A (scientifically enhanced) tree grows in Brooklyn

Not since I was a kid, reading about the adventures of Alice in Wonderland have I been so intrigued by the fanciful ideas set forth by what I can only term "eco-innovators" in nearby Brooklyn, New York! These savvy scientists have actually devised ways to integrate houses into trees (rather than cutting them down to build abodes!) and create "edible" furniture! Imagine, Alice: a chair made out of mushrooms!

I know, the idea sounds like some kind of acid-induced delusion of Leary-esque proportions, what happens when New Age collides with science fiction, but the Harvard-educated creator of this innovation is far from a baseless dreamer. Harvard graduate, MIT PhD, and now NYU professor Mitchell Joachim is working on these environmental innovations at his "green manufacturing center" at the old Navy shipyard in Brooklyn.

"I think we are in a bit of a crisis when it comes to the climate," Joachim recently told Fox 5 news. "The way we make buildings today has to change.

Here, an excerpt from the Fox 5 interview, explaining one of his ideas: a living tree house:

"We don't chop the tree down. We move into the tree and we surround ourselves with woody plants and vines that help control the local geometry of a home."
Blending biology and architecture, scientists are genetically modifying wood to grow it in the shape of a house that allows people to live on the inside and animals to live on the outside.
"There is no distinction between your home and the landscape," Joachim says. "You can have entire villages grown in this process."

Another example of biology and architecture merging is a chair that's made of mushrooms. You could even eat it.
"When you are done with our chair you throw it into a garden and feed thousands of other organisms and life forms, and contribute to the Earth's ecosystem... that web of life as opposed to a chair from IKEA you chuck in a landfill and it's done," Joachim says.

And he has the support of city and state leaders, who've invested millions in tax dollars in the manufacturing center, all to make innovative ideas grow...where else? In Brooklyn.

Living the "Oscar de la Renta" life

Like people across the globe, I was saddened to hear that Oscar de a Renta died this past week. More years ago than I'd like to recall, I was a fresh-faced beauty editor just out of college, writing for women's publications such as Woman's World and Redbook magazines, and the iconic fashion designer was like a god to me. His creations were the stuff of fairy tales, and I hoped to one day just try on one of his gowns.

Now that I'm older, I still appreciate the allure of his designs, but having the chance to see a number of his interviews, I am actually more impressed by his outlook. He was, in my opinion, the epitome of style, not just fashion. He so often pointed out that style was not so much about what a person was wearing, as how a person was living.

To that end, it's important to note that he was an avid gardener. In fact he once said,

Gardening is how I relax, It's another form of creating and playing with colors.

He understood the interplay between the natural world and each individual's role in it, commenting,

I like light, color, luminosity. I like things full of color and vibrant.

I've often thought he was advantageously named: Oscar. The same name as the most honored prize we give iconic actresses, known for their soul-stirring performances, and their effortless ability to wear his creations.

If Oscar de la Renta is nurturing a garden in heaven, you know he's tending paradise.

Growing your own garlic

Nature has pulled out all the stops, making this season's autumnal production a showstopper. And as shimmering leaves in rainbow hues dance in the air like magical fairy dust, thoughts turn to pumpkins, apples, gourds...and garlic.

Wait a minute. Garlic? Yup. If you're like my father-in-law, this time of year--of mellowing, maturing, and gracious decline--is malarkey. It's growing season! As soon as October hit her stride, my dear ole dad-in-law hit the garden center, stocking up on all those spring staples: potting mix, a pot with premier drainage, and slow-release fertilizer. The bonus: Most of this stuff is on clearance this time of year.

The best time to plant garlic here in the Northeast is between late September, and mid November, but gardeners can "get their garlic on" any time after the first frost, and before the ground freezes. Planting is easy: Fill a pot with soil, halting about three inches from the top; mix in fertilizer, reading package instructions for amount needed; separate garlic cloves gently so you don't damage them; place them in the soil, pointy side up, about three inches apart; cover them with 2 inches of soil, and pat it firmly down. Drench them in water, and that's it! You are now a garlic gardener, ready to harvest your crop next summer when the green "scapes" above the soil surface turn yellow.

After planting his crop, my father-in-law, like any fisherman bragging on his biggest catch, is quick to share the particulars of his garlic's progress. After day one, garlic sprouts already appeared across the loamy surface of the pot, and by day four...well, the picture says it all:

In fact, his garlic story should one day rival his most famous veggie tale to date: that of the $100 tomato. But that's a story for another day!

Top tips for successful garlic growing:

1. Water regularly. A bigger pot with more soil will retain more moisture

2. Harvest garlic scapes in spring. Once they curl, they are ready for picking.
Not only are they tasty, adding zesty flavor to basil pesto or savory
seasoning to mashed potatoes, salads and veggie dishes, but removing them
helps the plant grow up to 35% bigger

3. Reduce watering a few weeks before harvest, when leaves begin to yellow.
Then pluck garlic from soil, bundle together loosely, and "cure"
it 2-4 weeks in a warm, darkish, well-ventilated area

Nature's cure for what ails us

“Silence was the cure, if only temporarily, silence and geography. But of what was I being cured? I do not know, have never known. I only know the cure. Silence, and no connections except to landscape."

- Mary Cantwell, Manhattan, When I Was Young

Have you ever felt this way? I think the late Ms. Cantwell, author and New York Times editor, touched upon something primal, and essential in most of us: the unspoken, but vital, need to turn away from the chaos (organized and otherwise) of the human community, and connect with the physical world.

During my customary dog walk this beautiful fall morning, I veered from the well-known streets of my neighborhood, and meandered through a woodland path up the mountain behind my home. I could sense the excitement of discovery in the eager way my pooches picked through piles of leaves, tails wagging, and noses close to the earth, scoping out new scents.

As the pups and I made our way through the woods, our only accompaniment was the swish of leaves succumbing to our footfalls, the gentle breeze rustling branches overhead, and the occasional call of a bird or insect. Absent was the hubbub of human activity: infinite cars and trucks competing for a finite amount of road space; chattering pedestrians looking neither left nor right, but straight ahead, issuing directives into cell phones; vendors frantically filling morning coffee orders in nearby cafes. As those noises had receded, I'd felt something give way inside me; a loosening of the seemingly omnipresent tightness in my chest.

The further up the mountain we got, the easier it was to breathe. Eventually we hit a summit, of sorts: a plateau with a little clearing. I watched the wind brush through the long grass like the hand of a great celestial being, giving the ground a gentle tousle, and I thought of all the times I'd done that: lovingly run my hands through my children's hair. The perfection of the memory echoed within me, resonating in nature's reassuring whispers around me. Up here, all was right with the world. There was no need to get caught up in the banal, the everyday worries, or my seemingly endless list of chores, and commitments. Like the leaves overhead, my concerns dropped off, and whisked away, caught on the tail wind of a gusty breeze.

Glancing around, squinting in the sunlight, and taking it all in, I felt a genuine connection. The complete absence of human contrivance allowed me to be my own, authentic self. And nothing more. A fleeting thought crossed my brain, like a current along a charged wire: we live for moments like these. Moments of pure connection. And during this particular moment, the connection I made was with myself. For this second of time I wasn't a mother, daughter, wife. I wasn't striving to reach goals, defending injustices, complaining about perceived slights, or engaged in any manner to the myriad human distractions so innate to my everyday world. I was in a new place, an exotic space without expectation. Just the perfection of life proceeding around me, and within me.

And the dogs liked it, too.

Leaf peeps

There really is no more beautiful time to live in the Northeast than in the autumn. The ever-changing vistas around my yard, as the varying trees show off their fall colors, dazzle the eye, and spark the imagination. Just when I'm lamenting the final decline of my flower garden, nature rolls out a magnificent leaf show. I find, once again, I'm a captive audience to her antics, and my camera is--yet again--working overtime.

Of course the inevitable decline is right around the corner, in the form of literally pounds of fallen leaves piling up all over my yard. What to do with them all? Each year I rack my brain, thinking there's got to be a better way to handle the overflow, and put these leaves to the best possible use. And the good news is, there is! So, this year, I will not only head outside armed with my rake, but with the knowledge that I will use rather than discard the riches that nature has literally covered me in.

Instead of carting leaves to the curb, I plan to recycle them the way nature does, by turning them into an invaluable soil builder, creating leaf mold. What's leaf mold? Leaves that have fully decomposed, and turned into the nutrient-rich, dark material known as humus. Leaf mold improves the water-holding capacity of soil. It also creates the perfect place for the community of beneficial organisms that inhabit soil. It's a super potting-mix component. I have a large area near the edge of my property which has an abundance of trees. I plan on piling all my leaves there, hence, starting my own composting pile. It's as simple as that. First, I'll spray down the leaves with my garden hose, because, according Abigail Maynard, Ph.D., of the Connecticut Agriculture Experiment Station, dehydrated leaves begin to lose nitrogen, and this hinders the decomposition process. Next, I'll pile the leaves together, and turn them over periodically. Within two years, I'll have a ready-made pile of nature-rich soil, and no need to ever buy potting mix again.

Adding leaf mold to soil will enrich it without springing for expensive prepared soil mixtures from costly garden centers. And leaf mold can hold up to 500 times its own weight in water, making it an excellent moisture-retaining mulch. Simply scatter it around (but not touching) the crowns of annuals, perennials, and vegetables to hold enough moisture to keep plants hydrated for as much as an extra two weeks without watering. But a word of caution: don't use leaves that have fallen on grass recently sprayed with synthetic chemicals. Grass clippings with chemical residues can get mixed in with the leaves, and contaminate them, says William Brinton, Ph.D., director of the Woods End Research Laboratory, in Maine. Similarly, don't use leaves that have been raked into the street for municipal pickup, because they may contain fuel or oil residues.

If you want to use your fallen leaves by spring, you can speed up the composting process. Make a 3-by-3-foot leaf mold "cage" from stakes and chicken wire--and hasten the leaves' rate of decomposition by running a lawn mower over the pile a few times. To ensure even decomposition, turn the pile occasionally. Your leaves will be ready by next season, rather than the requisite two years it takes to naturally decompose.

This fall, I plan on arming my plants against an impending winter. How? By actually arming them with leaves. I've plucked a role of discarded mesh fencing from my neighbor's trash pile (it's amazing to discover such gems sitting roadside), and I plan on caging my tender perennials with it. I'll stuff leaves between the mesh and the plants to insulate them, and coax tender buds to sprout. After last winter froze all the blossoms off my hydrangeas, I will target those plants first. All Hydrangea macrophylla (the ones with flowers that bloom pink, purple or blue) will be thoroughly covered, as will the oakleaf hydrangea (all these make buds on existing wood) and the 'Endless Summer' types of hydrangea (which make blooms on old and new wood). I need not bother covering my Hydrangea paniculata (which blooms white), since this type of hydrangea grows on new wood.

I need not start the process until the first hard frost looms. In the meantime, I'll sit back, and watch the show nature has prepared for me.