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| Merveille des quatre saisons: as beautiful as its name |
Merveille des quatre saisons, Cimarron,
Parris Island Cos. The names of heirloom lettuces read like poetry. Handsome
heads of blush-tinted leaves and spears of speckled greens have been bred over
the years by gardeners seduced by the tender blanched leaves that arise from
the heart of a plant. Forellenschluss, Rouge d’Hiver, Lollo Rossa. One grower
might be captivated by crinkles, another by the mysteries of deep dark red. In
the end, which is never the end, we have hundreds, no thousands, of named
varieties created by gardeners who allowed single selected plants to produce
tall clusters of short-lived flowers and then saved the seed. We believe we are
the only animal capable of such manipulations, and possibly this is true.
Controlled breeding is still being practiced by individuals who are swept away
by a passion to create something new, different, and beautiful. Frank Morton of Philomath, Oregon,
breeder of Flashy Butter Oak and Hyper Red Rumple Waved lettuces is one such pioneer.
Morton sells his own creations and those of gardeners past in his Wild Garden
Seed catalog.
More often in today’s world,
however, plant breeding is the purview of University agricultural research
departments, which tend to concentrate more on corky root and downy mildew
resistance than texture and taste. Lettuce DNA has been analyzed, and molecular
markers identified. Breeders introduce genes of wild lettuce plants into
cultivated varieties in order to help California growers produce thousands of
acres of greens that withstand the indignities of thousands of miles of travel.
It is amazing to think that
these two extremes, one prompted by passion and wonder, the other by dollars
and cents, can coexist in the same region, and even in the same person. It is
no stretch of the imagination to speculate that a researcher who spends her
days implanting wild, blight-resistant genes into tomatoes might go home to her
garden and choose the healthiest producer of the tastiest Black Krim tomatoes
and save its seed. Placing one foot in front of the other has brought our
culture to this place where we believe, on some theoretical level, that it is
possible to triumph over “imperfections” caused by a plant’s own physiology or
the wants and needs of other species; where we believe it is possible to have control
over diseases in tomatoes and over the bolting of lettuce.
The desire for control is
universal; it is understandable. It is what sets the human animal apart from,
as far as we know, all others. We seek order, fitting the world in all its
complexity into a system of our own invention and engaging in a never-ending task
of naming nature. "Humans seldom value what they cannot name," said
biologist Elaine Brooks. But what value is there in knowing names if we forget
how to converse with the other-than-human world?
The conversation in the garden
shifts, continuously. It is the whispers that help to keep the dialogue
respectful, and mostly non-violent. A few grasshoppers have hatched in the
greenhouse this spring. They appear to be third instar, just ½ inch long, and
not overly populous. Birds swoop in through the open sides on warm days. I
watch and wait. Guarding against last year’s infestation may be a wasted
expense of energy this year. With trepidation I remove the hooped cover that protects
a row of Toscano kale. Now almost a foot tall, it is too robust for rabbits.
Will it be there tomorrow? I kick dirt into a groundhog hole. Is it abandoned
or will the homeowner indignantly dig it out again? Is the garter snake that
lives in the greenhouse making the holes of golfball-size diameter I find here
and there? These are the simple questions that keep me coming back day after
day for answers, which will prompt more questions.
There’s no denying that I seek
answers so that I might have some measure of control. Respectful control,
conversational control, but control nonetheless. Those who decry the control of
nature might see nature as some great unspoiled “Other.” Rather, nature is the
row of beans that will not prosper unless the lambs’ quarters and dandelions
are weeded out. It is the soil ecosystem beneath the turf. It is the turf. Successful manipulation of
natural systems requires respect for the diverse forces at work for and against
one’s efforts. And in fact, those who participate in the control of nature on a
human scale may be better equipped to understand how much control is too much.
A good conversation includes
pauses for reflection so that latent ideas might rise to the surface. It takes
many seasons to breed a lettuce worthy of the name “Marvel of Four Seasons."
Between times of growth are periods of dormancy. The embryo becomes quiescent,
tranquilly at rest, until conditions are once again right for germination. The
gentle conversation of breeding may last a lifetime.
Becoming attuned to seasonal
growth patterns and the whole other-than-human farm community is an exercise in
humility. It is a lesson in perspective. We might use this tender type of
manipulation as an internal compass pointing to circumstances where control may
be necessary and good for us, as one animal species living together with
countless others. Mostly though, hope lies in remembering that, in
conversation, it is best to do more listening than talking.
