Southern Grapes, Big Dragonflies & Little Debbies
It's late afternoon, blazing hot on our little country farm. August dry and crispy. There's a crowd of folks picking muscadines and talking. They range in age from just over 4 to about 88. Sex and race vary. The two older ladies share memories. They’ve known each other for decades. One of the youngsters is a voting socialist. The dog-hating donkey on the other side of the fence stares down three scratching mutts.
I love this scene. There's more to the physical beauty, the details of color and smell. There's more to explore about our world where such easy, casual diversity seems rare. But first, I have to tell you something about me. Contrary to what you read here, my entire world does not revolve around picking food, scratching dogs, and hosting old ladies.
Not too many years ago, I'd go anywhere for work. I've worked hard to be able to be back on this farm– for these moments. To be able to afford it, I curbed my desire for exciting, prestigious projects. Speaking gigs, planes and hotels days away, long design jobs across the South, and one ten-year project way across the state where I got to set the vision, work with bulldozers and tree movers and green construction projects to build the newest, richest botanical garden in our poor, garden-sparse state—endless fun for a man like me.
That last, long construction project (now Moore Farms Botanical Garden) is way out in the backwoods. I was working there when Daddy died. I rushed down midnight dark backroads to get home just in time. That's when I decided to dial things back. My husband Tom and I decided to make this farm work—primarily so we could be around for Momma and have moments like this picking muscadines under the dragonflies. After all, she’s the one person who always indulged and encouraged my flower passion.
I still travel for a few garden design projects. It's a delicate balance, but the farm has never quite made enough income, so I go a few days at a time. Income is critical, but also, I still need the thrill of building gardens. I love it. But these days, with elder care and way too much plant care, Tom and I are on the farm most of the time.
Earlier, I said it was blazing hot. But it's 7 p.m. on an August night, and though it's only 88°F with low humidity. In fact, it's August arid. "Gosh, that little breeze is so nice," Momma says. We feel like we're living in California cool. Even the dogs seem more spry. The horizontal, orange sun lights up every tiny thing in the air. Dust floating. Gnats fluttering. Dragonflies. Wow! Swarms of dragonflies, warzone helicopter crowds of blue dragonflies careening, sure to hit each other. I want to photograph them, but when I walk up to them, they somehow dissolve and move en masse down the fence line.
That fence line is a curtain of muscadines. These folks are all picking grapes, dropping them in buckets. The donkey loves the company as much as he loves grapes – he eats them off the vine. Tom is helping Momma move her chair to a new grape-picking spot. Momma sits on a chair to pick. Her friend tells the thin, lanky young man about growing up on a scuppernong farm. "Granddaddy had a scuppernong vineyard. The green ones, well, gold ones, like this," she holds one out, explaining that only purple ones are called muscadines. This young Southern man, 25 or so, didn't know. He has never, ever eaten either one. We're all amazed by this. She says, "I'm going to make muscadine jelly rolls." He tries to relate but doesn't really know what a jelly roll is. My sister jumps in to bridge the 50-year span between these two. She says, "Sort of like Little Debbie Swiss Cake roll but with jelly instead of cream.”
Hmm, we should call Little Debbie. That sounds like a winning recipe. And it was. A few days later, our lanky young friend tasted one and confirmed, "It's close to the best thing I've ever put in my mouth." He tries another bite, "It's just making me smile."
If these church ladies only knew what a radical liberal this young man is, I think to myself. Same goes for me: if they knew some of the things I get up to when I'm off on work trips away from here. But they don't need to know. They like him. He likes them. Everyone loves muscadine jelly rolls.
In youth, little differences lead to grudges. As adults, we savor the moment, the dragonflies, and the musky sweetness of the best green-bronze scuppernongs.
A dog rolls over too close to the fence, and the donkey brays, warning. All they canines take note and stand at attention. All us people stop to laugh but then we’re once again captivated again by the dragonfly dance and the “cool” breeze. We may not say it enough, but 88, years or degrees, and dragonfly wings fluttering, making for a delightfully cool breeze and a lovely muscadine moment.
Following is a Fact Sheet. Please Scan to the End for a Note on Changes in Sunday Substack
Our Native Grapes: Muscadines and Scuppernongs
Vitis rotundifolia: An old common name is "bullesis," which refers to the hard, BB-shaped seeds that would really hurt if used as bullets or shot.
Muscadine varieties can be bronze, purple, or black. They have a strong, musky, sweet flavor.
Scuppernong is a golden cultivar of golden muscadine. They are sweeter and milder in taste.
History
Muscadines are native, wild plants. They mesmerized Europeans from the first contact—Sir Walter Raleigh used them to paint a picture of a world where "grapes fell from the trees" and to encourage financial support for his "exploration."
Scuppernong was the first named muscadine variety, discovered on the Scuppernong River, North Carolina in the early 1800s.
Growing Muscadines
If you want to grow the most food-producing, easy-care, no-spray plant for a deep south garden, find a place for muscadines. They make a handsome, though big vine. You can train them up a wall, up trees, through a hedge, on a chain-link fence, on a fire escape, or even in a big pot on a nice tuteur.
My go-to variety for urban growing is a self-fertile variety called 'Nesbit'. I like its handsome cut leaves that turn spectacular gold in the fall. If you only have room for one, make sure you get a self-fertile variety. Nesbit works. I'm testing the 'new' trademark named Razzmatazz.
If you have more space, here are my favorite varieties. Buy your muscadines from a place that understands them and specializes in them, like Ison's in Georgia:
‘Black Beauty’—Big, fat, juicy black fruits. I love this fruit for baking as you can halve it with a knife and pop the seeds out easily.
‘Carlos’ - Typical green-bronze. The fruit is said to make lovely, whitish wine.
‘Dixie Red’—Bronze with a purple cast. It is very pretty for serving fresh. The juice has a slight purple cast.
There are dozens of cultivars - one claims to taste of pineapples.
Remember, for most and for the absolute best fruit set, you need two different cultivars planted within 50 feet. If you live near woods in the Deep South, you are likely to have wild grapes there. They'll act as pollinators.
Speaking of pollinators, the flowers need insects, especially bees. Honeybees can do it, but native bees and other insects are essential. So if you use one of those companies that spray your yard (I call them Mosquito ‘Ho), you are defeating yourself as far as fruit production goes, as well as contributing to the catastrophic demolition of local insect populations that all of us rely on.
Eating Muscadines
Mulled Muscadine with Fried Crostini & Goat CheeseLink. Perfect for folks who don’t like sweet preserves.
Grape Hull Pie: I love this pie. I’ve also had grape hull ice cream - at Callaway Gardens.
Muscadine White Wine Spritzer Link (not really a recipe, just a short video of us serving it at a garden club event)
Also, if you pickle, use a muscadine leaf. The tannin in the leaf keeps the pickle crisper.
Notes on Future Content:
I need to reconfigure our Sunday Substack. The novella was fun, but I'm working on a new book and need more time to commit. What I'd like to do with Thursday and Sunday is what I've done this week:
Thursday will be a shorter snippet of an essay on a given topic. Often, that topic will be something I’m working on for the new book.
Then Sunday, I'll expand on it. For example, this essay is more of a story and includes personal reflections. I’ll do this about twice a month.
Sometimes, I'd like you Sunday supporters to chime in. I'll need help deciding if something is worded properly or choosing a title and book cover.
There's one more change. While I'm focused on this book, which, as y'all know, means snatching any few free moments I have between farm, design work, growing food, and such, I'll cut Sunday down to every other Sunday.
Thanks for being a part of my writing!
Jenksie
I could feel the heat, see the dragonflies, and taste the sweet Jellyroll.
Thank you.
Your article set me to thinking. I have said I remember going out to pick muscadines with my mother and grandmother, back when Stone Mountain was in the country. It was steamy hot work and there were millions of bugs, probably chiggers. Why, I wonder now, would they have left their unaircontioned but reasonably comfortable homes to stand out in the August heat and pick those muscadines, then take them home, and get the house even hotter cooking down the muscadines and then squeezing the juice out, and turning it into jelly, then putting the jelly into the jars? Then putting that layer of wax on top? Jelly off the shelf in the grocery story had to have been nearly as good and a lot less trouble. Was it being outdoors? Time with my grandmother? Or was it something she had been brought up to do by my grandmother who had learned to be a wife in the hills of northeast Georgia?
Anyhow, thanks for bringing back that memory!