Red-Fleshed Apples

Update from a 2017 blog post.

When I moved to Old Frog Pond Farm, rows of Red Delicious apples grew in the back of orchard. An apple mentor told me our pick-your-own customers would not be interested in these apples. I could either pull the trees and replant—a lot of work, or topwork these trees—keep the trunk and roots and grow another variety on top. I preferred the latter.

To topwork an apple tree, you need scion wood—small twigs of first-year growth cut in winter from a dormant apple tree. I attended a scion wood exchange where I grabbed a twig of the Almata apple along with several other varieties that were spread across an old pool table. I chose Almata because it was named after one of the largest cities in Kazakhstan. Almaty means “full of apples” and sits against the foothills of the Tian Shan Mountains, the forests that are the birthplace of the apple we eat today. Returning home with my scion wood I grafted a number of Red Delicious tree. On one of them I grafted the Almata wood.

Scion wood in Red Delicious Trunk

The scion wood inserted all around the trunk grew, and three years later, this tree developed its first flower buds. Apple blossom buds are usually enrobed in a pink sheath, which then open to pale white flower petals. The Almata buds weren’t pink, but dark red, like the scarlet letter stitched on Hester Prynne’s chest in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s novel. Four days later, when the orchard was a cloud of white petals, this tree’s blossoms opened to a lovely pink. When the leaves came in, they were not green but a bronzy color similar to some crab apples. After pollination, its dime-sized apples were dark red, not green, like every other apple in the orchard. 

Reddish Leaves on the Almata

All summer long I kept my eye on this tree. Friends walking with me through the orchard would remark, “What’s that?” pointing to the Almata. It was easy to see that this tree was marked. The apples were quite small, but perfectly formed and deep red. In mid-August, I stopped by the Almata to taste one of its fruits. My large bite of apple exposed red-colored flesh. It was crazy and wonderful, and all wrong. It didn’t look like an apple at all, but more like a plum. It was hard and sour, not yet ripe.

Charmed, I hurried back to the house to share my discovery with my family. I looked up Almata and learned that this red-fleshed apple was developed by Dr. Nels Hansen at the South Dakota Agricultural Experiment Station. Dr. Hansen was inspired to breed a red-fleshed eating apple after seeing a red-fleshed wild apple on an 1897 trip to Russia. The Almata is the cross he made between a Russian apple, the Beautiful Arcade and Fluke 38, a crabapple.

Almata apple cut open on August 6, 2021

When I showed this apple to my partner, Blase, he said, “It looks like a mandala.”

Yesterday I noticed that a root stock I had let grow without grafting a variety on it had fruited. To my surprise, when I took a bite, it, too, was red-fleshed, and bitter!

Apple from Bud 9 rootstock

I’ve cooked Almatas in an apple galette. The Almata wove lovely red ribbons through the mound of white apples—it held its color even when cooked. When I made a Russian apple cake, I was again delighted by the flowing red slices of the Almata. Although some people say that the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil was actually a pomegranate, I disagree. I can imagine the serpent winding around a branch, tempting Eve with a ripe, red-fleshed apple. With only one tree, we don’t have a lot Almata apples, but if you can’t resist cutting one open for yourself, our limited crop is available at the farm stand.

When We Were Trees

“Yesterday, my daughter Ariel and I walked through our orchard. We pruned out an armful of water sprouts, those twigs that grow several feet straight up in one year on apple trees. We’re working together on a sculpture for an exhibit using apple prunings as the primary medium. Ariel is grafting tree branches, covering the largest wall in the studio while I sculpt the small figures that will populate the tree. We work in silence, usually without stopping for lunch, only speaking when it is about the process.” 

                         —From the blog In the Studio, November 19, 2016

 A few weeks ago we were once again in my studio as we prepared for our new two-person exhibit,  When We Were Trees, at the Hopkinton Center for the Arts, in Hopkinton, Massachusetts. We hung Grafting A Life, our large grafted “tree,” the first sculpture we worked on together, the one that launched Ariel towards her life as an artist and her signature medium of wire. This piece was originally created for the exhibit, After Apple Pruning. Now the piece is once again on exhibit along with over fifty other works.

Grafting a Life installed in Hopkinton Center for the Arts, 2021

Gallery View, Hopkinton Center for the Arts, July 2021 Photo credit: Dayle Doherty

Ariel is showing her beautiful “Willow” and alongside my “Birthing Tree.  We’ve created groupings of sculptures taking up themes such as “hands” and the “female body”  as well as a new collaborative piece, “Tangled Up in Trees.” Through the mutuality and interconnectedness of our art we share how women empower each other when they connect with nature and their own bodies.

Trees, watercolor, LH; Woman, wire, AM; Tree Woman, bronze, LH

In Zen training they say, the student must surpass the teacher for the teachings to remain strong. Otherwise, over time, they become diluted. Of course, I know I am biased, but I’d say the same thing. Ariel is grafting her own life, and doing it with it poise, intelligence and great artistry.

Figures, wire, Ariel Matisse and Eve in the Tree Harp, bronze and wood, Linda Hoffman. Photo credit: Dayle Doherty

This fall, while the Artisan’s Asylum is moving from Somerville to Allston, Ariel won’t have a studio and will be working in mine. She wants to try sculpting with wax. I can’t wait to see what she will do and how we will further influence each other. In creating art, we transcend difficulties, we integrate the parts of ourselves that we have kept hidden, and we have the opportunity to tell new stories, and discover new and shared identities. When women empower women, they can heal the world.

The exhibit runs through August 27, 2021. There is a reception on Friday, August 13th and we hope to see you there. For information: Hoffman/Matisse Exhibit When We Were Trees.

Castor Beans—Who Knew?

Last fall I saved some seeds in a plastic container in our mud room and promptly forgot about them. A week ago, I remembered. I soaked the seeds for two days before planting them in a large clay pot to see if they would germinate. Then I placed the pot on the porch where I would see them and be sure to remember to give them water twice a day. I didn’t want the sprouting beans to dry out. When I returned later that afternoon to water, the pot was gone. That seemed odd. Where did it go?

For the last few years, we’ve grown a singular plant in the garden outside our kitchen door. It’s odd looking, and almost always unfamiliar to visitors to the farm.

           “What’s that growing?” we are asked.
           “It’s a castor bean plant, Ricinus Communis.”

While it can grow as a perennial tree in temperate climates, here in New England, we grow it outdoors in a sunny spot as an annual. This red-leafed variety grows quickly, in one season easily touching eight feet, and it isn’t finicky about its soil. The plant has very large leaves—you wouldn’t be wrong to think a child-sized umbrella—shaped like a giant Japanese maple leaf with deep lobes. We have been buying one plant each spring from Applefield Farm in Stow each year.

Young Castor Bean Plant with flowers and small seed pods.

The small clusters of pale flowers are barely noticeable, though they have a sweet scent. It’s the seed pods that attract attention. Red clusters of spiky balls, a little smaller than horse chestnuts, vie for room along thick stalks. Then, once the pod dries and the seeds within are mature, the pod splits open, and literarily shoots forth its smooth, oval-shaped, brown-red seeds. I can only guess that since it is self-sowing, the plant doesn’t want too much competition at its roots from its own offspring. And with the seeds protected in their spiky pods, birds aren’t helpful with dispersal. And then, there’s the poison, which I’ll get to soon. But first, let’s solve the mystery of the disappearing pot.

            When I saw Blase I asked, “Did you move my pot of castor beans?”
“Oh, I planted a cutting from the Fiddle-leaf Fig in that pot,” he said.

Blase had seen the pot sitting in the corner of the porch, and in need of a pot, he took it, plunging the fig cutting into the center, and setting it on the plant bench in the sun room. He had no way of knowing it was filled with castor beans.

A week later, the castor bean seeds began to germinate. Thick pink bean stalks poked out from the now white lima-bean-size seeds. I dug the seedlings out from around the fig and planted them in individual pots.

And what about the poison?  Well, yes. The plant is considered poisonous because the seeds contain ricin, a serious toxin, especially when injected into the body. Eating enough raw seeds will also make you ill with diarrhea and vomiting. The gritty facts about how it is used as a poison can be found here. Earlier this year a man who worked for a biotech company in Massachusetts was arrested for buying 800 castor beans with the intention of extracting the poison. I didn’t know anything about the dark side of castor beans before writing this blog.

And what about the oil? The oil is not poisonous. It is most often sold as a laxative, but it has lots of other uses: lamp oil, soap, candles, plastics, linoleum, paints, inks, ointments and coolants. The seeds contain close to fifty percent of their weight in oil. When I was waiting for the birth of my second child, my midwife told me she was going away so I needed to get this birth moving. She suggested castor oil. It was disgusting. And I don’t think my teaspoonful had any bearing on Nick’s precipitous arrival a day later.

I did learn that in ancient Egypt castor oil was often used for lamps as well as medicinally. Castor bean seeds have been found inside tombs. I can imagine the seeds were buried to keep the lamps lit while the dried apples strung inside the tomb provided food for the deceased’s journey home. I have lots of castor bean plants growing on our side porch. If they do well, I’ll put them out at the farm stand and you too can pick up one of these show-stopping annuals.

Spring Training at a Zen Monastery

Before spring slides into summer, I wanted to share about the last three months which will also explain why there have been so few blog posts. I’ve been on an intense retreat—some of it quarantined in my studio, some of it at Zen Mountain Monastery in the New York Catskills, and some of it, following the spring Old Frog Pond Farm schedule.

I was asked by my Zen teacher to serve as Shuso, or Chief Disciple for the three-month training period, we call Ango. The training period, Ango, dates back to the time of the Buddha. In his time, the year was broken down into three-month periods much like our four seasons. There were two seasons of intensified practice when the community of monks, the Sangha, gathered and practiced together. These periods coincided with the monsoon rains, when it would have been dangerous and difficult for the monks to be wandering the countryside. Instead, they gathered in groves and set up temporary living huts, practicing together and living near their teacher. These intensified three-month periods, called Ango, alternated with the seasons when the Sangha would disperse, going off in the own directions, to beg for food, find shelter, and spend the time in solitary practice.

At Zen Mountain Monastery we practice Ango in the spring and the fall. The Shuso, or chief disciple is chosen by their teacher, and they can be either a lay person or a monk. Their role is to inspire the Sangha with their devotion and commitment to practice. The training period ends with a ceremony where the chief disciple gives their first talk on koan and is then challenged by the Sangha with live questions.

At the end of May, my time as Shuso ended with a talk on the koan, “Dongshan’s Essential Way.” Dongshan was a 9th century Chinese Zen master. The koan is a brief teaching dialogue between a student and their teacher. This koan begins with the student saying, “I cannot see the essential path; I still can’t become free of discriminating consciousness.”

What is this essential path? The student can’t see her way. Is it hidden? Who is hiding it? What is hiding it? And why is this student asking the question right now. Today?

I gave my talk on the last Sunday in May. It was followed by questions from other students, and then congratulatory poems. The ceremony marked the completion of my transition to become a senior student in the order, and the opportunity to now take on a more important role within the Sangha.

Many of you know how much I love Zen practice and specifically, training at Zen Mountain Monastery. A full matrix of activities shape our training: zazen (meditation), liturgy, body practice, art practice, work practice, study of the teachings, and face-to-face encounters with our teacher. Most importantly, it is following the rigorous monastic schedule, putting aside one’s own desires, and joining the community. It is said that being in community is like being in a rock tumbler. We need each other to bump up against, to be polished. However, to put it most simply, Zen training is the study of reality as it really is when we are not confused, when our mind is not obscured by attachments and clinging to that which is not real. We aspire through our practice to move among grasses of this world with equanimity and compassion, to be fully present, to do good and not cause harm.

I haven’t felt that I could write about this rite of passage until it was over. There were moments when I knew for certain my teacher had made a grave mistake. I could not do this. But I also knew there was no way out. Of course I was going to do what I was asked to do. I was going to give it everything I could. And the Sangha was there with their love and their support.

Now that I’ve a little time back home, and have hung up my new white robe and am wearing jeans, t-shirt and work boots, I wanted to share with those of you are curious a little about this rite of passage in the Zen training world. And here is a podcast posted where you can listen to the ceremony or find it on the Zen Mountain Monastery website. If any of you want to talk to me about my experience or about Zen Mountain Monastery, I love talking about it. And if you’d like to join us for morning meditation at the farm, drop me an email and I’ll let you know the details.

I look forward to reconnecting with many of you in person. We’re preparing the grounds for our 15th Annual Outdoor Sculpture Exhibit opening on August 1 with twenty-five sculptors bringing new work on the theme of “Emergence.” We’ve scheduled storytelling events with Fugitive Productions, and Plein Air Poetry returns also on the theme of “Emergence.” The fruit is ripening. It looks like mother nature is providing a bountiful and beautiful crop, and our farmers are working hard to encourage its health and growth.

The verse that accompanied the koan is on the verse board below:

Wet with morning dew
The tips of the ten thousand grasses
All contain the light of day.

Enjoy these last days of spring!

Group Photo after the Ceremony