But after slicing and dicing, juicing and sprucing...my friend pointed out the one thing I was kinda wondering myself which was, "What's up with these cukes, Evins? Why are they orange?"
Truth is, I had noticed. But because I have a favorite pickle recipe for which orangish/yellow cucumbers are preferred (orangish/yellow, usually meaning they are a tad bit over-ripe, which is better for pickling as they absorb better)...I let it slide.
But that's not what happened this year. This year I had a very short (if any) "green cucumber" season. The green phase lasted hours ...half a day, max. Leave that smaller cuke on the vine, expecting it to grow larger and it did grow larger...but it also grew oranger in the process. So because I was curious myself, and I really didn't have an answer, I decided I should find one.
First stop: Google, where, taking great comfort, I discovered I'm not the only one wondering just what the heck happened to my Boston Picklers (and no, I don't think they are kin to Kelly). The question came up again and again "What the heck is going in with my green cucumbers? They came in orange this year?"
True to internet/google form, the theories were myriad; the conspiracy one being: Those GMO people...(grrr) They added beta carotene to things. They clearly overdid it.
(This wasn't my theory, btw, as I'd used remainder seeds from last year's packet, and last year's weren't orange at all at this stage of things...)
The polar vortex/climate theory was: "Ya know, we didn't have a spring." (Ok. This part is true.) You plant cucumbers in the cusps of seasons. Last year it was cool, less humid when I planted. This year I wasn't given that luxury. We went from cold to hot in zero minus 60. I had to plant when I planted. Signs were right. I just couldn't control the heat.
(Could be. Could be. But science really hasn't confirmed this one. This one was more or less, just a guess.)
"What about the leaves? Could your vines have picked up a blight?"
(Nope. Not that. Any "ick" kills vines first/plants second. My cukes came out fine. Absolutely no difference in the taste...Only difference is color of the skin. These aren't "over-ripened"cukes...--Over-ripened meaning you have about a day before they turn brown. Mine aren't browning after a day. They're glowing...and they're glowing a most glorious hue of orange I might add.)
At this point you call in the calvary (read: people who've been doing this for ...well...all their lives) Thurman was out of pocket, so I called Miss Duff. Conversation went like this:
"Hey Miss Duff! How are you? (yada yada and many thanks for the dinner she shared that my niece got to enjoy as well...)
"Hey...btw... Did you grow cucumbers this year?"
(Answer: Yes. Of course.)
"What kind?"
(Turns out Long Greens --not Boston Picklers, like mine, but cukes...same family/species...grown on similar soil)
"Did your greens happen to turn orange?"
(Pause. Silence.)
"Come again"
I Repeat the question.
(Answer, " No. My long greens are green.")
I go onto explain that my picklers have come out orange, and Google says I'm not alone. She walks me step by step through my time table (same as hers); my planting process (same as hers). Getting nowhere with this she asks:
"So did you do ANYthing different this year that you didn't do last year?"
Followed by "Where'd you plant 'em?" (oh wise woman, that Miss Duff!)
Cradling my cell phone, I look out my window, looking over my orangish/yellow children...I close my eyes, trying to recall last season...
"Mmmm...Well...I moved 'em up one row...you know...rotating off that corner that gets all the drainage?"
"And you watered them the same?"
"Yep. Yep. Same as last year." (I don't have fancy irrigation systems (yet), but I do dump dog slobber-water on them each morning...which involves quite a bit of moisture.)
And THEN it hits me.
"Wait, Miss Duff...Wait. There IS one difference!"
I posit my theory:
For the first time ever, this year (having been gifted a subscription to Mother Earth News by a dear friend) I planted marigolds at the beginning and ends of every row. I had read they make bugs go away so I planted them next to every plant in the garden....and along every row...something I'd never done before. Thurman would frown on using perfectly good farm soil for flowers, but I risked it, because I'd read ...in Mother Earth News...that marigolds keep the bugs to a minimum So yes..."YES, Miss Duff! I did do something different. I DID! I Did, Miss Duff! I put flowers in the middle of all my rows this year!"
"Well, there's your answer," she says as confidently as only a Miss Duff can say it. "You can't put some things next to other things or else they'll pollinate."
To his credit, Thurman warned me there'd be days like this. Last year my watermelon got just a lit-tle TOO fond of my lavender. And this year he fussed at me bad for putting pumpkins next to cantaloupe (pumpkins next to anything, to be honest...What the Heck was I thinking?) To quote Thurman, "You're gonna live to regret that." Then again Thurman wouldn't give you a plug nickel for a pumpkin consuming anything next to anything in your garden. I was told my melons would be worthless thanks to my poor planning...(this one remains to be seen, but I am not hopeful.)
I hung up the phone feeling my journalistic duties were done. Mystery solved... except...
Miss Duff had no way of knowing that marigolds were not my original theory. No, no, nay, nay...I had another theory for the mystery of the orange cucumber....a theory all my own.
From day one of my gardening experiment, I've felt Dad was watching over me. Yes. He left his bodily form that I could call on or reach out to or hug. But he sent in angels, like Mr. Thurman and Miss Duff...I seriously believe I would not have a garden (much less a growing one) without someone being in charge besides me.
Call me crazy. Think me cute. But my daddy has to have been looking down, else I wouldn't have met Mr. Thurman, I wouldn't have been sent such garden angels like Miss Duff...
Anyone who knew my daddy knew, there was one color and one color alone in all God's universe that stood out above all the rest. He loved that color and I'm guessing he wanted to see it from heaven. That color, was ARANGE. That's right. ARANGE. UT Orange isn't orange/red/orange, it's ARANGE he used to say...You spell it with an "A" and it's yellow more than red.
For those who don't know (as well as those who don't care) the proper color for a University of Tennessee jersey is a shade of orange that leans yellow...not red. The school color was chosen (a little I Didn't Know That moment here) to matched to the center of a daisy...the daisies that grew on "The hill" to be exact. (True story. It's where we get our UT color.)
Many a time did someone get my dad something orange for Christmas, only to have him re-gift it (unbeknownst to them) if not the proper "arange"...(you know... that gaudy, tacky Florida version of orange). After all, "ARANGE" is arrange, and ARANGE is what we true Vols know our color to be.
My theory (or as Mac Truck would say, "My opinion and oughta be yours") is that Dad is looking down from those stadium bleachers in the sky saying, "Honey... you stick those marigolds close enough, I'll be able to watch the football game from here."
And so...dear friend...THAT is why your cucumbers are orange!
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