of us would be traveling elsewhere—and planned a menu based on our collective family traditions (there was a good deal of overlap).  We gathered our recipes, made several shopping trips (we probably never had so much food in that apartment) and spent the entire day cooking.

I don’t remember where we got tables and chairs we needed to seat the eight people who joined us that night (all of whom brought a dish to add to the menu) but we managed to fit everyone in a diagonal arrangement crossing the kitchen and living room.  The meal was a huge success, everybody ate and drank until filled and all were happy they came.  We were thankful to have them.  We all ended up guests at our respective families’ formal dinners but we got a healthy taste of what hosting the event felt like.

I didn’t try hosting Thanksgiving again until a few years later when Rachel and I were living in Oberlin, Ohio (Rachel was a professor at Oberlin College).  The first year we were there, we spent Thanksgiving with her parents (it was a welcome dose of the familiar during a period that was marked for us by tremendous change, both cultural and personal).  But the next year, Rachel’s parents and brother came to us—a road trip of at least eight hours duration—and we spent the holiday and most of the weekend together.  Once again, we planned, shopped for and cooked a traditional dinner.  It was a very satisfying—even if stressful—experience.

When we moved to New York City, the following year, we spent the first few Thanksgivings with Rachel’s parents.  At first, we assisted with the meal preparation—making us both host and guest—but soon, we had commandeered the kitchen and were cooking the entire meal.  We were on our way to becoming the traditional Thanksgiving hosts even if the meal was not always completely traditional (for the several years that we ate vegetarian, our menu included everything you’d expect except a turkey).  The only thing we needed was our own home in which to do the hosting and that followed after a few years (the story of which is fodder for separate posts).

And so, fast-forwarding several years, we have become one of the more constant elements of the Thanksgiving holiday.  But we have no delusions that this is any indication of stability or a resistance to change as Michael Chabon might fear.  For one thing, while our menu is usually based on a traditional template (turkey, dressing, potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce and something green), it is different every year.  And although we usually act as hosts, we can be enticed to experience the holiday as guests and to partake of—and be enriched by—what constitutes tradition in other families’ homes.

The only thing that is truly constant and will never change is that we are thankful for our wonderful families and friends and grateful for every opportunity we have to share a meal and a few moments of togetherness with them.