Serendipity, synchronicity, coincidence, and self-organizing behavior are all human linguistic attempts to explain those weird little occurrences which make us all go, in a pre-verbal sort of way, “Whoa, dude, how did that happen?” Déjà vu, ESP, clairvoyance, clairaudience, and any number of other hokum-pokum, in which we don’t really believe, are nevertheless always on the menu, in spite of our innate skepticism, simply because every now and then, reality benefits us (and, yes, sometimes proves detrimental) in such a way that we take it personally.
“What are the odds?” someone might ask. The answer, of course, is “100%” because, after all, whatever the weird thing was, hey, it actually happened. Therefore it was quite probable. Quod erat demonstrandum, baby. (Cue the peanut gallery: “Ooh, you speak French!” and, yes, we stole that joke from Thomas Dolby…)
We had such an episode this past weekend, when our delicious Saturday began with a visit from a new Friend of Myrtle who works for an agricultural education organization we will probably talk about at greater length at some future date (once we have done our research, and gotten perfunctory permission to discuss them by name, though we can’t imagine they would turn down free publicity). This new Friend of Myrtle brought along a sample of their new educational product, an herb wheel, which is a circle of pictures of herbs, along with a description and a list of uses, both medicinal and culinary.
As it turns out, all of the herbs on the wheel are also in our garden. All, that is, except for one: bay leaf. Those are pretty good odds, really – out of 12 herbs, we had 11. Not bad, right? Except that it brought out our competitive streak. We resolved right then and there that the next opportunity we had, we would search high and low for a bay laurel tree.
It had to wait, however, as we had other visitors on Saturday for whom to prepare. Our good friends from Austin were coming to town, and we don’t get to see them nearly often enough, so gardening was put on the back burner.
As fate would have it, though, they came bearing a gift. A gift for the garden.
Yup.
A bay laurel tree, from The Natural Gardener in Austin. An heirloom variety, no less. It will have a place of prominence in our herb garden – in fact, it will hardly be able to avoid prominence.
In pots, these trees seldom grow above shoulder height; ours is not in a pot, however. It is right in amongst the rosemary and oregano, shaded on one side by the water oak and the house. Eventually, it will probably reach somewhere between 10-15 feet, although laurel trees are notoriously unpredictable in their growth habits in the wild; conceivably it could hit as much as 30 feet tall, though we really doubt that will happen in our yard – in its native Mediterranean climate, it has the luxury of sending down deep roots through sandy and rocky soils; here, it has to scratch and fight with East Texas clay; it will probably peter out after four or five years of vertical growth, and then settle for being part of the lower canopy.
Image via WikipediaStill, this will be the tree around which our other herbs circle. This will be advantageous in the middle of summer, as the laurel will add shade to our western exposure, and will shield our mint and basil plants from the afternoon sun.
Then, too, there are the numerous benefits beyond our self-indulgent (some might say petulently self-centered) desire to have a complete set of herbs. Laurus nobilis is an evergreen, which means that in the middle of winter, when the only tree in our front yard which still has its foliage is our young loblolly pine, our rosemary, oregano, lavender, and curry plants will no longer be lonely. The glossy leaves of the laurel will still proudly proclaim that herbalists live here.
And while most cooks are familiar with the dried bay leaves which adorn so many winter soups and stews, there is much to be said for fresh bay leaves, not only as a garnish, but also as a crushed (or even powdered) seasoning additive. The whole leaf is typically removed from the dish prior to being served, as it has jagged edges capable of causing some serious gastric distress; however, when crushed, the leaf is perfectly comestible, and adds a subtle depth to most meats and stews.
The berries, too, are nutritious, and create numerous culinary and medicinal possibilities. Massage and aromatherapists swear by bay laurel scents and poultices as a treatment for everything from rheumatoid arthritis to hypertension. The fortunate blend of essential and fatty acids make bay laurel a good addition to a health-conscious diet.
And, really, can anything be more symbolically fortuitous than adding the laurel, which first the Greeks and then the Romans decided was the fitting crown of champions, to the garden?
Except perhaps a giant stone with a sword stuck in the middle, or a totem pole, or a crystal pyramid, or a patch of four leaf clover, or a giant burning wicker man, or…. Well, you get the idea.
Happy farming!
“What are the odds?” someone might ask. The answer, of course, is “100%” because, after all, whatever the weird thing was, hey, it actually happened. Therefore it was quite probable. Quod erat demonstrandum, baby. (Cue the peanut gallery: “Ooh, you speak French!” and, yes, we stole that joke from Thomas Dolby…)
We had such an episode this past weekend, when our delicious Saturday began with a visit from a new Friend of Myrtle who works for an agricultural education organization we will probably talk about at greater length at some future date (once we have done our research, and gotten perfunctory permission to discuss them by name, though we can’t imagine they would turn down free publicity). This new Friend of Myrtle brought along a sample of their new educational product, an herb wheel, which is a circle of pictures of herbs, along with a description and a list of uses, both medicinal and culinary.
It had to wait, however, as we had other visitors on Saturday for whom to prepare. Our good friends from Austin were coming to town, and we don’t get to see them nearly often enough, so gardening was put on the back burner.
As fate would have it, though, they came bearing a gift. A gift for the garden.
Yup.
A bay laurel tree, from The Natural Gardener in Austin. An heirloom variety, no less. It will have a place of prominence in our herb garden – in fact, it will hardly be able to avoid prominence.
In pots, these trees seldom grow above shoulder height; ours is not in a pot, however. It is right in amongst the rosemary and oregano, shaded on one side by the water oak and the house. Eventually, it will probably reach somewhere between 10-15 feet, although laurel trees are notoriously unpredictable in their growth habits in the wild; conceivably it could hit as much as 30 feet tall, though we really doubt that will happen in our yard – in its native Mediterranean climate, it has the luxury of sending down deep roots through sandy and rocky soils; here, it has to scratch and fight with East Texas clay; it will probably peter out after four or five years of vertical growth, and then settle for being part of the lower canopy.
Image via WikipediaThen, too, there are the numerous benefits beyond our self-indulgent (some might say petulently self-centered) desire to have a complete set of herbs. Laurus nobilis is an evergreen, which means that in the middle of winter, when the only tree in our front yard which still has its foliage is our young loblolly pine, our rosemary, oregano, lavender, and curry plants will no longer be lonely. The glossy leaves of the laurel will still proudly proclaim that herbalists live here.
And while most cooks are familiar with the dried bay leaves which adorn so many winter soups and stews, there is much to be said for fresh bay leaves, not only as a garnish, but also as a crushed (or even powdered) seasoning additive. The whole leaf is typically removed from the dish prior to being served, as it has jagged edges capable of causing some serious gastric distress; however, when crushed, the leaf is perfectly comestible, and adds a subtle depth to most meats and stews.
And, really, can anything be more symbolically fortuitous than adding the laurel, which first the Greeks and then the Romans decided was the fitting crown of champions, to the garden?
Except perhaps a giant stone with a sword stuck in the middle, or a totem pole, or a crystal pyramid, or a patch of four leaf clover, or a giant burning wicker man, or…. Well, you get the idea.
Happy farming!
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