The
arrival of the first robin, by tradition, is recognized
by most as the first sign of spring. Around our farm
however, it's the congregating of neighbors around the
strawberry patch, daiquiri glasses in hand, that signals
the formal arrival of spring. Although the strawberry
patch has become the focal point of June-long Bacchus
celebrations of friends near and far, it is only the
most recent addition to a long line of gardening wonders
that Audrey has created since we moved here.
While researching the history of the
farm, I was struck by the ebb and flow of the many
gardens that have graced this farm over the past one
hundred years. Longtime residents talked in reverent
tones about the vast and lush gardens of Anna Schealy,
who owned the farm from 1918 to 1940. Unfortunately,
following the Anna's death, the gardens fell into
disrepair. Following the sale of the farm, the house's
status changed from one of a primary residence to that
of a tenant house. By the time the Sixes took up
residence in the 50's, proof of Anna Schealy's gardening
wonders had all but evaporated.
In 1950, the Sixes family began their
long residence in the house. In spite of the fact that
Mrs. Sixes suffered from cancer during most of her
tenure on the farm, she turned what energy she did have
to cultivating numerous flower gardens. In the many
pictures provided by her daughter, Betty Glass, tulips -
Mrs. Sixes favorite flower - are prominent. This spring,
as the tulips once again provided the first burst of
color in the gardens, one couldn't help but smile at the
thought of Mrs. Sixes nodding from above in approval of
Audrey's efforts.
By the time Audrey put her gardening
tools to work around the farm, all evidence of previous
gardens had once again disappeared. Audrey spent most of
the first winter on the farm designing a vast array of
gardens. At first I paid little attention to Audrey's
gardening plans, and with good reason, for up until this
time, all I had seen of her gardening skill was enclosed
within a 6-by-6 foot garden at the veterinary hospital
she managed. But, like a little kid with a box of
crayons facing a newly painted white wall, Audrey drew
garden designs that impressed even our mothers,
gardeners extraordinaire in their own right.
Of English lineage, Audrey took to
gardening as a fish takes to water. By the end of our
first spring, the house once again sported gardens
around its entire circumference. Unfortunately, a lot of
her initial plantings failed to survive. Quickly
recognizing that gardening in clayey soil, hot summers,
and a windy environment would require expert advice,
Audrey turned to Barb and Marlene at Alloway Gardens in
Littlestown for help. Barb and Marlene had "been
there" and "done that" and as a result
had a solution for every situation Audrey faced. For
quite some time, Audrey's Alloway allowance rivaled mine
at the local hardware store.
During our second year on the farm,
Audrey immersed herself in enlarging and upgrading the
gardens around the house and the old barn, all the time,
however eyeing our large backyard. Claiming frustration
over the hours wasted every week in mowing this large
plot of grass, Audrey decided it would make a perfect
wildflower meadow and set about collecting wildflower
seeds from every part of the country. The following
spring, after diligently tilling the soil, she spread
the seeds and sat back to wait for the rains to do their
magic. Unfortunately, the rains never came that year and
by midsummer the much anticipated wildflower garden had
become a dust bowl.
The following spring, heavy rains
brought abundant growth to the wildflower meadow, but
not of the nature Audrey anticipated. Weeds of every
shape and size quickly took over the meadow, choking out
any wildflower that had managed to germinate. Frustrated
but far from beaten, Audrey returned to her drawing
board and countless gardening books. Slowly but surely,
with help from Barb and Marlene, Audrey drew up the
plans for her dream: a formal English garden.
Encompassing most of the backyard,
the garden would consist of ten raised beds, varying in
length from sixteen to sixty-five feet and in widths
from four to sixteen feet. The garden also included a
pond for goldfish and toads and was to be enclosed by a
white picket fence. Having long since learned how to
deal with my propensity to procrastinate, Audrey
presented her plans to me shortly after agreeing to
allow me to purchase a new horse. Needless to say, I was
in no position to object or quibble about the garden's
size or cost.
After transplanting a maple seedling
- the only item worth saving from the "weed
meadow" - to the front of the barn, construction
began in earnest. The soil was roto-tilled until it was
as fine as sand. Next, a dump truck load of quality top
soil, procured from Emmitsburg's own McNair's stone and
soil supply, and countless bags of lime, were roto-tilled
in to improve the nutrient quality of the clay soil.
With blueprints in hand, the location of each bed was
laid out and marked by stakes and strings. The walkways
between the beds were excavated eight inches below grade
and the dirt mounded in the beds, thereby 'raising' the
beds above grade.
Once the wood to support the beds was
delivered, the actual construction went quickly. Being
well ahead of schedule, I took a weekend off to show my
new horse. While unloading him from the trailer, I
startled him by smacking him on the butt to hurry up, he
replied in kind by kicking me in the leg. Needless to
say, the full leg cast I found myself in an hour later
conveniently ending my participation in the garden
project for the remainder of the year.
The following spring, before Audrey
allowed me to resume riding, the construction left
dormant all winter was completed. As a final touch, as
if placing icing on a cake, Audrey found some beautiful
multicolor stones, which were spread for the walkways
between the many beds. With the beds now completed,
Audrey set about planting countless varieties of plants,
flowers, and herbs. In accordance with her master plan,
each bed in the garden was planted to bloom at a
different time.
This plan succeeded so now, from
early spring to late fall, there is always one section
of the garden in bloom to attract her beloved birds,
butterflies and hummingbirds. As a result of her
meticulous designs, guests are always treated to
brilliant colors, fragrant aromas, and in the evening,
countless hummingbirds and butterflies back-dropped by
spectacular sunsets. The formal garden has become a
favorite gathering place for our friends. Which, in a
roundabout way, gets me back to the strawberry patch.
In addition to plants bearing Latin
names that I can neither spell nor pronounce, Audrey
planted carrots for the horse, catnip for our five cats,
potatoes for me (I was bad that year), and strawberries
for herself. The first strawberry crop was small, and
she harbored her daily harvest with greed. Every morning
while she dined on strawberries and cream, I was
expected to choke down lukewarm Pop-Tarts.
Unwilling to undergo another season
of listening to my whining, that fall, Audrey agreed to
triple the size of the strawberry patch. The favorable
rains the following spring brought about what can only
be called a bumper crop, and for several weeks we ate
strawberries for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. While it
was fun at first, with no end to the harvest in sight,
we both agreed an alternative way of disposing of
strawberries had to be found. Audrey suggested giving
them away to friends and neighbors. I on the other hand,
suggested using them in strawberry daiquiris.
My completely logical argument that
making and sharing daiquiris would fulfill the spirit of
Audrey's suggestion - only with the strawberries in a
different form - fell on deaf ears, and she proceeded to
waste them by giving them away unaltered. As fate would
have it however, everyone else was having bumper crops
of strawberries. So I got the go ahead to execute Plan
B: the creation of the perfect strawberry Daiquiri.
It just so happens that the quest
began on what would turn out to be the hottest days of
that summer. It also happened to coincide with my plans
to dig the goldfish pond in the garden. Knowing it was
going to be hot that day, I began digging around seven
in the morning. By 10:30, with the temperature pushing
90 degrees, I had dug out less then a quarter of what
was planned. With motivation waning, I decided to begin
my daiquiri experiments.
As near as I can remember, the first
few pitchers didn't really make the grade, but they did
make the digging go easier. By the time I finished the
third pitcher, I found myself filling the hole back in.
Half way through the fifth pitcher, when I found myself
digging in the front yard instead of the garden, I knew
I had the perfect recipe. Unfortunately, I was in no
condition to write, which was immaterial, since by that
time I couldn't remember what I was putting into them
anyway.
The following morning, Audrey woke me
just before sunrise from a rather sound sleep and
insisted that I fill in the holes in the front yard,
pointedly reminding me that the pond was supposed to be
behind the house, not in front of it. Progress went
quickly, in spite of the pounding in my head and by
early afternoon the excavation of the pond was
completed. The shovel had no sooner been put away then
friends began to gather and inquire about the nature of
the holes in the front yard and on the state of my
sanity for digging on such a hot day. Audrey, unable to
resist, told the story of my secret daiquiri
experiments, and I was immediately swamped with offers
to serve as guinea pigs for future taste testing.
With pleas to resume the experiments
growing louder by the minute, I finally ignored the
throbbing in my head and set about making more
daiquiris. Unlike the day before, however, the formula
for each new pitcher was duly noted and recorded. Like
the day before, by the time we got around to the fifth
pitcher, no one really cared anymore. After solving most
of the worlds problems, including the national debt,
global warming, time travel, and peeling fence paint,
the exact contents of our glasses didn't seem to matter
much.
Fortunately, I did somehow manage to
record the formula for the seventh pitcher, during which
we collectively put to rest the question of the nature
of extraterrestrial life and its impact on next year’s
TV show line up. Since after this pitcher no one present
remembers anything else, it, by default, was the winning
recipe:
8 ounces of dark rum (Myer's or
better)
1 ½ quarts fresh strawberries
6 ounces of Lime juice
2 to 3 more ounces of rum
3 to 5 cups of crushed ice4 heaping tablespoons of sugar
2 to 3 more Ounces of rum,
Add rum to taste
The rum is placed in the blender
first, followed by the strawberries, which should be
halved. Blend together for one minute. Next, add the
sugar and lime juice and blend together for another
minute. The contents should be sampled at this time, and
any additional rum or sugar added to suit one's taste.
One should always remember however, to always error on
the side of extra rum. Once satisfied, add the crushed
ice, another shot of rum, another tablespoon of sugar,
and another handful of strawberries. Blend to a smooth
texture.
With Daiquiri in hand, sit back and
have a long, good conversation with a friend.
Enjoy!