Fruits & Vegetables – The Cottage Wife

I really, really wanted to write a heartfelt Thanksgiving message to you, dear reader - and to the season in general. But here I am, now three weeks after your turkey leftovers were turned into soup, finally sitting down to post this. You’d think I’d plan ahead, wouldn’t you? Schedule my posts like an organized, well-adjusted blogger who has her act together? Well, not me. Hardly ever. Things just got busy out here in the woods. Unfortunately, most of it was the kind of work that doesn’t look like much when it’s done - like housework, but outdoors. And yet, somehow, I’m sore in places I didn’t even know existed. So, what was I doing that left me hobbling around the house and groaning when getting off the couch? Well, grab a cup of tea and let me tell you. The Great Thanksgiving Planting On the Friday of Thanksgiving weekend, I got to skip out of work a little early. It was a beautiful afternoon - the kind that makes you want to take the long way home. Since I had to do a little business “down country,” I decided to make a detour to Riverwood Gardens. By some miracle (and a well-timed Facebook scroll), I saw that they had blueberry, raspberry, apple, plum, grape, haskap, and black raspberry plants on sale. My heart did a little happy dance at the mention of haskaps - something I’d been hunting since I’d learned of their existence. How convenient that I just happened to be in the area - clearly, the universe approved this detour. After a scenic drive through rolling farmland and glowing trees, I landed at Riverwood Gardens, a charming homestead nursery that feels like a cross between a secret garden and a family farm. There they were - a small row of potted plants, bathed in golden autumn light, their yellowing leaves glowing like lanterns: haskaps! Haskap Fruit - Image courtesy of Riverwood Gardens Meet the Haskap If you haven’t met a haskap (also known as a honeyberry), allow me to introduce you. These hardy northern berries come from a species of honeysuckle native to cool climates around the world - from Siberia to northern Japan and even parts of Canada. They look a bit like stretched-out blueberries and taste like a mix between a blueberry, raspberry, and blackcurrant - sweet, tart, and rich all at once. They’re also nutritional powerhouses, loaded with antioxidants, vitamin C, and fiber. And best of all for me, they’re tough. Haskaps can handle poor soil, cold winters, and the occasional neglect from an overextended gardener who keeps getting distracted by shiny ideas and squirrels. Naturally, I brought home three of them - they do need more than one variety to fruit after all - plus three more blueberries … and two more landscape perennials, because apparently I have no self-control when it comes to anything plant-y. To be fair, I could have indulged a lot more. Digging (and Cursing) in Rocky Clay The next morning, I set out to plant my little berry treasures. What should have been a few hours of calm, meditative gardening quickly turned into a full-body workout. You see, during our new home build, we had about 100 loads of fill brought in. Much of it is clayish soil and rock, which - wouldn’t you know it - always seems to congregate exactly where I want to dig. Let me tell you, there is no sound quite like the hollow clank of a shovel hitting rock for the fifth time in a row. It’s the sound of optimism meeting reality. Still, I persisted. I loosened the soil as best I could, added compost, whispered a few apologies to the roots that would soon have to live there, and tucked each haskap and blueberry into its new home. Yes, I’m fully aware these are not ideal conditions for blueberries, but I promised them I’d amend the soil regularly and keep the faith. By the end of day two, my arms were jelly, my back ached, and my shoulders had declared a formal strike. But I stood there admiring the neat little row of berry bushes, feeling - briefly - triumphant. I finally found a solution to our barren back yard! The Bunny Battle That feeling lasted about twelve hours. The next morning, I opened the guest room window to let in some fresh air, and what did I see? A big, fluffy bunny sitting there, eyeing my freshly planted haskaps. Oh no, you don’t! I’m getting used to sharing a little with nature, but our local rabbits have crossed the line. They don’t even have the decency to eat what they cut down! My poor New Jersey tea plants and roses are already half-munched; they were not about to get their razor sharp teeth on my new berries. So, my Thanksgiving Monday was spent wrestling chicken wire instead of cooking a delicious meal. Six hours, two scratched-up arms, and one serious dent in my patience later, I had built some serviceable cages. Not nearly enough, but it was a start. I’d like to say I finished all the protective fencing I needed, but the truth is I ran out of wire - mercifully, because I was ready to throw in the towel. I still have about ten more cages to make for elderberries, new trees, and the remaining shrubs. The spicebush and viburnum might be tough enough to fend for themselves, but I’m not taking any chances. The new planting - doesn't look like much yet. Berry by Berry I don’t think I’ve ever given proper attention here on the blog to all the berries I’ve planted, so here’s a little roll call: Red raspberries, some of which sprouted from the original clearing. Blackberries, which the rabbits promptly declared a buffet. Blueberries, my slightly pampered acid-soil divas. Elderberries, famous for their immune-boosting powers (and their ability to attract every bird in the county I think they’re deer candy too.) Strawberries (they’re still blooming!) And now, haskaps, the newest addition to the berry family. We’ve also got volunteer red raspberries and sumac popping up along the east-facing edge of the clearing - perfect for adding fiery fall colour and a bit of wild abundance right in view of our front window. We managed to get a few strawberries and blueberries this year but I’m sure it will be a number of years before we get significant harvests - assuming, of course, I get to them before the birds and other ravenous creatures do. Extending the Season of Thanks Now that the shovels are clean, (some of) the cages are up, and the soreness has mostly faded, I’ve been thinking about Thanksgiving itself - the way it seems to come and go in a blur of gravy and gratitude lists. This year, I’ve been trying to stretch that feeling out. Maybe we should all do that - extend “Thanksgiving” beyond the one weekend, beyond the table and the pie, into something that lasts the whole season. Because when I really stop to look around, there’s so much to be thankful for right here. I’m thankful for the space - literal and mental - to plant all these berries, flowers and trees. For the chance to make mistakes and learn from them. For a better veggie garden season than my first year (progress is a beautiful thing). For the quiet of the woods, where I can hear the wind through the poplars and the chatter of chickadees instead of traffic. And for the chance to get closer to nature in a way that makes me feel both grounded and alive. Sometimes gratitude doesn’t show up in the big, dramatic ways - like a surprise windfall or a major life event. It shows up in smaller, steadier ways: in the hum of bees on the late asters, the warmth of soup made from your own vegetables, or the simple peace of watching the light change through the trees. Autumn Lessons As the leaves fall and the days grow shorter, the garden is reminding me of something important: every season has its purpose. Spring is for dreaming, summer for doing, autumn - for gratitude and letting go, and winter for rest. The veggie beds are nearly cleared now, the last of the kale tucked away, and the compost bin quietly steaming away in the background. The outdoor furniture is ready to be put away, and I’m making peace with the shift into slower, darker days. There’s a comfort in it, really. A rhythm. A time to pause, look back at what the land (and life) offered this year, and say a genuine, if slightly belated, thank you. Because Thanksgiving, at its best, isn’t about the timing. It’s about noticing. About planting - literal or metaphorical seeds - and trusting that with enough care, patience, and protection from the rabbits, something good will come from them. A Final Note Even though the official holiday has passed, I hope you’ll take a moment to give thanks for the ordinary things that make life extraordinary - whatever that looks like for you. Maybe it’s a favourite chair, a forgiving friend, a steady cup of coffee, or a patch of sunlight on the floor. For me, it’s this place, this land, this life among the trees - and you, the wonderful readers who make writing about it all worthwhile. I’d love to hear what you’re thankful for right now - leave me a note in the comments! So, here’s to stretching Thanksgiving a little longer this year. Maybe even all year.