We pulled into the carport around five on a Saturday afternoon, back from one night at Lake Waccamaw, and I could see it from the car. The okra had gone from fingers to clubs. Two rows of it, waist high, every plant loaded, and half the pods long enough to be used as a weapon.
We had been gone a day and a half.
If you've never grown okra, here's what you need to know: in July heat, a pod can go from tiny to ready to too tough to eat in about two days. You're supposed to pick it every day or every other day once it gets going. It doesn't care that it's Homecoming week or that you've got a state park reservation.
The timing this year was the problem. Late June and early July is Lumbee Homecoming in Pembroke, and that's a busy, happy week with family where we're in and out and not paying the garden much attention. Then on Friday the 10th we went to Lake Waccamaw for one night, our cheapest trip yet. Mr. Earl next door watered faithfully, like he always does, and he picked a mess for himself. But okra is not his favorite thing to pick, and he is in his 70s and allowed to have limits.
So we came home to a lot of okra. Some of it was perfect, a lot of it was right on the edge, and a good bit of it was past saving.
Saturday evening, Wes and I went out with two buckets and gloves. Okra plants are scratchy, and if you've ever picked it in shorts you only do that once. We picked every pod, big and small, so the plants would keep producing.
Then we sorted on the porch. Anything that snapped clean or that a knife went through easily was good. Anything woody went in the compost pile. That was about a third of it, which hurt.
What was left came to a little over two full grocery bags. More than two people can eat in a week, and we were already eating okra a few nights a week as it was.
Pickling and freezing
Sunday was okra day.
I pickled the best, straightest pods, the ones about as long as my finger. I made eight pints with vinegar, garlic, dill seed and a dried hot pepper in each jar, following the same recipe my mother uses, which she follows from memory and I follow from an index card in her handwriting. I bought a case of pint jars, a bottle of vinegar and a head of garlic. That was about $22. I had the rest.
The rest of the good okra I sliced into rounds, blanched for a few minutes, cooled in ice water and froze flat in zip bags. Eight quart bags. Those are for winter, for stew and gumbo and fried okra in January when the garden is just sand and stakes. It took the whole afternoon and I smelled like vinegar until Tuesday.
The bags on Mom's porch
Even after all that, there was still okra. Monday after work I drove to my mother's house in Laurinburg with three plastic grocery bags of it and a jar of pickles. She wasn't home, so I left them on her porch with a note.
She called that night. Mom retired from the mill after 30 years, and she has given away more vegetables than most people ever grow, so she has strong feelings about this. She said thank you, then said the bags were "a lot," then said she'd already given half of it to two neighbors. That's how okra moves through a town around here. Nobody can eat it all, and somebody's always glad to see it.
What it means for the trips
I'd love to say I've solved the okra problem, but I haven't. What I've learned is that in July, we should probably plan two-night trips at most, and we should plan to pick everything Thursday night, even the little ones. Next year we might plant one row instead of two.
The silver lining: the garden saves us real money in the summer. I bought almost no vegetables in July. Eight jars of pickled okra are gifts for the rest of the year. One already went next door to Mr. Earl, who gets a souvenir from every trip, usually a jar from wherever we went. This time it was from our own kitchen. He said it was the first souvenir he ever got that he watered himself.
Next weekend we're headed to Southport, and I've already told Wes: Thursday night, we're picking okra.
