November harvest preserved: Traditional root vegetable storage by Mr. McMahon
This botanical history post was featured on The Daily Gardener podcast:
November 16, 1835
Dearest reader,
On this day, the Hartford Courant shared a charming and practical guide under the title Gardener's Work For November.
One can almost see the frost nibbling the edges of the garden, urging the prudent gardener to turn their attention to the humble yet essential task of preserving roots—a matter of great importance as winter advances its chilly hand.
“It is now quite time to preserve the roots,” the Courant declares, setting forth the wise Mr. McMahon's method, which remains as quaint as it is clever.
Have you ever paused to ponder how much magic lies in the simple act of layering sand and sheltering roots?
Imagine the earthy treasures of your turnips, carrots, parsnips, beets, and even the more exotic salsify, scorzonera, and Jerusalem artichokes, all nestled snugly beneath a blanket of dry sand.
Mr. McMahon advises:
“Previous to the commencement of severe frost, you should take up, with as little injury as possible, the roots of your turnips, carrots, parsnips, beets, salsify, scorzonera, Hamburg, or large-rooted parsley, skirrots, Jerusalem artichokes, turnip-rooted celery, and ...horseradish...
On the surface of a dry spot of ground, in a well-sheltered situation, lay a stratum of sand two-inches thick, [the place the root crops], covering them with another layer of sand, (the drier the better,) and...continue to layer about of sand and roots till all are laid in ... then cover the heap or ridge [with] a good coat of straw, up and down as if thatching a house."
What patience it must take to lift each root gently, safeguarding its future bounty!
On a well-sheltered patch of dry ground, a bed of sand two inches thick provides the perfect cushion. The roots are then placed atop, with a generous layering of sand, “the drier the better,” until all are safely tucked away.
The final flourish—a coat of straw, arranged “up and down as if thatching a house”—serves as both a shield and a silent witness to the gardener’s care.
Isn't there something profoundly intimate about this practice?
The gardener's loving preservation of their winter stores, a silent promise that the earth's generosity will continue despite the cold. Might we, modern gardeners, reclaim such thoughtful rituals, embracing the art of preservation not only as a necessity but as an act of devotion to the garden's enduring spirit?
So, dear reader, next time the frost threatens, ask yourself: How might this old-fashioned wisdom enrich your own garden’s story?
And in what ways does the care we offer our roots mirror the care we give to life itself?
