Onward and Upward in the Garden: from the New Yorker, on Rot

In Praise of Autumn’s Rotting Beauty

I say “autumn,” you say “fall.” Obviously, I’m right. But maybe we can compromise with “harvest,” the season’s traditional name.

At this time of year, anyway, what one really needs is adjectives, and “fall-like” just won’t do. Look at those gold and red and russet leaves, blown roses, fruit on the verge of overripeness. If one has an ounce of poetry in one’s soul, how can one not want to describe such morbid beauty? Unlike Japan, with its seventy-two traditional , or micro-seasons—I write this in “chrysanthemum-blooming time”—the West has a paucity of good seasonal descriptions. It hardly matters, so long as we agree that it’s the best time of the year. ’Tis the season of mist, nature’s Photoshop; trenchcoats; barley; licensed melancholy; munificence; and glorious rot.

I was introduced to the loveliness of rotting nature by my grandparents. It was the Christmas holidays, and they were desperate; they dragged me to the Serpentine Gallery, in London’s Hyde Park, which happened to be exhibiting the art of Rory McEwen. The British have to Google him, too, yet McEwen was a great of botanical painting: a microscopically precise master of decay. His portraits of black-eyed anemones and pinstriped fritillaries are his better-known works, but his greatest ones are the pulpy Indian onions, shedding skin; the glinting ridges of drying chilis; the curling petals of theatrically dying tulips; and the series “True Facts from Nature,” which depicts rows of, for example, two dry sycamore seeds, three disintegrating leaves, and a bit of straw.

Was it the whiff of death that spoke to me? I think, rather, it was myopia. We gardeners are short-sighted types, getting our nature thrills in closeup; not the rustling forest but a dollop of lime-green moss, not the rousing seascape but the pebbles on the beach. Is there a good view from here? Who cares. I’m too transfixed by the elegant fluting of a single coriander seed, by burr spikes like a Borgia’s favorite gadget, or by the private silken folds inside a beech-nut case.

And, at this time of year, when even the most ordinary vine leaf is pink-spotted, when a simple Cox’s Orange Pippin apple is striped and freckled as a Paul Klee landscape, it’s extraordinary that I ever make it down the street. The hedges and pavements are littered with temptation. I may try to pass as an elegant novelist, but my pockets prove that I’m secretly Huck Finn: Japanese quinces; interesting tree bark; discreetly nibbled, acrid sloes; pretty twigs; glossy, thoroughbred-brown horse chestnuts and their flat-hedgehog shells; the crumbled remnants of a dozen exciting leaves. Theft becomes a duty; only a fool would leave the frilled discs of hollyhock seeds or the Muppet frenzy of a nigella pod when it is fat with next season’s flowers. As Thoreau, an admirer of lichen shapes, well knew, nature is full of strange beauty, and seed heads and pods are among its greatest glories.

Everything in the garden is lovely in autumn. Without the compelling chaos of new growth, the soothing wash of greenery, or the blare of blossom, one has time to examine the life cycle in full: a bunch of grapes offer both tiny, acid babies and impressively home-grown raisins; a wilting plum leaf contains a spectrum of yellows; a chokeberry bush is in Technicolor decline. Autumn is a snappy dresser; those flowers that remain, tangerine-orange calendulas, vein-dark dahlias, the lipstick sting of pineapple sage, pop spectacularly against a bright blue sky. And, at night, the cloudy puffs of breath and the mulchy stink of soggy leaves remind us that the garden is ours again; no obligation to clear the table of potting trays for al-fresco lunches, no visitors tumbling into the tomatoes. Put away that cocktail shaker. After the hell of summer, autumn is the introvert’s revenge.

But, before we can retreat to the bath with a seed catalogue, to plot the next growing season, there is so much still to do: leaves to bag for leaf mold, snails to massacre, pruning and gathering and clearing. Small, interesting tasks amid such beauty; how can one not feel at peace? My mental soundtrack is the verse of the Victorian poet Gerard Manley Hopkins, a sexually frustrated priest whose quiet passion for the natural world made Thoreau look like a jaunty frat boy. “Margaret, are you grieving / over Goldengrove unleaving” may seem like an evocation of entropy and the inevitable passage of time, but to any gardener it’s a paean to the glory of botanical decay. I think of Hopkins’s “worlds of wanwood leafmeal,” and am happy.

  • Charlotte Mendelson is a prize-winning British novelist and the author of “Rhapsody in Green,” a memoir about her passion for gardening.

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Onward and Upward in the Garden: From the New Yorker

On the Slightly Mad Urge to Preserve

Like virtually every bookish child in the Western world, I inherited certain lessons from Laura Ingalls Wilder. Reading the “Little House on the Prairie” series as a girl, I believed three things: that my future womanly waist would be small enough for Pa’s hands to encircle; that snow could freeze maple syrup into delightful snacks; and that the secret to security and happiness lay in preserving fruits and vegetables for winter.

Is it possible that Laura lied? My attempt at a “sugaring off,” during a tepid winter in southern England, resulted in a small syrup puddle; and Pa’s best shot at encirclement is probably around my wrist. The third Prairie Rule, however, I will uphold until death, in the face of common sense and sanity.

Like cannibalism, or golf, preserving is justified in certain extreme situations. Rosehip cordial helped keep the children of Britain scurvy-free during the Second World War; Russian-style compote is a magnificent use of dacha crops that would otherwise be wasted. If one lives in an idyll of herring and wild raspberries on a Swedish island, or, like the Ingalls family, simply needs fuel to endure the latest grasshopper plague, blizzard, malarial infection, or panther, it’s logical to store what one can of nature’s bounty.

For the rest of us, stranded in urban mire, the need to preserve is nugatory, and the idea of a zucchini glut or raspberry surfeit is ludicrous. Occasionally, I am slightly overwhelmed by green tomatoes. Sometimes there’s a little too much chicory. But, otherwise, I must work with my limited supplies, my accidental bounties, or else acquire my excess elsewhere. It goes without saying that the results have been mixed.

Take shiso, for instance. After years of trying and failing to grow the herb, whose jagged, heart-shaped leaves elevate sushi to the food of the gods, I finally succeeded with super-fresh seed—and how! Oh, I was proud of my miniature forest; I added tiny quantities to omelettes, to Vietnamese pho and magnificent salads, and, when my ingenuity ran out, I found a recipe for salted shiso. Would you like to try a petrified gray leaf? No one else does.

Olives were the opposite. Like many pretentious town dwellers, I have a single runty and badly pruned tree, unimaginably far from the gnarled Greek mountainsides. So imagine my pride when the feeble London sun ripened a handful of olives from turtle-green to bruise-mauve to purple. It was oddly difficult to find out how to brine them; perhaps, like jazz, if you have to ask then you’ll never know. After weeks of daily rinsing, they were ready: eleven blackish items, not unlike rabbit droppings, floating in a pool of oil. They seemed too precious, or perhaps repulsive, to share, and so I saved them until they mummified.

Quinces? Don’t talk to me about quinces. I adore them, for both gastronomic and nostalgic reasons, but they are hard to find. A friend, knowing my weakness, once gave me two dozen. Ignoring his warnings about the astounding effort required, I decided to make Spanish-style membrillo: scented pink cubes of quince heaven, multipurpose and long-lasting—if, that is, one follows the recipe and includes enough sugar. The alternative, while biologically interesting, is a little too moldy to enjoy.

It is in the matter of berry jam, or jelly, that true madness lies, because that’s where the twin urges of foraging and preserving meet. Of course, I never grow enough crop of my own, nothing like it, so instead I must root out sources of free fruit. Free fruit! Who could resist? If you can, can I have yours? I have boiled kilos of wild blackberries that would otherwise have had happy lives rotting on the bush or being nibbled by feral blackbirds. This August, I coveted the golden plums that plopped unappreciated into a neighbor’s ivy, until I had the brilliant idea to make a shrub, or drinking vinegar, from them. I picked, macerated, simmered, puréed, sieved, and, at the climactic moment, discovered that the picturesque ceramic-stoppered bottle I had chosen to store it in was not quite strong enough to withstand the boiling goo, which poured in torrents into every corner of my kitchen.

I have produced dramatically disgusting yet costly pickles. I have made chutney, Britain’s vinegary national relish, which is used by the teaspoonful—once a month at most. My only success, wild-damson jam, is so laborious and precious that I can’t bear to surrender it. Instead, I’ve stockpiled the jars for years, and now only I would dare to eat the tarry contents. I suspect I’m not alone. These days, most of us preserve out of sentiment and curiosity; the resulting jars, usually dark brown and always, always sticky, aren’t exactly keeping us alive. If anything, it’s the opposite. Quince-paste botulism; what a way to go. I’d definitely prefer it to the panther.

  • Charlotte Mendelson is a prize-winning British novelist and the author of “Rhapsody in Green,” a memoir about her passion for gardening.