In November, my biking plans are tenuous. In addition to the usual kid logistics (who needs an after-school ride where?), questions of cold weather and personal toughness (usually nil) must now be considered. What predictions have the shaman meteorologists offered? Has any actual precipitation materialized? Is the trail wet enough to leave mud spatters on my back? On arrival, will my fingers be numb, my clothes soaked, my nose running? It's a judgement call, usually made at the last minute.
Let's be clear: I'm no hard-core cyclist, far from it. I won't be joining the admirable waterproofed warriors in their technical layers, riding through Canadian winters come what may, but I might be edging just slightly in their direction. Last weekend, when Tim was putting the bikes in storage for the season, I asked him to leave mine out. We could still have good biking weather, I said. And yesterday, we did. So I seized the brilliant day--4 degrees C (39 F), windy, sunshine, snow patches in the grass, new ice cross-hatching the surface of ponds and ditches--and landed at work happy.
The thing about biking is, it makes you feel twelve again. And unhooked from the schedule long enough to stop and take a picture.
Today my youngest hit a milestone he wasn't too excited about: orthodontia.
That's okay; I'm not excited either. Three out of four children in this family have needed dental realignment. Reminded of this, our dentist shrugged. "They owe you a car," she said. "It's a car you didn't buy."
Funny, but wrong. She must not know about our habit of driving cars until they drive no more. Somewhere I have a photo of a 15-year old van in the wrecker's parking lot, where it died after eking out one last trip for us. We had to push it toward the violent commotion coming from the yard behind the office, where someone paid us $200 for salvage.
Anyway, I don't subscribe to the opportunity-cost school of parental accounting, because where would that end? With me owing my parents five cars, that's where. Or maybe even ten, depending on the scope of the audit and the make of the car. The point is, everyone concerned knows that zero automobiles will be paid back.
My boy was stoic through the metallica installation and the brush&floss briefing afterward. At home, he flashed the braces on command but didn't get much sympathy from resident siblings. With my phone I sent a snapchat pic of his teeth to his sister in Halifax, and she obliged by snapping herself horrified--"The Scream" face--which would have made him laugh if I could have shown it to him before the image disappeared. Ten seconds of connection is all you get before your message self-destructs.
That's the essence of this strange snapchat app: repetitive disappearance. There's an adrenaline rush of captioning and sending, followed by emptiness. Supposedly you can save screenshots, but I haven't figured out how yet. My daughter gave me a snapchat tutorial this week (over Skype--extended meta moment as we faced one another virtually, worked our phones, showed each other the phone screens on the computer screens, finally got the app to work for me, became distracted by news...) and still, the appeal of digital charades escapes me.
What we do not need, at this moment of our history, is faster-and-lighter communication. I'm down to my last nerve here, my attention span sliced and diced. And consider our lecture halls, where hundreds of snaps per hour will now zap around the room: quick pics of a slide with too many words/a fly crawling across the wall/a student sleeping/a teacher talking, across which will be scrawled, "Time-suck!" and it will always be true.
You know what is genuinely faster and better these days? Orthodontic technology. When I was young, it was the full train tracks for two whole years of high school. My brother's treatment went on even longer. On the cusp of joining the Army, he had to threaten to rip the bands out of his mouth himself before the orthodontist reluctantly agreed to do it. Today's braces are lighter, stronger, and much less visible. They come off in a year or so. There are fun coloured elastics and customized retainers to choose from, even camo patterns--more than a few options to raise the excitement factor for my (latest) kid with braces.
It seems I took a long vacation from this space. Don't worry, it was an unpaid vacation, full of busy business. Post-blur, a few choice events stand out as worth revisiting in the coming days. Let's hear it for time travel--and what else is reading, anyway?
The best blogs feature selected shorts, quick hits of significance. That brevity is precisely what I find hard to achieve on this blog, my labor of love. I have to remind myself that the LOG in BLOG signifies crisp daily entries. Like a ship's log, which I've never had occasion to keep, darn it. Or how about an annotated timeline of Toronto Mayor Rob Ford's dealings with petty criminals? That would make a great search-engine-optimized hunk of writing--Oh wait, it already exists, thanks to the judge who released hundreds of pages of police findings (*unproven allegations*) on October 31st and today ordered that more information should be made public. Cheers for him! By the way, anyone wishing to buy a limited-edition Rob Ford bobblehead, you are too late. CBC Radio reported this afternoon that, after finally admitting he purchased illegal drugs, the Mayor spent five hours (!) outside signing the wobbly effigies. No shame. And I noticed something while stuck in the car with the radio playing fresh Ford allegations: the CBC used the term "sex workers", while our small-city local station preferred "prostitutes". That cultural shift is not yet a done deal throughout the land. Perhaps the word prostitute will eventually disappear like other pejoratives we once hurled freely but now frown upon. I do hope, however, that a usage will be retained for those senators and others holding high public office who simultaneously sit on corporate boards. Until the Senate expense scandal hit, I didn't even know that was allowed. Why is it allowed?
Behold a digression of Fordian proportions. Sorry, but everyone is fixated on political scandal here in the true north strong and free.
Back to the recent past we go, to my trip to New York in early September to attend a writing conference (weird and wonderful) and visit my brother in his natural habitat. It's his birthday today, so what better time? Also, these photos, all taken in Brooklyn, suggest the higher calling that public service can be.
Borough Hall
Borough Hall, a massive municipal building, anchors a long stretch of parkland. I wish I'd taken this picture when the steps and plaza were filled with screaming, sign-holding Bill DeBlasio fans rallying for the Democratic mayoral primary race (runup to the general election on November 5th, which DeBlasio won, of course). The same weekend, I passed a Christine Quinn rally (smaller) in Manhattan and saw Anthony Weiner on TV trying to defend himself--but look, at least he doesn't smoke crack.
This bronze bust of Robert F. Kennedy sits atop a granite pedestal. On each side of the base, an RFK quotation is inscribed. Here are two of them:
FEW WILL HAVE THE GREATNESS TO / BEND HISTORY ITSELF, BUT EACH OF US /
CAN WORK TO CHANGE A SMALL PORTION OF EVENTS, AND IN THE TOTAL OF ALL
THOSE ACTS WILL / BE WRITTEN THE HISTORY OF THIS GENERATION.
WHAT WE REQUIRE IS NOT THE SELF- / INDULGENCE OF RESIGNATION FROM THE /
WORLD BUT THE HARD EFFORT TO WORK OUT / NEW WAYS OF FULFILLING OUR
PERSONAL CONCERN / AND OUR PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITY
Here stands Christopher Columbus in marble, created by sculptor Emma Stebbins in Rome in the 1860s, donated to the city but not displayed until the 1930s, and then moved to the newly named Columbus Park in 1971. The city's blurb mentions an emphasis in public lore on CC's "discovery of the Americas, as opposed to colonization of the area"...speaking of cultural shifts.
Henry Ward Beecher
This bronze grouping, dedicated in 1891, honors the charismatic and controversial 19th-century preacher, abolitionist and supporter of women's suffrage Henry Ward Beecher. His sister, Harriet Beecher Stowe, wrote Uncle Tom's Cabin.
One park blends into another, this one dedicated to that poet and celebrant of the common man, Walt Whitman. Interestingly, there are no statues here, only a large, circular plaza with Whitman quotations carved into the stone--sprinkled by a hidden fountain? There were puddles near some of the quotations, but it hadn't rained the day I was there. And why close at 1 am? Does someone actually come around and lock gates in the middle of the night?
lines from To the States: "resist much, obey little"
lines from Crossing Brooklyn Ferry: "slow-wheeling circles and the gradual edging toward the south", which is about seagulls but also reminds me of my walk that day
I know, exciting. Other people are going to parties or out to dinner. We're peeling apples.
This tidy haul represents less than half the bounty from three small backyard trees, which were planted a few years ago and until now only produced a handful of fruit. Apparently this is a good year for apples. I feel like I've been peeling and cutting for weeks--sometimes with helpers, sometimes not, often late at night--but actually the work happens in fits and starts, when time permits. It should be done by now. So far we've made pies, tarts, apple cake (twice, trying to cut excess sugar in an older recipe), and applesauce (both canned and frozen). I'm planning to dry apples in the oven and perhaps try this cider recipe from Chef Brian Henry's blog. And then hard cider? Yes, I think so.
One of our younger cooks yelped and left the kitchen when she discovered a worm: supple and wriggling, curious about life beyond its snow-white habitat. She's done. Most of the apples are relatively unblemished, however--tart and crisp, if not perfectly shaped as in the supermarket.
But now the pressure's on. It wasn't possible to deal with all this fruit before our trip, so we stashed two big buckets in the fridge and two more in the cool basement, hoping they'd keep. Which they mostly did. And then more buckets arrived.
applefall--n., 1. a sub-season of fall; 2. sudden, unearned abundance; 3. a state of panic induced by rotting fruit; also v., to swoon while stirring a large, boiling pot.
The books are finally here! Real books, lovingly designed objects with heft and that new-print smell of paper and ink--yes, I inhaled them, so what? It was quite the thrill. And if you like your books more ephemeral, an e-version is available.
So much experience is contained in this collection of essays about hard subjects, with a beautiful foreword by Kim Jernigan. I'm proud to have had a small part in this project, the joint brainstorm of co-editors Lisa Martin-DeMoor and Jessica Hiemstra. Tribute must be paid to the heart, skill and insight they brought to the editing process. More than that, I can't wait to meet them *IRL*, because although ours was a virtual collaboration, after many months it feels like friendship. I have the sense that I already know some of the other contributors--totally wrong, of course, but that's the power of an essay.
I can't describe the book better than Lisa does on her Writer in Residence website--check it out. Note also that a Toronto launch will be held October 10th at Type Books (they of the wondrous videos) on Queen Street West, with events in other cities to come.
You can order How to Expect What You're Not Expecting directly from the publisher (TouchWood Editions) here, or from your favourite local bookstore or Amazon or Chapters.
* Is In Real Life's moment already over? I hope not. There's a new film out with that title, so I embrace IRL for now, whatever real may mean when we're all done tossing it around.*
Tomorrow marks two weeks since we left our daughter in a distant city to begin university, and I'm still not used to her absence.
Here she is.
School started for the younger kids the day after our return, providing much busywork to distract me from the missing person problem. And then there was scurrying related to my return to work and our eldest settling into the local university after being in Toronto for two years. Then last weekend: New York! Writing conference! (more on that soon), so there hasn't been time to grapple with our shifting family math.
Close readers will have realized that since one daughter left and one returned, the household actually has experienced zero net change in the #kH calculation (kids living at home), but it doesn't feel that way. Unsettled is how it feels. Transient. We have no routines established for this strange new configuration of people.
The thing is, I'm used to our old numbers--counting one-two-three-four heads at the beach when the children were small, routinely fudging hotel reservations because no one accepts six in a room, six bodies nearly filling the van. I need time to adjust.
So after the drop-off in Halifax we're back in the car (a little roomier without Sarah and her possessions, which made some passengers happy, but I wasn't one of them), headed home. Deep into New Brunswick we stopped at an odious fast-food joint (starts with M) packed with people. Labour Day weekend, everyone on the road to somewhere, and bonus, the world's slowest service. Customers massed five-deep waiting for orders. A guy in a tank top rifled bags on the counter, checking other people's meals. His naked armpit hovered over our partially-filled bags, which was, frankly, distressing.
When I picked up our order, I had a little fit--it was incomplete, and would take forever to fix given the crowd. I told the teenager behind the counter that an error had been made--we needed six meals, not five. She (reasonably) asked what was missing, but I couldn't tell her. I tried to match family members to items and kept messing it up. She remained pleasant, considering how busy they were--unfailingly polite, as we went back and forth repeating the same lines. Eventually, one of my kids sidled up to whisper, "Mom, Sarah's not here." Oh. Facts already known finally landed. Not their mistake, mine. I apologized, of course, and pretended all was well. At least I provided some entertainment. The kids shrieked with laughter for miles and miles, every time I wailed "Only five!" A text or two may have been sent to the absent one.
Our travel plan was to have a little holiday before the separation. We took the long way, spending a few nights in PEI (in a lighthouse! Okay, faux lighthouse, kind of sketchy but clean) with a final detour to Cape Breton Island before circling back to Halifax. While I can't recommend an extended drive with dorm-room furnishings--we were jammed--I can recommend my kids as traveling companions, should you be in need of some. Good travelers, they are. Gems.
A final note: since surrendering our girl to Dalhousie, I've sent her a pair of rubber boots, exchanged messages, talked on the phone and booked her flights for the holidays. Absence isn't what it used to be.
The course I was teaching ended last week, and my final marks have been submitted. Let summer begin--all three weeks that are left. Already, nights are chilly and a few orange-tinged maples have appeared. Time is short, using it well my challenge.
First, sleep replacement therapy is in order. Then, getting the kids ready for back-to-school, the fifth season of the year. Our most recent high school graduate must be transported far, far away to university in Halifax. We're making a family holiday of it, exploring the Atlantic provinces and a bit of Quebec en route. I've been throwing provincial tourism guides and maps at the kids, trying to get them to pick sightseeing stops and help plan a route, but no luck so far. They're resisting my stealth geography lessons. Unless we make a few reservations soon, we'll be sleeping, all six of us, in the van. Which is more togetherness than anyone can take.
Meanwhile, since Peak Produce (nothing like Peak Oil) coincides with my freer schedule, it's time to re-energize the Unprocessed Project. We've maintained some good habits (tomato sauce, granola and most baked goods made at home from scratch, weekly) and abandoned others (bagels! They take forever to make and the results vary wildly). With a few batches of jam successfully "put up", my next trick will be to preserve pesto, salsa, tomatoes, plums and peaches. I've purchased Bernardin jars and have relied, so far, on recipes from their website.
Canning still feels like a time-warp to me--a routine homemaking chore for my grandmother, whom I watched preserve fruits and vegetables many times--and something I never wanted to do myself: so boring. I imagine the folks at Bernardin sadly charting the canning supply sales slump over the years, watching their clientele die off, and then suddenly . . . locavore/hipster revival. The marketing department, all two of them, scratch their heads: didn't see THAT coming. I wonder how long it will last. Canning is satisfying, but a hell of a lot of work.
So, reboot. As I type, bread dough is rising, chocolate-chip granola bars are cooling, and fresh ricotta is resting in the fridge, soon to be used in baked ziti. (Incidentally, both the bread and the granola bar recipes come from author Carrie Snyder's blog. I've made a lot of different breads, and this one is unfailing. The granola bars mix up quickly. They don't last long around here.)
ricotta draining and, at left, the whey
DIY ricotta has been a pleasant discovery in the Unprocessed process. It's simple to make fresh, delicious ricotta at home with just a few steps. I found recipes online and ended up using this one from Epicurious but they all call for varying proportions of whole milk, heavy cream, salt and an acid such as lemon juice or vinegar. Simply boil the milk, cream and salt; add lemon juice and lower heat; stir until the mixture curdles (a few minutes); and drain in a colander lined with cheesecloth. That's how ricotta happens.
The first time I made this, the kids were mystified and disgusted by the glop of slop draining in white mesh, which I didn't realize they had never seen before. What IS this, they said, fingering the gauzy fabric. Didn't I feel like a pioneer, explaining cheesecloth to them. Gather around, my children, and imbibe a little Home Ec history with your wholesome unprocessed food. Cheesecloth: you can still get it in the grocery store, so someone must be using it for something.
The recipe says to discard the tangy whey, but it has nutritional value, so why waste it? I found online articles detailing several uses for whey, including in breadmaking. Today I substituted whey for half the water in my bread-in-progress. Was that a wise decision? We'll see.
boiling milk, cream and salt
curds form
okay, eww--make ricotta when there are no witnesses around
finished ricotta mixed with herbs--a filling for stuffed shells or lasagna
Welcome to the fledgling long weekend, the Canadian holiday without a name. Or, more accurately, the holiday with too many names. In Ontario it used to be (still is?) known as Simcoe Day, but most people simply say "the civic holiday". The need for an August day off is universally recognized, and I believe it's a Canadian trait not to get too worked up about the finer points of colonial name politics. Finding a lake and sitting in it trumps all.
We're about to head to a relative's cottage, but just an overnighter due to one daughter's work schedule and the desire to get something done around here, for once. We will soon cram ourselves, the dog and supplies into the van. I'm encouraging everyone to charge their devices, preparation being the key to survival. Pod up, siblings.
Speaking of siblings and survival, two birds sat for their portrait yesterday. The third disappeared from the nest almost immediately after hatching, and the fourth egg didn't hatch. A 50% survival rate doesn't seem so great, but I admit that the whole wild kingdom is a mystery to me.
Nothing like a baby to change your life. We're on hatch watch here at the bird sanctuary. The first baby robins made their appearance this morning, and apparently I don't really mind that their mother's nesting killed my flowers. It seems I'm over that.
Three chicks have hatched, one to go.
The nest location may be less than ideal from a human perspective--an arm's length from our front door, only five feet from the ground--but that makes it a perfect spot for observation, no ladder required. We spent the day checking in, even dragged visitors to the porch to see. As we've done in previous years of too-close nests (although this one takes the extreme proximity prize), we have roped off the entrance to minimize traffic around the newborns.
The door is barred, the dog puzzled.
The adult robins tend their young, seemingly unperturbed by our presence. According to this Wikipedia (fount of all facts) entry, robins raise two or three broods each season, with each "clutch" consisting of 3-5 eggs (henceforth I shall refer to my kids collectively as a clutch). I wonder now if these are the same birds that nested in our garage earlier this year. Could it be that this latest nest was built even closer to human habitation on purpose, to ward off predators? Mothers are shrewd that way.
There's nothing more common than a robin; a nest filled with blue eggs hardly counts as an earth-shattering discovery in our parts. Still, just as people bored by babies in general may one day discover a source of endless fascination in their own particular babies, so it is with our robins.
The storms are missing. Every day this week, severe weather events have failed to arrive as predicted, confirming my bias against meteorology and its practitioners. Might as well shoot craps, I say. Meanwhile, we sweat, we swear. We swear especially at the Humidex number, repeated endlessly as if it were useful information. The misery measurement: all it does is torque the psychological impact of July.
After my class early this morning, I cycled home in the oppressive heat, the long ride I wrote about a couple months ago. Family logistics made this a necessity. My daughter needed the car, and my son needed a ride to canoe camp, so she dropped me off with the trusty clunker bike. I looked at the sky and figured, yah, storms, although it's hard to believe the boy who cries wolf. Dark clouds shadowed me the whole way, and I beat them. I sweated but didn't swear. The trails in Peterborough are brilliant, winding through wooded shade and along the river. It was hot, though. And long, did I say long? I was a red-faced mess at the end.
My son has spent the coolest week on and in the river, taking part in a camp program offered by The Canadian Canoe Museum, a coolio (and air-conditioned) Peterborough place to visit. He comes home every day with wet hair, the only chilly person in this overheated household.
Here's an underwater clip to cool you vicariously, dear reader. This was taken by my daughter at the Lakefield beach a couple weeks ago. Normally electronics and water don't mix--she has lost a phone, camera and i-Pod in various lakes--but this camera was purchased specifically for its ability to swim.
Check out fish-kid. How does he smile without getting a lungful of water?
No, this post isn't about the willfully blind gutting of the long-form Census by the current Canadian Government (please note: the "H-word", "H-word Administration", or any variation thereof shall not appear in this blog). Nor is this about the Snowden revelations: the outrageous wholesale appropriation of private communications by the NSA and their agents, the informatics industry. Those are rants for another day.
So I apologize for a possibly misleading title: Preserving
Data. I love double meanings, in writing and in life. Here are two examples randomly drawn from my clogged memory for your
reading pleasure: one a novel--Enduring Love, by Ian McEwan (I almost admire that double-edged title more than the book, which is good but not his best), and the other a song--God's Comic, by Elvis Costello.
In fact, let's invite younger Elvis Costello into
the blogspace. Enjoy. (Technical difficulties with the embedded video? Click here for the YouTube link.)
Wow, that was a serious digression.
What I intended to detail is my nascent efforts to preserve local food as we enter the height of summer. The Unprocessed Project bug infects me still in spite of a weak will, time-pressed schedule, and weather too hot for baking.
Last year, I stocked the freezer sporadically with produce from our garden--mostly tomatoes, pesto and zucchini--but the garden is hit or miss, not big enough (or laboured-over enough!) to feed six people. The kids and I picked 35 lbs. of strawberries at a local farm, which took almost no time with all of us picking. For a few days we were rich in strawberries: we ate lots fresh and froze several bags; I also made jam for the first time. The jam was a huge hit. (It contains an appalling amount of sugar, but at least we know what is in it--just sugar and fruit.) I gave away several jars, and the remainder didn't last the year. Neither did the pesto or tomatoes. At the moment, all that is left from last summer is one bag of shredded zucchini that will soon be turned into bread or soup.
Unloved zucchini aside, I realized that if we were serious about this venture, we had to ramp up production. Here's what has been achieved so far this year.
Preserving, data on: Rhubarb--2 2-cup bags (from the farmer's market--our rhubarb patch is new; we're trying again to grow what everyone else seems to take for granted as an unkillable country plant)
Strawberries--two expeditions (with children) to the wonderful, laid back McLean Berry Farm, where we picked 45 lbs. the first time, and then 5 lbs., resulting in:
--7 6-cup bags in the freezer (slightly depleted already for smoothies and baking)
--14 250 ml jars of jam (2 given away, 1 opened)
Raspberries--4 lbs, and later 5+ lbs. (picked by my lovely eldest daughter, who drove up to the farm on her own while I was away last weekend), resulting in:
--copious fresh berries in yogurt and muffins
--7 250 ml jars of jam; and
--3 2-cup bags in the freezer (minus 1 that I had to use to complete the batch of jam)
Beautiful, eh?
I'm hoping these quantities, plus freezing/canning Ontario blueberries, peaches, plums, etc. as they come into season, will fill the larder until next year. I suppose a purist would eat fresh fruit and vegetables only in season and then wait out the winter, drawing on the blah squash, pumpkins and potatoes that can be stored in a cold cellar, rather than "processing" everything in the name of an Unprocessed Project--oh, the irony. Home preserving, however, involves minimal processing. No wonder canning is enjoying a renaissance: recycled containers; local, natural food; control over ingredients (preserves, not preservatives). It's extremely satisfying.
Next will be tomatoes. I've never canned them, although I watched my paternal grandmother "put up" tomatoes many times. We're going to try salsa, crushed tomatoes, and sauce. I use a lot of tomatoes in my cooking and would be thrilled to a) support local farmers by purchasing a bushel or two or their harvest; b) steer clear of produce trucked from afar and grown under the worst possible labour conditions (detailed in Barry Estabrook's Tomatoland, reviewed by the NYT here); and c) avoid consuming bisphenol-A (BPA) that is reported to leach from the white plastic lining of commercially canned goods.
That white lining no doubt represented an advance in its time, aimed at solving the problem of botulism, and now we're going back to simpler ways. How the world turns.
Another day, another nest. The avian real estate boom continues.
This nest is located on the porch about a meter from our main entrance--the busiest spot a birdbrain could have picked. Every time someone arrives, the robin mom-to-be swoops past at head height. It's a horror movie.
I like nature as much as the next person, but enough with the gushing over baby birds: I was peeved to find this nest emerging from the top tier of my planter, into which I had JUST, FINALLY, stuck some petunias. You can barely see a squished sprig of green struggling to grow out from under the muddy twigs. The power of plant life is nothing short of awesome (see my earlier post on weed survival), but smart money is on the birds here.
Kate comes bearing art to a reading/celebration in her honour.
My friend of old radiated joy and wonder that day, as she does, over and over, through her poetry. Experience the force field yourself by viewing this video: Kate Marshall Flaherty reciting her poem "Far Away" (music by Mark Korven).
Attempting to grow food, I should say. There are always surprises--thwarted plans, the odd disaster wrought by weather or animals.
This year, self-made disaster looms. In the spring we decided to try something called soil solarization to address the blighted tomatoes of recent years. Tomatoes planted in certain areas of the garden would thrive at first and later wilt. They looked as though they needed more water, but water didn't help. We formed a loose theory (thanks, Google!) that bacteria in the soil were responsible for the blight. Solarization--sealing the earth with clear plastic tarp, allowing bacteria-killing heat to build--would solve the problem, only we must have done it badly. We started late, so the plastic wasn't left in place long enough. Weeds (which we were supposed to remove first, but who knew? I thought they'd suffocate) yellowed deceptively while adapting to their outdoor terrarium, muscling their way toward gaps in the sheeting. It was a big overgrown mess when we finally pulled the plastic away.
Tim wanted to roto-till the weeds into oblivion, but I had just read an article on the excellent Nourish Project site that claimed roto-tilling harms the soil--instead, "lasagna gardening" is the way to go. No problem: all we had to do was cover the dirt with layers of newspaper, compost, straw, and cardboard, which sounded straightforward and eco-friendly. Layers, no digging, materials at hand put to good use. And it goes without saying that I make a mean lasagna, so problem solved, right?
Well, the cardboard and newspapers blew around the yard despite our watering them. The patchwork of flattened boxes, now anchored with fence posts and logs, many decorated with colourful corporate logos, lent a warehouse aesthetic to our patch of paradise. It was, in my mother-in-law's oft-used phrase, a dog's breakfast. Apparently I missed the Part 2 Lasagna Garden post, which contained troubleshooting instructions that would have been handy to have.
Ultimately, Tim dumped piles of grass clippings over the plot, opting for camouflage. He refrained from outright blaming me, while clearly wishing for a quick gas-powered solution. One of us likes to plant seeds in straight lines using string and sticks and neat labels; one of us can't manage anything more than scattering--guess who is who? After much digging, I was able to clear small strips and plant tomatoes and basil, but most of the garden will lie fallow this year. There will be no squash, corn, sunflowers, or peppers, and the whole is such a mess that I can't bear to post a picture. Maybe later.
What we have is still going to be great: two small raised beds planted by the kids, 16 tomatoes in the ground, and several more in containers. If no blight strikes, my crap methods will be vindicated.
I meant to post these pictures, taken toward the end of May, before now.
Then:
new pear tree, birthday gift for Tim
garlic awakening
child planters--carrots, mesclun, two kinds of beans
beginnings (and resurgence of small strawberry patch on right)
rhubarb I haven't killed yet--yes, you can kill it
future strawberries
various (unlabelled, naturally) tomatoes grown from seed
This was the situation a few days ago, but today the nest is empty, like the old nest on the left. Another dwelling, moss-covered, hangs from a beam not far away. Every year robins build homes in the eaves, apparently not minding slamming doors and motion-detector lights tripped by six people coming and going at all hours. The perfect location, location, location, and no cats: prime avian real estate here, the spring market heating up.
This photo is slightly fraudulent, because it was taken late last summer, but close enough. Today, walking the dog on the trail that traces the Otonabee River, I forgot to bring a camera. By the way, Otonabee is pronounced uh-TAWN-a-bee. When I first moved here, I said ott-ta-NAW-bee on more than one occasion, offending local ears.
Fun Can-Lit fact for non-Canadian readers: the Otonabee figures heavily in the writing of sisters Catherine Parr Traill and Susanna Moodie and their brother Samuel Strickland, English settlers who chronicled life in 19th-century Upper Canada. Parr Traill, a naturalist, catalogued native plants and their uses, among other works. Today, surrounded by the burgeoning trees, shrubs and flowers of June, I wished for a copy of her Canadian Wild Flowers to help me identify some of them.
My walk was short, squeezed between garden chores and the production of a fully homemade Father's Day dinner that exceeded all expectations, if I do say so myself.* Our garden/weedriot demands attention, but being so far behind this early in the season somehow makes it easier to take off--escape to the trail once again.
What I experienced while escaping:
--drama overhead--smoky rolling clouds, threatening a return to the morning's rainfall, against a clear blue sky.
--cattails, milkweed, ferns, daisies, devil's paintbrush and apple trees loaded with tiny fruit; a shock of purple-white Iris sprouting in the midst of tall grasses--planted by someone?
--birds darting from tree to tree, so loud that they penetrated my headphones (why the hell was I wearing them, you might well ask).
--a freshly dug garden plot rigged with a pump and water line to the river.
--two turtles, big and little, sunning on a stump jutting from the lagoon by Sawyers Creek Bridge. Given that it's Father's Day, allow me some anthropomorphism here: they were a dad and baby turtle; I feel it.
--an actual dad with two small children carrying miniature fishing rods; they moved toward the bridge in slow motion, a wise strategy for any enterprise involving toddlers and fish hooks. Seeing them called to mind memories of my own slow-mo travels with children (years, gone so quickly!) and I picked up my pace.
--a teenager standing on a paddle boat beneath the bridge, fishing, ignoring all passersby.
--a man standing on a board floating down the river, paddling, admirably balanced.
--bikers, including a woman who stopped to interact with the dog (warning bell in my head: crazed animal lover, possible need to escape from my escape). Thus began a prolonged chat as she walked her bike alongside me, unbidden; mentioned a neighbour, and I nodded in recognition; ranged in her discourse from dog breeds to weather to the threat of grubs to grass; and when finally she inquired about the DOG'S name, I told her, and then offered MINE, and she exclaimed in embarrassment: she had thought I was someone else. I said that I thought she was just extremely friendly (polite lie). She rode off, leaving the dog and me in peace, whereupon I had just enough trail left to think with gratitude about fathers, especially my father and my husband, who have been such a gift in the lives of their children.
*At least, no food complaints were lodged within my earshot, perhaps because the
cooking was shared--two kids barbecuing, one kid sauteeing mushrooms and
overseeing the spinach and mashed potatoes, the last not cooking
exactly, but hanging around trying to steal lemon squares before dinner. They did a great job making the traditional breakfast in bed for their
father this morning, too--everyone pitched in.
If I were hearing the words instead of reading them on a food label, I'd feel a pulse of pleasure over the syncopation in icing sugar, sugar (which no doubt has a name--one of those confusing poetic devices involving repeated words). The juxtaposition of sugar and water would recall high school science lab with its beakers full of mystery solutions, or maybe harken further back to the days when mothers handed their kids bottles of sugar water to shut them up. And that final line, with its soft hiss of alliteration: salt, sulphites. A sigh seeded with a suggestion: You, preserved.
Let's skip the over the sulphites and excess sugar and go straight to the propylene glycol. Why is there antifreeze in my kitchen? I only wanted to make a batch of granola. Silly me. I let another (non-label-reading) person do the shopping and this adulterated product landed in the baking drawer. I noticed the label after the fact.
Propylene glycol is the active ingredient in antifreeze and yummy products such as paint, dog food, cosmetics, brake fluid and aircraft de-icer. Which brings us back to antifreeze. Real food advocates decry this additive, and even pop culture has noticed: check out the Dr. Oz website, for example. Regulators appear to believe that propylene glycol is safe at approved levels. It's allowed in North American food processing as a stabilizer, humectant, solvent, and other uses that are difficult to imagine alongside food. The Europeans are the holdouts, as ever: the EU has not given blanket approval, but regulates the use of propylene glycol in food through a specific directive.
This link to a major manufacturer's sales literature might have, but didn't actually, answer my question: why is there antifreeze in the coconut I just used in baking? Here's a short excerpt that describes our additive precisely:
Dow PG USP/EP is a clear, colorless, practically odorless, slightly viscous, water-soluble and hygroscopic liquid. It is synthesized from hydrocarbon raw materials.
Materials of plant or animal origin, genetically modified organisms, solvents, catalysts, additives or stabilizers are not used in the manufacturing process or added to the final product.
I was going to write about food again, since everyone needs to eat and I have new Unprocessed Project creations to share, but then I saw this gizmo on my way to a much-needed yoga class earlier today. Isn't it lovely?
Wait, what is it?
This, my friends, is a public DIY bike repair stand, newly installed outside the Trent University Athletic Centre. Note the ample free bike parking, too. Anyone who has paid more than her fair share for Trent AC parking tickets at $20 a pop should consider biking.
Throughout May the good folks at Peterborough Moves are running a "transportation competition and campaign" called Workplace Shifting Gears, a challenge to walk, cycle or take public transit instead of driving to work. I signed up last week for my employer, promising to cycle-commute at least twice a week. Except, hmm. That may not have been wise, seeing as a) it's far and hilly--about 25 km; b) my bike is ancient and clunky and still in winter storage; and c) I'm ancient and clunky and still in winter storage. But even if I manage a few shorter trips around town, I can log them on the Shifting Gears site and reap untold physical and mental benefits.
When we lived in Toronto, I commuted by bike except for the extremely pregnant months. I find it therapeutic to jump from work into rush-hour traffic, dodging all the assholes uptight drivers racing home. In fact, a guy in a black convertible BMW with the top down--a detail that meant he could see me--once clipped my bike as we drove together along a narrow downtown street. His side mirror hit my handlebars. I stayed upright and screamed abuse at him (uncharacteristically: it was the adrenaline screaming). The best Rx for bike/car rage? More yoga, NOW! when it is available to me. But we don't have anything like Toronto traffic here in the hinterlands, and people are supernice, and I'm a safety-conscious rider who signals and everything, so no worries.
Other than being out of shape. I'll let you know if I totally humiliate myself when I take a test ride this weekend.
Here are a few more shots of the apparatus. Not that I'm handy, but it's a comfort to know that you can use the pump and these other thingies should the need arise. The Shifting Gears initiative also includes free bike repair classes. (Get the themes here? Free. Public. For the good of all.)
B!KE, the non-profitPeterborough Community Cycling Club, has brought us this sublimely blue Fixit station and three others just like it, strategically located around the city. Find more details here.
