tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85835637715369343272024-03-13T01:38:56.799-07:00Cold-Water Swimmers: A Blog about Nature, Food, and Food from NatureCold water throws us into briskness and clarity. Plus, it's fun. The writing here is about finding flavor in nature, foraging, jumping into surprising arenas. Living brightly but slowly. Feeling cold water in dark weather, living in hills and dales, among leaves and trunks, with each plant and fruit and berry, each marrow and mallow.Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-57370731067296873362018-07-08T15:23:00.001-07:002018-08-07T18:25:07.418-07:00Box from the Past<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Bonneville Shoreline Trail, Salt Lake City, Utah. Shore of an ancient seabed. Photo by Liji Jinaraj, Creative Commons. </span><br /><br />A box of nature books arrived today. Packed and sealed a year and a half ago, they were left in storage on a hilly, stony street near the waterside in Staten Island. <br /><br />These are the books I sought in the mega-city. They brought me reminders of the ocean that lapped the edges of that island and the rest of New York’s rocky verges, drawing out my awareness of nature as I gained Lower Manhattan by salt-sprayed ferry each day and sat at a desk as part of a website’s editorial staff. <br /><br />Having since moved to the Rocky Mountain West, I live on a hill in an old neighborhood in one of the larger cities in this region, making my living in a similar trade. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Here I breathe easier looking out my kitchen window at the inspiring hump of a foothill, and I walk the shoreline trail in cool temperatures with long views of high mountains. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sage grows on foothills above the neighborhood, and a grassy hiking trail circles the valley on the shores of a prehistoric lake. Beyond the hills, gray, jagged peaks rise—snow-covered in winter, creating stark images of the giants around us. For part of the summer, sun beats upon the valley. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />It’s undeniable that Western cities and Western towns—like their counterparts elsewhere—have affected the landscape in many ways. Also, I know many who find nature in New York, Chicago, Paris through birdwatching, studying marine invertebrates, participating in oyster planting programs, planting trees or photographing them. But I am finding it important to have nature within view, and I tally happily each sighting--even if I sometimes wish the high, cool canyons here were a bit nearer, reached by public transit and bicycle lane as they would have been in the early part of the 20th century. Still, within 35-40 minutes' car travel, streams gurgle beneath leafy undergrowth under conifers. It's a beautiful thing.<br /><br />When the books arrived, I opened the box—with the salty expectation of words of the sea. I treasured them at the time, but I read only parts of those books; I was too busy seeking nature in the everyday. Now I am happy the books have arrived, reminding me of the natural-history nest I established for myself and can continue to build elsewhere. I’ll also read such books set in the West, and seek out authors, naturalists, biologists, and others of the Intermountain Rockies and the West Coast. <br /><br />Here are some from the box: <br /><br /><a href="https://yalebooks.yale.edu/book/9780300219692/narrow-edge">Narrow Edge: A Tiny Bird, An Ancient Crab & An Epic Journey, by Deborah Cramer</a>. This concerns a seabird, the red knot, whose main food source is horseshoe crabs; it also migrates 20,000 miles. It's an inspiring, beautifully written book. “One warm May night, around midnight, I drove out to an empty beach on Delaware Bay. The summerhouses nearby were dark and empty, the only light the full moon shining on the bay and the only sound the waves gently lapping against the sand. Just before high tide, horseshoe crabs began emerging from the water. Their shells, some as large as dinnerplates, were dark and scuffed.”<br /><br /><a href="https://www.theguardian.com/books/2015/apr/09/coastlines-the-story-of-our-shore-patrick-barkham-review">Coastlines, by Patrick Barkham</a>. By a British natural-history writer, this covers walks along 742 miles of coastline in England, Wales, and Northern Ireland. It begins, “No cars glittered in the large tarmac car park. Seafront razzle dazzle was locked away inside boxy grey amusement arcades shuttered for the winter. The little shops on the stone-and-slate high street betrayed a seaside town’s weakness for punning: Born and Bread, Sophisticut and Cloud Nine. Opposite a derelict patch of weedy concrete, a tiny lane twisted upwards between dainty terraced homes, their chimneys pluming wood smoke from living-room fires.”<br /><br /><a href="https://yalebooks.yale.edu/book/9780300205671/incidental-steward">The Incidental Steward: Reflections on Citizen Science, by Akiko Busch.</a> “Mohonk Mountain is only 30 miles from where I live in the Hudson Valley, but the ascent always makes it seem farther, mist hugs the ridge and drifts over the valley. The trees have long since shed their foliage, but for those few leaves still lingering on some oaks, and those will hang on for most of the winter.” <br /><br /><a href="https://books.google.com/books/about/The_Best_American_Science_and_Nature_Wri.html?id=VvGOCgAAQBAJ">The Best American Science and Nature Writing 2015 (edited by Rebecca Skloot and Tim Folger).</a> The essay “At Risk” by Jourdan Imani Keith, first published in Orion magazine, begins: “The torrential rain in the first week of September pummels the youth crew’s tents at night, depositing mud and sediment in the creek where they pump water for drinking. For 17 days the teenagers I recruited to build trails for the Northern Cascades National Park are camping during one of the heaviest storms in 100 years.”<br /><br /><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Beginning-Again-People-Nature-Millennium/dp/0195096371">Beginning Again: People and Nature in the New Millennium, by David Ehrenfeld </a>(founding editor of the journal Conservation Biology, a biology professor at Rutgers University, and author of The Arrogance of Humanism). “The beginning of my introduction to places was not in Tutuguero at all, but in Gainesville, Florida where I had come to study zoology with Dr. Carr. It was my first day there, and it was summer, hot and humid. My new medical diploma from Harvard was in my suitcase and I was wearing a tie and jacket. I was terribly out of place, the way only a person who doesn’t have a good feeling for places can be.” (Shortly afterward, Ehrenfeld’s advisor takes him to look at an alligator nest.)<br /><br />Lacking a connection to the sea but telling plenty about naturalism and nature, is <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Butterfly-Journey-Sibylla-Merian-Scientist/dp/3791381490">A Butterfly Journey: Maria Sybylla Merian, Artist and Scientist, by Boris Friedewald</a>. This beautifully illustrated little book deserves to be better-known, about a woman in the mid-seventeenth century who functioned as a scientist and artist: She collected, observed, and sketched caterpillars and butterflies and their foliage plants. Also, her work took place at a time when her interests could have led to her being suspected of witchcraft. “It was a strange, wondrous and immensely eventful era into which Maria Sybylla was born on 2 April 1647 in Frankfurt am Main. The Thirty Years’ War was still raging. It had pitted the Protestant and Catholic powers against each other and turned nearly all of Germany into a battleground. It came to an end with the Peace of Westphalia, signed in the year after Maria’s birth.” <br /><br />There’s also <a href="https://books.google.com/books/about/Nobody_Better_Better_Than_Nobody.html?id=iW6l8SDuGjEC">Ian Frazier’s Nobody Better, Better Than Nobody</a>, his 1997 roundup of essays. These are not overtly nature-oriented, but Frazier’s writing is always about both land and people, whether the setting is post-Hurricane Sandy Staten Island or reservation North Dakota, or upstate New York in one of his first pieces, about fishing there (arriving by bus) after obtaining guidance from a Manhattan-based fly shop. <br /><br />It is a lot of inspiration for one box. More soon, on some Western books on my bedside table and some dear people here too.</span><br />
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Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-50848769858819542052016-01-23T17:41:00.003-08:002016-03-05T19:25:22.690-08:00Snow Day: Jolting Back to Nature<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small; line-height: 25.76px; white-space: pre-wrap;">**Flickr Creative Commons photo by Pedrik</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Snow is a relief in winter. It brings light to the landscape, and an incentive to step over large drifts, sink into them, think of taking up snowshoeing or cross-country skiing to skim over the land. I think all that lightness of feeling, all that activity, saves me from the slope toward S.A.D. that I feel in November and December and on short days. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In Yellowstone, where I worked from September to November 8 several years ago, snow fell nearly every day. The sky was nearly always either mulling over its plans to form snow, or dropping it. I’ll go so far as to say that, then, I got tired of snow. Herds of elk ranged over the snowy trails to my workplace in the mornings, raising their heads to look at me as I detoured around them.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today after breakfast, I headed out past no elk, but beyond enormous plow trucks and through many drifted streets, toward the large park up the hill. Reaching the park via five blocks clogged with knee-high snow at the street edges was not easy. But I was able to walk in the car paths. Every so often, a bright shower of snow would shock into the air, tossed over some shoveler's shoulder. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Backtracking home was easier than I had expected. Neighbors were clearing driveways and sidewalks. It was nice to look into the hooded faces of people, to see that they too were dazzled by the full force of a large snow having descended on us. Some of them seemed a little surprised by the streets filled with snow and the few cars that tried to motor awkwardly past and park. </span></div>
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Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-59001381438759568412015-04-04T17:30:00.002-07:002015-06-03T20:45:12.665-07:00Winter Nature and the Shock of Flowers <div dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-91ac230e-86e3-cddd-c202-616c05065ad8" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> **photo of New York Bay by Robert Johnson, Flickr Creative Commons**</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> Months have passed since my last update on November 30--all of winter, in fact. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">While my writing fell off partly because winter is a darker time with short days and less Vitamin D for me--it's also a fiercely lovely season. Cold and the snow are wonderful, though I can pass on dark and rainy November and December. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">When winter hit, though, it held us as awed hostages, never sure what we'd see next. On the daily Staten Island Ferry, we rode facing a sea of ice floes and krill-like particles--our new reality, New York Bay as polar-research location. We floated in deep fog, seeing only a few anchored freighters and buoys in the bay. Each arrival, unscathed, at the ferry landing felt a bit miraculous--a return to landed shores. A return to snow-clearing trucks.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Those ferry rides were the closest I've come to Antarctica work, and I’d like more. Ah, adventure! Ah, husky-dog and polar-bear frolicking weather. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Fortunately, a few friends are skiers and snow enthusiasts and readers of deep, dark, nature narratives, because snow-enthusiasm isn’t popular in many an office here, heh.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">But sitting on the ferry’s outside side decks, which I sometimes did while wrapped carefully in down and hoods and scarves and boots--was all part of the adventure. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It was all so exciting, at times, especially when snow fell in great, feathery flakes, even in March--that I wasn’t sure I wanted it to end. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">That said, now we are in spring. We have a dazzlement of crocuses in brownstone front gardens and house yards. First there were just the green tips of slender leaves. Each was remarkable and single, the only green thing. But now there are more and more: They are lavender, and purple, and white with tiny red veins, and yellow. They are touched, each day, ever more by the sun.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7tPdzut93BWs66rEFRluW8612KEjP5rFdU5Vu9uayHuvKyBav32vlzUxPecjBjtwgMVoZD5QuClog0YG7WLCi6f8JIXQ95Vt9wfTQYmwGUtghDfe915FbTjR9rlzxAi2VEYsPMpzPBU25/s1600/13301669035_e72f9425ea_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7tPdzut93BWs66rEFRluW8612KEjP5rFdU5Vu9uayHuvKyBav32vlzUxPecjBjtwgMVoZD5QuClog0YG7WLCi6f8JIXQ95Vt9wfTQYmwGUtghDfe915FbTjR9rlzxAi2VEYsPMpzPBU25/s1600/13301669035_e72f9425ea_z.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> **photo of crocuses by Bernard Friess, Flickr Creative Commons**</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">In the trees are fuzzed buds of what might be magnolias or decorative pears or other trees. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So much potential, every day. So much bursting forth.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">From this I can see that I was sitting still for much of the winter, waiting and feeling cabin fever. Invigorated by cold weather in my lungs, I wanted to race about, or cross-country ski. I wanted to cover snowy parks in great strides and leave visible tracks. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">In the city, though, it was necessary to pick trails carefully, to walk in yak-trax and maintain footing on icy, hilly sidewalks. Did I like the city? I enjoy dusty bookstores, interiors, talking with others. But it is nice to go outside now. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> It's</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> excellent to be freer, to walk in golden light that makes us look like screen stars on East Village streets, or pedaling the blue and cumbersome Citi Bikes--till we reach the destinations where we meet friends and sit outside. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Each season, so glorious. I will walk more, and work more, and be open and honest. And we’ll have more seasons. This will all happen. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> Also, right now I’m having a little spring whiskey, which might be influencing the tenor of this post. But it’s necessary to celebrate a little. I’m looking forward to the other green plants that will grow, and all that can be gathered and eaten. Happy spring.</span></div>
Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-14830876722450085472014-11-30T15:19:00.001-08:002015-04-04T16:30:31.378-07:00Dried-out Bee Balm, Brown and tan woods of late fall, Garlic mustard<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4zKJSS8MF-jqYCDuyWqN-V_odq466yW4FIke0nx9MYcrGEhcaj6EECqSQt_ZMoxvoWFZiyxcE0SfCczDVP2LN4TtVOezq4ncIcmZt723xsnQKy8jNHE9M-rBod0PIitgBr_K-R9of72Fo/s1600/10523964995_a3e8553321_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4zKJSS8MF-jqYCDuyWqN-V_odq466yW4FIke0nx9MYcrGEhcaj6EECqSQt_ZMoxvoWFZiyxcE0SfCczDVP2LN4TtVOezq4ncIcmZt723xsnQKy8jNHE9M-rBod0PIitgBr_K-R9of72Fo/s1600/10523964995_a3e8553321_z.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: x-small;">**Photo of bee balm dried seed pods, by John Lodder, Flickr Creative Commons. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"> Having just returned from the woods, I’m
being still, letting the natural remain about my shoulders. I'm in a dim,
November-dusk room--sitting near a clear bag of
bright-green garlic mustard, an invasive plant that raises havoc nationwide, but tastes succulent. It has round, rippled leaves, a bit like those of an English violet. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"> Not having seen it before, I held onto the bag until I reached home, wondering if I had simply
harvested violet leaves past flowering time. Even so, I was pretty sure it was the right thing, and I felt proud of my weighty zip-lock. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL4iqu1-TruziecSV5PBuaqfULKrZJtUR4RNEAcRLiolztd7KWueUWzGQF5WGw3wa1aZngE3ck5hgwjlbxgVkDCH7WPlPGuoLt2fiUDsZekCJsSrcewZmK5NjF4RM0E0gcRURJ3tXEFE-G/s1600/2510613668_96754640d1_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL4iqu1-TruziecSV5PBuaqfULKrZJtUR4RNEAcRLiolztd7KWueUWzGQF5WGw3wa1aZngE3ck5hgwjlbxgVkDCH7WPlPGuoLt2fiUDsZekCJsSrcewZmK5NjF4RM0E0gcRURJ3tXEFE-G/s1600/2510613668_96754640d1_z.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-size: x-small;">**Photo of Garlic Mustard, by Jacob Enos, Flickr Creative Commons. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"> Now -- having checked several photos and descriptions online -- I'm sure it is garlic mustard, which
is good news. It’s energy-full stuff, despite being bad for
soil here in North America. But harvesting it (and not adding it to any
compost or yard waste) is a good way to clear the woods, while gaining vitamins. Hurrah. That’ll help, because my energy is
low. I'm congested, and have been for days. Dust and indoor allergens
that flare once the heat is turned on each fall have caused the problem. Mold causes it, in particular. There are other indoor factors: In other apartments, I've noticed the effect of chemical fragrances in winter – laundry detergents, harsh cleansers.
Pre-chemical use, we all cleaned with Bon Ami and maybe lye, or rosemary and other
essential oils. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"> That said, perhaps mold wouldn't trouble me if
I lived in a yurt and moved it from place to place, or if I knew all the herbs
to boost my immunity each winter. Meanwhile, I’m planning how to cook the
garlic mustard--and having nettle tea, which contains Vitamin C. It seems to be
helping. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEr253QYakrG8eN7iysNsoZfzYPhPwhIXjfNVrntrpvRRnSa9pkv5N97xxMMniti5mvc52MhExZMD8jhromZInphkiKyFmi8hh5KgnpjWlpDBgbqh2_51p9NarA3T44SQUoI2KfFhiw0Iw/s1600/3080498361_05d3958973_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEr253QYakrG8eN7iysNsoZfzYPhPwhIXjfNVrntrpvRRnSa9pkv5N97xxMMniti5mvc52MhExZMD8jhromZInphkiKyFmi8hh5KgnpjWlpDBgbqh2_51p9NarA3T44SQUoI2KfFhiw0Iw/s1600/3080498361_05d3958973_z.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #222222;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #222222;">**</span><span style="color: #222222;">Photo of a log in fall woods, by Yo La Tengo, Flickr Creative Commons. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"> The forest has leaf molds too, but I
love walking its paths—and they don’t bother me because of the open air. Other than the green garlic mustard
scattered in small patches, the woods were all shades of brown and tan. There were beds of brown leaves, bare branches, and many walnut-colored
seed pods on long, bent stems. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"> After seven years in the Northwest, seeing
deciduous woods in winter -- not the damp, moss- and fern-thick woods of the Cascades -- is striking but invigorating. In the garden outside of my house
are dark brown pods, a bit like I imagine dried husks of bees would
look. These, the gardener told me, are what is left of our spring/summer bee
balm—a pink and sprightly flower and herb that is used in teas and other concoctions. It’s exciting to see this cycle, to know that the bee balm isn’t
gone, just different. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiB_FjNuiebVH7x7akE0aLxLQYimSG9ynlF6F250Sq0xk7j9cgwwNI6IC0yewDbg4JUzbKkRobaTbsflBPzpzLIMfFJSEzNLoaNZmJTd9_ehiQiRYS_OtNEL8xMFgMWaLXeHNgSbkeSc5P/s1600/6257067333_566e097917_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiB_FjNuiebVH7x7akE0aLxLQYimSG9ynlF6F250Sq0xk7j9cgwwNI6IC0yewDbg4JUzbKkRobaTbsflBPzpzLIMfFJSEzNLoaNZmJTd9_ehiQiRYS_OtNEL8xMFgMWaLXeHNgSbkeSc5P/s1600/6257067333_566e097917_z.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: xx-small; text-align: start;">**Photo of seed pods by Lindy, Flickr Creative Commons.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"> Walking along the rock wall that lifts
the sidewalk on my street, one passes under trees, past rows of sere
and brown varieties of seed pods. All of those are changed now from the bright young plants
they were in late spring--but they're still beautiful, if a bit melancholy. It’s only
melancholy, though, because I want them to last
forever, in my human way. </span><span style="color: #222222;">Eventually, hopefully, I’ll know how
each pod appeared in its past, and be able to contrast that with its current look.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"> Walking the brown paths was calming. I
thought about my need for nature, and reflected that maybe we aren’t meant to see
crowds of people, humans all the time, our faces rarely interrupted by tree
branches, sedge seed pods, tall grasses, clear streams. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"> I thought about how to
be in nature more often—it's an age-old question. How can we do that while still being
among like-minded, like-aged people and well-employed? There’s a graduate
program that focuses on nature and creativity. I wondered if that would be a
good idea. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">For now, I’ll give myself an assignment: Cover nature weekly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">Peace, happy late-November--it’s time to cook garlic mustard!<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ffX9qbP1UugnB37APoqDoKln5hOqjvI_JX1E0Vbb5Ucfqh34mtcT8Mmk4JJfu9CeDylY4teG3qZcepmCpQorHBRAWZMjeIiw5WnRWjUt1A5leDpa9o34jHCqLh5WEFKBkVRc7eEk6BP9/s1600/5697126712_0a6dc0632f_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ffX9qbP1UugnB37APoqDoKln5hOqjvI_JX1E0Vbb5Ucfqh34mtcT8Mmk4JJfu9CeDylY4teG3qZcepmCpQorHBRAWZMjeIiw5WnRWjUt1A5leDpa9o34jHCqLh5WEFKBkVRc7eEk6BP9/s1600/5697126712_0a6dc0632f_z.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-size: x-small;">**Photo of garlic mustard and orange cup fungus, by Mightyjoepye, Flickr Creative Commons. </span></div>
Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-30631750951471264302014-09-18T14:33:00.002-07:002014-09-19T06:17:24.530-07:00Back from Maine<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The
short season of adding ice to tall glasses of water has ended, it seems. We are in mid-September, and my recent trip to southern Maine has punched up the view
toward fall.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 18.3999996185303px; text-align: start;">**Photo of Saco River, by Carter Brown, Flickr Creative Commons.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Of my four
days there, two were gray, two were glowing. They included pancakes, a house tour by a charismatic
six-year-old, and dark, tannic river swimming. Also a meeting; local cheese and
beer in an Edwardian neighborhood; and a Saturday farmers’ market that is everything organic-farm
and progressive and LGBT and collective in culture in southern Maine, at an Olmsted-ian downtown park.These crunchy views are less visible where I live, in Staten Island. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhartQCSbJZyPA3rnKf_iSUHBGHCJ_YBha_zPLTvrzf3ao0Y-zVdV-Se1s6KWwq-NLhFlO7-vcZ7DYWj_Fscw1-Rcf3HQuevf8Myn0fjLVbToV9vE3AuTiCQO4CJCJwGCt1uVDHF6TrE0i-/s1600/11372711105_5fe9d30d2e_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhartQCSbJZyPA3rnKf_iSUHBGHCJ_YBha_zPLTvrzf3ao0Y-zVdV-Se1s6KWwq-NLhFlO7-vcZ7DYWj_Fscw1-Rcf3HQuevf8Myn0fjLVbToV9vE3AuTiCQO4CJCJwGCt1uVDHF6TrE0i-/s1600/11372711105_5fe9d30d2e_z.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 18.3999996185303px; text-indent: 48px;">**Photo of carrots at Deering Oaks Farmers' Market by Mebrett, Flickr Creative Commons. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 18.3999996185303px; text-indent: 48px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> That said, </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18.3999996185303px; text-indent: 48px;">Portland’s overlay of organic and tech and foodie culture is only an overlay, it seems. For a city of 40,000 to have a Whole Foods and a Trader Joe’s is surprising--but it clearly has a hard-bitten side as well. It might be part Burlington, part Boston working-class suburb in a natural setting.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My last afternoon in Portland was
spent near the bus station, hearing about a non-working EBT
machine at the convenience store across the street, about coffee house
offerings being too expensive and too strong in flavor, about how much money is left on food-stamp cards this month, and a long bus trip to Corpus Christi,
Texas for a job and a return to Maine after finding only overnight heat and
contaminated beach water.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi09564WZ6uK5-S631lHL0JhDmho4KPc7cz6aBjvXYSnT5g5PUy69hJBkf-UPFNRP8i46qZrfPNJqedWMhW4j3zrE1XIap1LcuwOqZRRG8lnLnxW8PeXvft-6h8rmyWOGlNvLGsknUIDGsc/s1600/14549988632_01cb3b5c30_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi09564WZ6uK5-S631lHL0JhDmho4KPc7cz6aBjvXYSnT5g5PUy69hJBkf-UPFNRP8i46qZrfPNJqedWMhW4j3zrE1XIap1LcuwOqZRRG8lnLnxW8PeXvft-6h8rmyWOGlNvLGsknUIDGsc/s1600/14549988632_01cb3b5c30_z.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">**Hilltop Superette, Munjoy Hill, Portland, by Kate, Flickr Creative Commons. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">People are friendly. At the bus-station convenience store, the counter-women at the
pizza/Italian sandwich counter peer toward me as I choose a drink
and call, “How are ya?” in a kind, harsh-voiced way that sounds close to a
Boston accent to me, but different. I hear that only tourists eat lobster rolls,
although I can’t tell, because they seem only to be sold on the coast and in
rural areas, not in Portland. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At a coffee shop,
people smile to be in one another’s company in the line for espresso. In some
regions, smiling appears to be more of an obligation—but here,
people seem glad to be with one another, happy to be in a natural place. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg91BhStdie6xgK48rJSG1uJdp0LjkgRAeIDIXQOLMVqfuBokF8-6BQCB58emjIWCq6qkQ_3dMM7qcfrpMCdcNYlZU2TnzHS_0pobpyk25HsLnKCdGmfQKSlshw-RdTDC0ZYByPS-4bivR7/s1600/8110891564_e50b003a41_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center; text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg91BhStdie6xgK48rJSG1uJdp0LjkgRAeIDIXQOLMVqfuBokF8-6BQCB58emjIWCq6qkQ_3dMM7qcfrpMCdcNYlZU2TnzHS_0pobpyk25HsLnKCdGmfQKSlshw-RdTDC0ZYByPS-4bivR7/s1600/8110891564_e50b003a41_z.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; text-align: center; text-indent: 0px;">**Photo toward Mackworth Island, from Portland, Maine, by Jeff Dunn, Flickr Creative Commons. </span><br />
<div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Outside of town, the rural roads have a kinship with small-town anywhere: mountain-side burgs in Washington state; wooded East Texas. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Leaving Portland, my bus
passes pine woods and rocky areas blasted for the highway.Two
retired women behind me are discussing Mount Holyoke and whether Devil in the
White City is indeed based on a true story. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As we near Boston, we
cross from woods and a certain amount of dereliction into the Northeast
Metropolitan Complex--there is a palpable feeling of emerging into the
swift click of the cities. With surprise, I realize that I have spent four days
outside of the metro area between Boston and Baltimore, which seems to be pulling us in. Now we're in the Tip
O’Neill Memorial Tunnel, then passing a farmer’s market on a busy square. City dwellers in business suits shop for dinner, not looking up to make eye
contact--they can't show a reaction to every passing
Greyhound bus, after all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At Boston’s South
Street Station, a young man asks me to watch his trail backpack while he fetches
food. Noticing an Appalachian Trail patch ironed onto his pack, I mention it when he returns. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He completed the trail
the day before, he says—he and others drank champagne and made toasts after fog
cleared at the Katahdin summit. It seems magnificent and unusual and
world-breaking--I have the urge to give him five, but I refrain from some sense
of big-city decorum that I’m not sure is even necessary. He is a laid-back
trail kid, a recent NYU graduate with a green-careers degree. I grin and say it’s
amazing, how exciting that he did the trail. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After Boston, we drive
in darkness past conifers and across waterways. The passengers who
boarded in Boston are visibly more diverse and more prosperous: Back in the urban areas, middle-class people use public-transit, and ride long-distance buses between metro centers. In Portland, Somalian
and other African refugees were most of the non-white residents, but middle-class
African-Americans live near and south of Boston. The passengers around me seem buoyed
by suburban security and education. Because only a few of the electrical outlets are
working, people allow others to plug smartphones into their outlets. They assure each other that this is fine:“Thank you very much!” and “You’re welcome." This feels like kindness, but also like the urban politeness of strangers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5pf3qIljRgGZ35Bi60hjH0op0f9m63fk3lYM6fic0yTupge-9LKYx-Og5xLL4D84Tpqtn-3Y341RJNKdOgG-ToRCLImxqJaiZUmn_ZPmeegzPDfjLq0KHoC1OQg-xcruxbmputxSRVSLX/s1600/9035725372_dac7a3e9d5_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5pf3qIljRgGZ35Bi60hjH0op0f9m63fk3lYM6fic0yTupge-9LKYx-Og5xLL4D84Tpqtn-3Y341RJNKdOgG-ToRCLImxqJaiZUmn_ZPmeegzPDfjLq0KHoC1OQg-xcruxbmputxSRVSLX/s1600/9035725372_dac7a3e9d5_z.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">**Photo of woods in Maine, by Bryan Alexander, Flickr Creative Commons. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In the four hours
between Boston and New York, we pass land, land, the insurance
buildings of Hartford, rivers, then more land. I drowse, then wake to realize that buildings are on all sides, and this must be the Bronx. On one side, a stacked garage like a cruise-ship has an outlet mall's name in Roman letters that shine into the night. We whoosh past innumerable
buildings, glimpse the tiny red spire of the Empire State Building far ahead, cross
a river, then land on Amsterdam or Lexington and head south past the
small shops and cafes of Harlem. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Near Times Square, we
turn down an alley and find what seems unlikely: a two-story, yawning opening
into a garage, our secret entrance into Port Authority. Our bus tucks in with dozens of other buses. I ask the hiker, who is across the
aisle, what it’s like to be in the woods for days and days, then here. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He grins, bending to
pick up his large knapsack, and says, “It’s—scary, that’s what.” He pauses, then says with decision: “I’m
not sure I like it here anymore.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">For the next couple of
weeks, he’ll hide out in New Jersey. “Hopefully, I can ease back in,” he says.
He plans to work as a bike mechanic in the city, then seek work in
sustainability. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I wonder to myself whether I still like New York, either. I’m sure I’d
dislike it if I were returning from months on a trail. I’d react against it. I reflect on how it felt to be in a smaller city, with nature not so far beyond it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Admittedly, there’s a security in
the Mid-Atlantic that I like—it’s an established place, with jobs and culture
and milder weather. The temperature is 12 degrees higher here than it was in
Portland, and the air is less freighted with chilly moisture. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As it happens, I have returned to the mega-metropolis at an optimal time, 11 p.m. on a weekday. In the 42<sup>nd</sup>
Street subway station, people move about but there's room to drag my roller bag
behind me. The platform is relatively quiet until a man starts singing, his voice like James
Brown with a busted voice. He wheezes and shouts, “I *need* you!” in a way
that’s a little disturbing. Many performers here seem like naturals, but I wonder how long he's been at it—it’s more that we’re doing him a favor by listening. A man glances over in bemusement when I move further down the
tracks, toward the front of where the R train will stop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The Staten Island
ferry, which I’ll ride to go home, stands quiet as a ghost ship. It is like a dream I might have had but didn't realize could materialize: The doors stand wide open to let a trickling stream of people onto the boat, not the usual shopping-mall size crowd. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG9eExZZXjjqHz1z-MvDUdzHu01LnNpblO1f3PQZaIgymdrUJCGUh7XCs08_LhKwD0xH8FdL_Kd7swoyxdgF10AhyphenhyphenslotFxSNQ7_BlJnKwXogkblaAg9mdPEioHF28g0nl7scJMwr1W1Ic/s1600/4375759104_c1d555a9cc_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG9eExZZXjjqHz1z-MvDUdzHu01LnNpblO1f3PQZaIgymdrUJCGUh7XCs08_LhKwD0xH8FdL_Kd7swoyxdgF10AhyphenhyphenslotFxSNQ7_BlJnKwXogkblaAg9mdPEioHF28g0nl7scJMwr1W1Ic/s1600/4375759104_c1d555a9cc_z.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">**Photo of Staten Island Ferry (daylight), by Rev Stan, Flickr Creative Commons.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I rest on the orange
benches on the ship’s side, 10 or so seats from the next person,
and gaze into clear night toward Brooklyn and Governor’s
Island. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I have never seen the boat or the city this peaceful, and I think of the articles I've read about night workers here. Perhaps I can only go forth after 11, I think. How would that feel?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On Staten Island, I
board a bus with many others, people returning in a business-like manner to
their homes. It is midnight, but the evening feels benign. At my stop I debark with three others,
and we walk quickly along the streets. It seems
well-lit, as if the streets are quiet but
alive. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The city is large, its boundaries unseen from here, and I reflect on how that feels around me. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18.3999996185303px; text-indent: 0.5in;">I'd been staying in a house with a roommate for a few days, and I wonder if I'll miss the companionship in this city.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18.3999996185303px; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On the way up my block, I pass a woman walking a small
dog. I don’t know her. Still, filled with Maine largesse, I wave. She calls out hello, then she continues singing a song in a strong voice.
Her dog is scrappy, a Tramp-like terrier. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I don’t know whether I’ll be glad to be away from Portland's easy nature, or easy-smiling Mainers. It's possible that I will miss it. Still, I feel a certain
goodwill toward New York as I walk the last incline up my street, and climb the
rocky stairs to my house. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">##</span></div>
Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-66497976221884201712014-06-15T13:04:00.004-07:002014-07-08T13:31:17.949-07:00Summer Places<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">**Photo by Pleasant Point Inn, Flickr Creative Commons. Maine. </span><br />
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Our setting: a 1930s kitchen with wide windows. Peonies, pink and white and multi-layered, brim from tin cans. All is quiet. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Yesterday was trains and crowds and noise. </div>
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This morning I stood and looked at the impervious blue horizon of New York Bay, the view from my housemate's tall window. </div>
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This is an island in the Atlantic Ocean.<br />
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Each day in these boroughs is stirring in countless ways. Moods change like air currents, like the ocean. In the summer, energy builds--and it is nice to release it in a calm day. </div>
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I recall heat-wave days in Seattle, rare spans adding up to two or so weeks each summer. Skirts, sandals, hollering. Outdoor seating, bars, green-markets. Full Lake Washington beaches, bathers in patched-together thrift-store swimsuits. A populace suddenly finding use for sunglasses. A normally quiet people who hollered as they walked streets late into the night. Beaming rowdiness. </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">**Photo in Maine by Carl Lender, Flickr Creative Commons.**</span></div>
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Each summer weekend in New York is a bit like
this, but with the addition of hundreds of thousands of tourists.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I often like to lie low. I love Monday through Thursday because they are more normal, less whooping. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In summer, New Yorkers go to their habitual places.
Many drive or train to un-fancy cabins and little houses that aren’t outfitted
for winter, set in woods, by quiet lakes, along the Hudson River. <o:p></o:p></div>
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They return on Monday, talking about zucchini
and tomatoes and sugar snap peas. They love these spots with wood-paneled
walls, afternoon light, drinks on the porch, chats at little stores.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: center;">**Currants, by Liz West, Flickr Creative Commons </span></div>
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The introvert in me appreciates such breaks. I like to be sheltered by forest and find mysteries among the tall trees.</div>
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By contrast, yesterday ended loudly and fulsomely, after dinner in a
non-green section of New Jersey on the Hudson’s edge. Then a train under the Hudson, a subway to the ferry. Waiting in the large and mall-like ferry landing. A band played ‘70s-style R&B
electro-funk music. It was midnight, then 12:05, and the
ferry had not arrived. With the delay came uncertainty: Until recently, the ferry arrived hourly on weekends, and none of us were sure we weren't returning to such a schedule.
Two children under seven whirled and slid a breakdance.
Their skill was exhilarating--but how many of us clapped willingly and how many were captive onlookers there in the fluorescent lighting? We watched for the ferry's arriving orange/blue bulk, for wide glass doors to slide open to admit the massive, waiting crowd.</div>
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It was a lot for midnight, as it sometimes
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Today, I am in the 1930s kitchen, here on Staten Island. I sit at a formica table, looking toward a plane tree and a vegetable garden. A different house-mate rolls ruggelagh dough. She has poured chai iced tea into glasses for us both. </div>
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The craftsmanship makes me happy: the
preparation of the dough, the addition of fig jam, and lemon and sugar in the tea.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This kitchen is like a summer cabin, here on this island that was New York's summer escape in decades past. “Must be the wood paneling,” says my housemate, referring to the wood
cabinets.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">**Photo of Pennsylvania forest, by Nicholas A. Tonelli, Flickr Creative Commons. </span></div>
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I will talk to nature-seekers. Cabin-goers. Ecologists and naturalists and nature writers.<br />
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We'll see what I learn.</div>
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Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-47647437136696612942014-05-27T11:57:00.003-07:002014-05-27T12:27:38.456-07:00Early Heat<div class="MsoNormal">
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**photo of lower Manhattan from the Staten Island Ferry, by DieselDemon, Flickr Creative Commons.</div>
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Today’s high is 82 degrees. It is bunched and muggy and
mostly euphoric on the sidewalks. The temperature has set the city into a
different tone today, one of skirt-awareness, bare-arm awareness, warmth-on-skin awareness. </div>
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My route to the ferry landing passes a bus stop that is a
long, peopled alcove, like Venus’ half shell. People there seem bored, waiting,
like they could be prone to catcalls or sneering. They haven’t, so far, and I’ve
needed to grant (reluctantly, sometimes, and the reluctance is with good reason)
points to Staten Island. </div>
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This morning I passed the bus stop without incident, but next
went by two teenage boys, one of whom was speaking to the air in front of me as
I walked past. I was surprised by the anatomical
specificity of what he was saying. The other boy said to him, “Are you talking
to her?” The first boy spun away and said, “Hell No!” It was one of those
teenage things. I have no idea to whom he was talking. He was a good-looking kid, which
might help him--and I do think our culture tells him it’s fine to be that
direct. Maybe this will last a year or two, his way of talking. In a way I felt sympathetic for his raw teenage
struggle, his awkwardness. I wondered
how far this would get him. (On the other hand, ick, boundaries.)</div>
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But it was just part of the heat-wave morning, and I breezed
onto the ferry, where the front and back doors of the ship were left ajar for
air to waft in from the bay, and we multitudes sat on long, multi-colored
benches, trying not to crib body heat in our proximity. The sun was low and a heated yellow
in the sky, the Statue of Liberty glinting in its light. The water had a muggy, blurred edge. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr4bVv_2HiQUcA6d_j1wV0-wevJvNUsHWnGVQ4P9IXYdRm_BDvj5d1x5S8a0Ga7fRHz3goOYU5IhdsXczhFULlT4w6kDOuWKW9gAPgm_0jCBzivAwYbwXWIXq-1bacQQxkpjjwnxSmZW_7/s1600/photo+by+Lindsey+Turner,+Flickr+Creative+Commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr4bVv_2HiQUcA6d_j1wV0-wevJvNUsHWnGVQ4P9IXYdRm_BDvj5d1x5S8a0Ga7fRHz3goOYU5IhdsXczhFULlT4w6kDOuWKW9gAPgm_0jCBzivAwYbwXWIXq-1bacQQxkpjjwnxSmZW_7/s1600/photo+by+Lindsey+Turner,+Flickr+Creative+Commons.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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**photo by Lindsey Turner, Flickr Creative Commons. </div>
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Later, at a Midtown
elevator, a man in a suit said to me, “I was waiting for you." I said, “Ah.
Well, thanks,” meaning for not letting the door shut too fast. I remarked about the weather. “Hot day!” he declared. I observed that we were expecting
rain, and that it might get cooler. “Yes, but HOT rain!” he said. We laughed, though I was a little uncertain. “You
will not be satisfied!” he said. “By this rain,” he continued after a pause. </div>
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Heat waves bring out strange things, yes. It is an electric
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Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-24456920588758157492014-03-09T20:16:00.004-07:002014-03-10T18:22:04.373-07:00Snow and ice and carbs and geese. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo of Canada Geese, Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge, Queens, NY, by Howard Brier, Flickr Creative Commons. **</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">After
a sunny day by the salt marshes in Marine Park, Brooklyn, I raced home and ate
a red-garnet spud as if it were the last food in the pantry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">This
was all part of the “Love this cold” and “Boy, this winter my diet is best
described as ‘farm-hand deluxe’” line of thinking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">Honestly, cold ranks high in my esteem. Shorter days—I’m never certain about those. But chill
weather seems thrilling to me. Indeed, all winter sports seem great -- and the
presence of snow, ice, and blue skies are why I like the season. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">True,
very little snow remains here lately. But winter is still around. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">The
part of me that is excited by Antarctica and ice caves and frozen-over Lake
Superior’s edge and the other pole and glaciers and Greenland--all of those
sled-dog locales--and Maine and the rest of New England and eastern Canada and
Scandinavia and maybe even Siberia to some extent, thinks that’s cool.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">One
of the benefits? Winter can amp up the adventure feeling. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 115%;">A few things first, though. Today at the salt marshes was mild and beautiful. A trumpeter swan arced into the sky like a massive crane (like the basis of all European child-origin
tales), a flock of Canada geese flew against blue sky, and an
osprey nest sat on high. We were at the breathing edge of Brooklyn, mere steps from detached
row houses and basketball courts and pumped-up vehicles and deals on tanning
salons. Those things, so nearby, were a little hard to forget. But the flock of
geese made an image for me. They fixed in my head, and they also fixed my head
a bit.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; line-height: 115%;">But
the sun was low as I headed back to the subway, and was nearly gone when I
emerged near Prospect Park. </span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 115%;">Heading
up an avenue, I donned the hood on my down coat. It had seemed like too much
to have along, earlier in the day.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">Reaching the brownstone, I shook myself at the fast
descent of cold, the chill that rises from beneath bright, sunny days once winter sun fades. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">Indoors, I found pasta and red sauce in Tupperware, and looked around for
more carbs. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; line-height: 115%;">Yes, white-flour pastas are on my "avoid" list, because they’re sugar--and because, hey, I saw that episode of Portlandia. That's the one in which Fred Armisen asks Carrie Brownstein if he looks fat and demonstrates
by standing behind a sheet and casting his shadow, a la Hitchcock. They decide, in their horror at the results, to eliminate the pasta--but later, he main-lines noodles and ziti in a seedy
hotel room, in homage to Breaking Bad. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">At any rate,
the pasta with sauce seemed damned good. I ate it cold, too, so you know that’s,
um, something. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">Looking
around for other scarf-able food sources, I recalled (with a really
questionable degree of joy) that I had another Tupperware containing wedges of roasted sweet potato. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">Fetching it, I sliced the beautiful orange wedges--and had it with sliced sausage and
brown rice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">Then it became necessary to prepare and consume lots more food. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">I cooked low-fat Kielbasa. And quinoa. And steamed kale.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">True, none of these ranks too highly in the "sinful food" category. But I was trying for balance--and basically, let's not give me too many points--they were around.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">I
have plans, too, to steam some spinach and drink a bit of whiskey. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">Not
sure why I’m sharing all of this, except that that’s what cold does: Makes one
able to main-line calories, as long as we move around a good bit, too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; line-height: 115%;">Seeing geese flying against the blue sky doesn’t hurt, in a good day, either. <o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">## </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHptLwfGewLT36Kj1dwow8XpGaz68fo1FUoCNIdPoQICxZTNkNE_wXfZTZADmLcMSggesiiPYmFu0QiMDxkdAUgkkMOATfbdzTXPWyGWeM2QMTIctv7iksXlfvQYWD4SnllMhXMuNtDEGz/s1600/2474719871_6cb555c275_z+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHptLwfGewLT36Kj1dwow8XpGaz68fo1FUoCNIdPoQICxZTNkNE_wXfZTZADmLcMSggesiiPYmFu0QiMDxkdAUgkkMOATfbdzTXPWyGWeM2QMTIctv7iksXlfvQYWD4SnllMhXMuNtDEGz/s1600/2474719871_6cb555c275_z+(1).jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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*<span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo of Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge, by EdenPictures, Flickr Creative Commons. </span></div>
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Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-14446631927598591322013-10-24T15:42:00.001-07:002014-03-10T11:22:05.866-07:00Fall at Last, Austin, Book Festival<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx3K08yt2dMxL8Jq-T2d-2vS7eSR-mqxqglleuzywifbQJsTVBC0gtKNyUg892jI6lyFYdQyEVcIyjdnAuySc_Nu4vx96Dd_QrFbrkwph5MJsYDIsEypjbmEG4UPHRubd0DZBjHF1ndm-I/s1600/barton+springs+by+annainaustin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx3K08yt2dMxL8Jq-T2d-2vS7eSR-mqxqglleuzywifbQJsTVBC0gtKNyUg892jI6lyFYdQyEVcIyjdnAuySc_Nu4vx96Dd_QrFbrkwph5MJsYDIsEypjbmEG4UPHRubd0DZBjHF1ndm-I/s320/barton+springs+by+annainaustin.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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**photo of Barton Springs, Austin, Tex., by AnnainAustin, Flickr Creative Commons.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">In Seattle, the desire for cold-water swimming was about
seeking clarity and a bright sharpness in gray weather. It’s also about the
feeling of sinking into cool water--even if that water turns out to
be fiercely cold in lakes shaded by mountains, ha.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Here in the state where I was raised, Texas, it’s
mid-October and the long, wild summer seems to have abated for now. Labor Day is a false "end' to the
season--we maintained 90s temperatures until around Oct. 15. This weekend I head out for cool-water swimming at Barton Springs, in Austin. The
water temperature will likely be around 66 degrees, which will be lovely and compares pretty favorably with the average Cascade lake. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">It’s going to be a great weekend, heading from green Houston
to tawny Austin in the golden fall, in light that plays especially well on the bone-white
Hill Country limestone surfaces. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFhjULIe6a9iPj-up85A3jTgchcfp8nkrj7QWoqPCAHYLTBmK4xGeEH-3oRMJs463bsIHdPI5obVIVwWpVAdf8vABkhoozoDYPJZ-rid0gRVBxVDwarU3nm55I2exwnDCkuWRM_m2pb5iw/s1600/Jdeeringdavis+Pedernales+River.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFhjULIe6a9iPj-up85A3jTgchcfp8nkrj7QWoqPCAHYLTBmK4xGeEH-3oRMJs463bsIHdPI5obVIVwWpVAdf8vABkhoozoDYPJZ-rid0gRVBxVDwarU3nm55I2exwnDCkuWRM_m2pb5iw/s320/Jdeeringdavis+Pedernales+River.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<o:p>**photo of Pedernales River, Texas Hill Country, by Jdeeringdavis on Flickr Creative Commons. </o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">I'm going for the Texas Book Festival, where
I hope to hear readings by Jonathan Lethem, Sherman Alexie, Geoff Dyer, and
maybe Marion Winik, Meg Wolitzer, and Diana Kennedy. I also hope to see a few friends, and maybe attend a taping of the arts radio show Overheard
with Evan Smith. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Re-charging myself is another purpose of the trip. Austin,
like Seattle, has more 30s and 40s creative workers than Houston, and is a bit more
densely populated as well. I’m hoping that Austin will be a
nice trial run for deciding whether I should move to another city, like New
York or somewhere else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">So, don’t I like Houston a lot? I do like Houston, and it
has much that is not known elsewhere as Houston-defining. It has truly original
food twists and developments, and an interesting art scene. It has many
really great people. That said, it has the dichotomy of
politics that we’ve recently seen in the U.S. House of Representatives. It has
Maseratis and Porsche SUVs and people who seem not to care about the extreme
social inequalities here. Its inner loop neighborhoods have many bike trails,
which is great—but the city also has people who are afraid to bicycle because
drivers are habitually unaware of anyone but themselves on the road. Its racial
and social inequities are evident on its bus system. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">So, yes, I don’t love everything here. And, you might say,
does one ever? Here’s the thing—let's hope some things will change. Even in other Texas cities, there’s more driver
respect for pedestrians and cyclists, from what I’ve seen. When I visited Fort
Worth in May, I was struck by the non-flashy cars and the fact that cars didn’t
pull up right next to pedestrians when they walked along a sidewalk and crossed
a parking lot entrance. The so-called rolling stop is standard in Houston—drivers’
way of saying they’re more important and that you should just hurry up and get
out of the way—and, we’ll skip the pun here, it has to stop. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">All that said, here in Houston I’ve found that thinking in a
Zen way has helped me. I recently was told by friends about the website ZenHabits.net, by Leo Babauta. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">If you’ve seen Babauta’s website, you know it’s the tale of
a mid-30s, married father of six who simplified his life and makes a living
writing and talking about what he loves. He shows us how to live minimally, be
at peace, and still travel. Behind it all, he demonstrates a healthy
relationship and parenthood. It’s inspiring stuff, and the website is
appealingly simple—generally without photos, featuring instead large-print text
on white, working to avoid jarring us with more online images. It seems to
work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">This kind of calmness is what I need. It’s maybe
what we all need. A recent passage tells how to deal with people who annoy us: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>people who behave badly in traffic, talk too
loudly, are rude to us. One approach is to think that others are like twigs in a
stream in which we all float. Each twig is doing its own thing, and isn’t
trying to annoy us. We’ll peacefully interact with the other twigs, and won’t
let them bother us. Another is to recognize that others act badly out of fear
or discomfort. If we think about this, and maybe give them mental hugs, we’re
better off, too. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Learning to deal with things that annoy us has been useful in Houston, because there is so much here that I'd like to change. Treating these things as twigs in a stream is actually a bit better for my blood pressure. I’d like good transit again, and to see
greater density on the streets. I’d like to be among more people in their 30s
and 40s who are out doing things, rather than arriving by car and departing the
same way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Having said that, I’ve enjoyed living again in a garden-y
city. Houston is green, it is lush, with bougainvilleas blooming and tangerines and limes starting--here in nearly-November. New York has
parks and tree-lined streets in some neighborhoods, but I recall walking (when
I lived there) and wishing for a bit of green to break up the wide sidewalks
that extend to the curbs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Here in Houston, the inner-loop streets are green, but I seldom see many pedestrians, and I miss that. Frequently I’m walking along a sidewalk and see another person, and my heart leaps: company in pedestrianism! Then they get into a car. This happens with sad frequency. At times I see someone else walking and, because I’m so unused to having others on the streets with me, I feel slightly antisocial. This is the feeling that isolation-by-car-culture builds, quite frankly. In September, a </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">visitor from Cleveland
talked about crowds on the street in Montreal, as he and I sat in a Houston café,
and we looked out the windows onto a main thoroughfare and saw no crowds at all.
I recall crowds,
from Seattle and Chicago and New York and elsewhere. But I almost had to be
reminded of their presence elsewhere. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">The fact is, July through September, and sometimes earlier
or later, Houston is not a pleasant place to walk. The heat, sun, and humidity
are everything. Throughout the summer, I rode my bike, and I saw others
biking. But I had to be careful in the same ways that I did when walking on
near-zero days in Chicago, when the wind whipped between buildings and I flexed my fingers in double-ply gloves. I had to
carry water, keep to shade, and survive. In mid-June, a Boston visitor asked about my decision to be car-free here. Although he was moving to New York and
looked forward to selling his car and taking the train, he was astounded that I
would go without a car in Houston. I asked if he wondered because it was so
hot, or because it was spread out. He said for both reasons. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Yes, getting through the summer in Houston
without a car was not easy. At first, riding my bike in sunlight was fun. After seven years in Seattle, I am still glad for all sunlit days. Even
when days were long and hot, as long as they were unhumid—and humidity is less frequent in the ongoing drought—I was in pretty good spirits. But oppressive heat causes cabin fever. There’s nowhere to go, unless we have swimming pools or get in cars and drive to large,
air-conditioned spaces. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">How I did it, car-free: I learned to live
differently, to live simply. But I also felt oppressed by heat. I biked, but
then I collapsed at home and rested, and I felt that the long hot day was eating up my
life. I stayed indoors for much of the afternoon. The evenings were often nearly as hot. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">It became clear to me: Although I am infinitely happier
where there is sunlight, and I was never as bereft in Houston as in Seattle, I’d
be better off spending summers in cooler climates. But in a place with light. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">So, what is ideal in cities, in your opinion? It seems to me that escaping from crowds--as one can do in Chicago, Seattle,
Philadelphia, and some other cities--can be nice. In New York, the
fact that people are almost always everywhere that one is—that’s wearing to me.
I grew up with vegetable farms and horses and raccoons and camping, and I love
having those things as an option—not as a difficult mental transition to make from one's daily life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Some European cities are good at balancing nature with urban:
Copenhagen, and cities in Germany and the Netherlands, have large parks and trees that ring cities. Barcelona has promenades to the ocean. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Are the streets of very old cities sufficiently green? One friend in Scotland says they're too tightly set for her, and she misses the trees of Austin. Would I tire of cobbled streets, narrow lanes,
houses everywhere? In some cities, I feel like Heidi, looking for a church
tower to climb, trying to see the Alps. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">At any rate, n</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">ow the weather is gorgeous: Cool, sudsy, brisk in the
mornings and calmly cloudless in the afternoons. Days begin and end with genial
sun. We have earned it, and hope to continue it. I am happy that the outdoor weather matches my
idea of fall: golden air. Here's to a trip to Austin, and to continuing to reevaulate our cities. </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvx3ys8ZH6_KXLimgM_FD_sy2APBe-UrdOZgDflR1LXfJ_rGgRBnMmHQO44kuY-9bn9Ca4f0zXq8Lj0R5zKHO5zAkHrgR8u2apPpwBPWhP33bGS131q2nqr7eo2_vEJphN2eYVAAX-om3R/s1600/fall+foliage+hill+country+gruenemann.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvx3ys8ZH6_KXLimgM_FD_sy2APBe-UrdOZgDflR1LXfJ_rGgRBnMmHQO44kuY-9bn9Ca4f0zXq8Lj0R5zKHO5zAkHrgR8u2apPpwBPWhP33bGS131q2nqr7eo2_vEJphN2eYVAAX-om3R/s320/fall+foliage+hill+country+gruenemann.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
**photo of foliage in Texas Hill Country by Gruenemann, Flickr Creative Commons.<span style="font-family: Calibri;">ere's to a trip to </span></div>
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Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-60731500114954607592013-06-13T16:19:00.004-07:002014-03-10T11:22:35.034-07:00Early Summertime<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd0lGP4zxWCIBrHMz3KRweWnciZfE7wBlcCLWsPL4VoE-dsH0Pd0pCM_kgfN_ODyV7FPlTWn5lOvgTffUQJ56ZJ44TcjpxZNE6EP3_LbHBW9VUUsZpcIuH0APOaf958uaTzIRe3446lP4T/s1600/eflon+photo+wortham+fountain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd0lGP4zxWCIBrHMz3KRweWnciZfE7wBlcCLWsPL4VoE-dsH0Pd0pCM_kgfN_ODyV7FPlTWn5lOvgTffUQJ56ZJ44TcjpxZNE6EP3_LbHBW9VUUsZpcIuH0APOaf958uaTzIRe3446lP4T/s320/eflon+photo+wortham+fountain.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">photo of Wortham Fountain by Buffalo Bayou Park, Houston, by eflon, Flickr Creative Commons.</span><br />
**<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> For</span></span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> Memorial Day weekend, the
traditional gateway to summer, I bused to Fort Worth to see
two cousins. They're old enough to have 40-something kids, but these cousins run an active organ-building shop that employs people as
passionate about music as themselves. They also busily interact with neighbors and friends,
and sit each day on the porch to watch birds pull antics in tall pecan trees, red oaks, and blue chaste trees. </span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> They live all summer in their rambling, high-ceilinged old north Texas house with open windows. </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">The cousins don’t use air conditioning, it seems. </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> Each morning of my visit, cool air wafted in the tall old casement windows, along with sharp and detailed bird-calls. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In Houston--four hours south of Fort Worth and 20 miles from the Gulf -- I had had the a/c on, at night, for exactly one week. My 1943 building has old windows, some of which stick. Plus, Houston is a place
where humidity eventually descends. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Of my three </span>neighbors, two had used a/c since mid-March. I was being a hold-out, waiting till late May to turn on air in coastal Texas.</span> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">photo of Westheimer Street in Houston, J. Jackson Photography, Flickr Creative Commons.</span> <br />
**<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> <span style="font-size: large;"> Still, I was a happy hold-out. The natural way pleases me: open windows, saving energy, feeling air. </span></span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">There
are many things I could say about heat and humidity--one is that I
learned to adjust more easily to both by living in northern states.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Surprising, yes. In New York when
humidity rose from the ground, women wore sundresses and skirts, and men wore
the lightest fabrics. We opened windows, employed fans. </span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The same was true in Chicago, in
Missoula, MT (where part of the summer can be fire-cracker hot), and
in Seattle for the occasional heat waves of a week or two. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> Heat </span>varied greatly, from place to place -- like the types of plants that can grow in each particular soil. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Philadelphia, 80 miles inland, was hotter and more humid, for longer, than New York. </span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In Chicago, as they say, it's cooler by the lake. My first Chicago summer was spent three miles west
of the lake, where my roommate (a European) and I sometimes lay on the floor like
beached cats, to feel the better air along the floorboards. </span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I moved nearer to Lake
Michigan, I could usually catch a breeze by walking along the lake. On certain days, though, nothing short of setting sail toward
Michigan seemed to help. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Naturally, all this experience in withstanding
heat on certain days, while being aware that eventually the heat will go away –
as one is certain in northern climates – tended to build my
hubris. I began to feel that I was a heat expert. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> (Y</span>es, I was all about the high-velocity
fan. My favorite brand is Vornado, if you want to know.)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s true that sometimes heat is hard
to take, even in northern climates. In normally temperate Seattle, a heat wave of a week’s duration could bring many of us to work with
raccoon eyes -- not having slept well on our overheated bed sheets
the previous night. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Maybe peculiarly, I regarded all this
as character-building. I thought of it as what we did to make up for weeks and
weeks of cool weather, or for having lolled in sunlight on Lake
Washington beaches crowded with suddenly lively Northwest-dwellers.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Because I still feel a bit that way, I’m glad that I was able to sleep at the cousins’ house with the windows open
on Memorial Day weekend in north Texas. Lying there with breezes wafting in,
hearing the trees stir -- felt lovely. With a good-enough fan, there are
nights when it could be done here in Houston as well.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"> I guess that's what's changed for me: Now I see Houston's weather as varying, too. I see the individual parts, the mornings and late afternoons. In the same way that I now notice which plants we have at different points, I now see that some mornings start out cooler, while others don't--and that some evenings, after the crush of certain days, are sublime for sitting in wafting breezes with an iced coffee.</span> </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7WLh8qvkK0NfHG5zZ_RNVXMHdZ9FSZBIrd2HLZQUZsaR7iQWRcHrkJ-aryF8Z9_HgdEMLcqaO07Y1ipNDXxurMa1m8KIz1kIYy9wUC-I4Q26q9TuXtb6qGuGpXAYc6HNo2MrxUAP7zptt/s1600/sarah+fleming+brasil+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7WLh8qvkK0NfHG5zZ_RNVXMHdZ9FSZBIrd2HLZQUZsaR7iQWRcHrkJ-aryF8Z9_HgdEMLcqaO07Y1ipNDXxurMa1m8KIz1kIYy9wUC-I4Q26q9TuXtb6qGuGpXAYc6HNo2MrxUAP7zptt/s320/sarah+fleming+brasil+pic.jpg" height="320" width="313" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;">Photo of interior of Brasil coffeehouse, Houston, by Sarah Fleming, Flickr Creative Commons.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">** </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">It’s still early, but I like things about the summer. Definitely, it's a thing to prepare for, like winter in Chicago. Handily, my apartment is old, shady, and wasn't built with only a/c in mind. Dressing </span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">for the weather is important. This means choosing fabrics that breathe--which I can find at Goodwill but
not at TJ Maxx and Marshall’s, which sell a baffling selection of
synthetic-material, short-sleeved “sundresses." I carry Gatorade and water. During the heat of the day, I walk slowly and in the shade, and am not outside for long periods. Working indoors during the main
part of the day helps. Because evenings can be nice, I probably wouldn’t want to spend them working, anyhow.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> Does this mean I'm finished with cold climates? Not really, no. It just means, I think, that I want to experience the many flavors of a place's most emblematic season. I want to hold back summer a bit, so that I can look at it more closely. I don't want it rushing by outside of some air-conditioned car--not all the time, at least. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> By the same token, I think I'd like to spend at least a week (or more) in fall and winter in the Northeast or in mountains. Because those are traditionally my favorite seasons, in crisp, golden-aired climates. And guess where the cousins always spent their summer vacations? Colorado or New Mexico. "We wanted to escape the heat!" said one of the cousins. Yep, I can get that. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> But it's early yet, and I'm enjoying getting to know the seasons here. A </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">week after Fort Worth, I sat one night with two new friends at Brasil, a Houston coffeehouse with a large courtyard next to an arty street. In the leafy shade of palmettos and other plants, we can spend time with our weather. All three of us had returned this spring to Houston, and we knew the city. We looked around at the late-night shadows of
trees, felt the light air, and collectively agreed, “You know, I like it here.”</span> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">photo of crape myrtles at Menil Collection, Houston, by J.E. Theriot, Flickr Creative Commons.</span> </div>
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**</div>
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Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-69049344930101381792013-04-16T15:11:00.001-07:002014-02-27T12:32:33.978-08:00A lush environment, loquats, mulberries, urban change<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6y9QlhRWkDQewQCG4F3XdEfRxqKE1edsEqc9Yghr6DSkm2bFaMMKABWXwodMk5d0Yq75NE-uErHA-EakNCFdPw88waP8HSXwF2lt_SbEjzQPE6xcy5OjIzwf6FGWicCoLq-zR8YdR1w9g/s1600/3433981774_671916cd18_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /></div>
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**Photo of loquat fruit by DeusXFlorida, Flickr Creative Commons.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I haven’t mentioned it outright, but
some of you may have noticed that this blog's focus has shifted away from the Northwest.
That’s because I’ve relocated to </span><a href="http://www.houstontomorrow.org/" rel="nofollow"><span style="font-size: large;">Houston</span></a><span style="font-size: large;">. I grew up here, but I’ve lived away
for more than 10 years, in New York/New Jersey, Chicago, and Seattle. </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: large; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Perhaps more surprising, I’m excited
to be back. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/garycolet/7410496102/" rel="nofollow"><span style="font-size: large;">Houston</span></a><span style="font-size: large;"> is a strange and interesting, multicultural place. I
like the sunny, garden-like feel of my daily walks. While the city has room for
improvement, I’m thrilled by the work we are doing toward sustainability
and change. </span></span></div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbKzDNxqfnmEgSvFuyw88f31SP4bf80-jjui41QR3EixBp0OXlMwsyR5du_Kj_iG0lF6SNwwi5ettRdoQVUfIfF5blWlwxTsuAOQcrKqcLB6ivKf8kln5wOUPizuxYVPGArtzeYFrhbuxT/s320/4714961058_0f1a050b1e_z.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">**Photo of a bike against flag mural, by Adam Baker, Flickr Creative Commons.</span> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">These are exciting times for
American cities. I base that on a $500 million plan to
increase transit and trees in one Houston corridor; and an award recently
granted to a similarly sprawling, sun-belt city, Phoenix, to improve
walkability along its light-rail corridors. If you want more updates, </span><a href="http://www.theatlanticcities.com/" rel="nofollow"><span style="font-size: large;">look here</span></a><span style="font-size: large;">. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: x-small; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Back to gardens, I’ve recently compared greenery with a Los Angeles friend (who also moved there from Seattle). As it turns out, we share many of
the same plants. Houston, like LA, is within a few hours of the Mexican border, and has the warmth of a lower latitude.</span>
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: xx-small; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Everything
around smells like jasmine, says my LA friend. I have to say, excitedly: This is true for me, too.</span>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">On my walks, I see star jasmine, vivid and RCA-trumpet-like hibiscus flowers, and red, fuchsia,
and</span> <span style="font-size: large;">white sprays of bougainvillea that cascade over fences.</span></span></div>
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**Photo of bougainvillea, by jchatoff, Flickr Creative Commons.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: xx-small; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">There's also plenty of citrus. Most
walks pass trees hung with the small, egg-shaped orange kumquats – those lovely
pellets of Vitamin C -- and orange and
yellow, plum-like fruit on the long-leaved loquat trees. The latter are called nospero in Spanish.</span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: xx-small; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">My mom recently asked what fruits I use in smoothies<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">. Back in
Seattle, each summer I gathered blueberries, and the blackberries that thrive on
invasive vines in all the Northwest's untended spaces. M</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">y mom </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">sighed, saying she wished more fruit grew here in
Houston. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">It's a common complaint. Houston's often called a concrete jungle, although anyone who has spent time in more densely populated cities probably wouldn't agree. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">These days, I can see that although Houston isn't a place of mountains or dramatic landscape,</span> <span style="font-size: large;">the city's near-downtown areas have the lushness of the Louisiana lowlands. Plants grow, vines twist, frogs sing at night in curb-side puddles. While some parts of town, such as the mall-centered Galleria, have expanded too heedlessly -- and it's still important that we continue to put forward initiatives for parks and
green spaces -- my perspective on the city has changed. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: xx-small; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">These days, I feel that edible
things *do* grow everywhere here. We just have to learn how to see them.</span> </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">At the moment, I'm excited about several plants. The first is loquats, from which we can
make preserves, chutneys, garnishes for meats.</span> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAdke0lnvT7JQ4eRrut96zHSby9Icf47TaLxA1N3_DwyHqwZ4vb2oMH4LsdQE8h6eteRXd0PkhHdDE6pHOEvS42QBKzLiAWJBz8LCiSTs-3O-rimudkOiypvTnKy6ef9xvhIIRVYD_P8eg/s1600/8629548228_dd6e8b7491_c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAdke0lnvT7JQ4eRrut96zHSby9Icf47TaLxA1N3_DwyHqwZ4vb2oMH4LsdQE8h6eteRXd0PkhHdDE6pHOEvS42QBKzLiAWJBz8LCiSTs-3O-rimudkOiypvTnKy6ef9xvhIIRVYD_P8eg/s320/8629548228_dd6e8b7491_c.jpg" height="320" width="302" /></a></div>
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**Photo of loquats in a bowl, by Infrogmation, Flickr Creative Commons.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: xx-small; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Second is jasmine, whose vines and starry white flowers form most hedge-rows here. From its heady flowers, we can make infusions for cocktails and to top ice creams.</span> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ1OaiV0WTu7erxmaOSoEljui8nJXh39YmhGwi_ZGNmCVzaD-e5GGusqaXa9oGwkJWjxHI45UNpvVtSRTuM6owdxcWHAGnyQhfvAY2kWR-1RnU-u1U209GtmDR71UySP4EcmNqxjxia2lX/s1600/4857933242_20b49151de_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ1OaiV0WTu7erxmaOSoEljui8nJXh39YmhGwi_ZGNmCVzaD-e5GGusqaXa9oGwkJWjxHI45UNpvVtSRTuM6owdxcWHAGnyQhfvAY2kWR-1RnU-u1U209GtmDR71UySP4EcmNqxjxia2lX/s320/4857933242_20b49151de_z.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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**Photo of star jasmine is by Herry Lawford, Flickr Creative Commons.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: large; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Third is mulberries, which are turning dark purple-black on their shade-providing trees. These are strange fruit, like blackberries in a worm shape, with their distinctly mulberry, slightly bland flavor. But they grow so plentifully, and in such pleasant spots alongside bayous, that I have to like them. From them, we can make sorbets, jams, pies, and many other things.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ti3_Frh8Iyd6YzV01GXM6I9DVEMvbgvAYd1BcS9bZtH7PIRTjHE3nyuGveY1lqaBptgqSFhelxVLonrfSJwGPv1b5R5YvkBGyGoIYomn1vf2oevM2wZPBa8CKznpeGy_HWWnCELfQo69/s1600/2507403118_e65e6c359a_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ti3_Frh8Iyd6YzV01GXM6I9DVEMvbgvAYd1BcS9bZtH7PIRTjHE3nyuGveY1lqaBptgqSFhelxVLonrfSJwGPv1b5R5YvkBGyGoIYomn1vf2oevM2wZPBa8CKznpeGy_HWWnCELfQo69/s320/2507403118_e65e6c359a_z.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
**Photo of mulberries by BionicTeaching, Flickr Creative Commons. <br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">That's just the beginning, though. Much else will grow, as summer comes (and stays) upon the land.</span> </span></span></div>
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<o:p style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">**Photo at Menil Collection, Houston, by kimbo_swift, Flickr Creative Commons.</span> </span><span style="font-size: small;">##</span></o:p></div>
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Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-60546136094662442012013-03-05T16:38:00.001-08:002013-04-05T17:10:31.525-07:00Thin-skinned lemons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzmuUBdmaqX7ZO3PWWPDr4wu1xf1GZcZePLyfWRbSQbgus6PsVanB2DHwQcaJLt2euC9Wl0D_HPg8j5Yv85IvfsvGYNrH71AoylUcbPnWZ7F20HImD9h9iXiZR7iewW7Ur3rXttLCSK6h/s1600/Persian+lemons+and+limes+by+Chotda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzmuUBdmaqX7ZO3PWWPDr4wu1xf1GZcZePLyfWRbSQbgus6PsVanB2DHwQcaJLt2euC9Wl0D_HPg8j5Yv85IvfsvGYNrH71AoylUcbPnWZ7F20HImD9h9iXiZR7iewW7Ur3rXttLCSK6h/s320/Persian+lemons+and+limes+by+Chotda.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Photo of Persian lemons (sometimes called sweet limes or sweet lemons) at the La Cienega farmers' market, in Los Angeles, by Chotda, Flickr Creative Commons. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">***</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;">Addendum: <span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The lemons from Clear Lake, it turns out, were likely </span><a href="http://thebellhouse.weebly.com/1/post/2011/12/ujukitsu-taste-test.html" rel="nofollow"><span style="font-size: large;">Ujukitsu </span></a><span style="font-size: large;">lemons. They were and are wonderful, and I’ll be back soon with more information on citrus in unexpected places.<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Here's the thing: With more
than 70 varieties of citrus grown in Houston these days, and nearly 200 grown
by one gardener 50 miles southwest of here, things in the tart and sweet
scenario have grown confusing, to say the least. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p>Here's my piece on <a href="http://blogs.houstonpress.com/eating/2013/03/the_transforming_power_of_hous.php" rel="nofollow">Houston Press's food blog, Eating Our Words</a>, about my mistake in citrus ID-ing. </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
(Next, here's what I wrote, *before* doing the research for the Houston Press piece:)</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">When life gives you lemons in your very own yard, pick them
gleefully. That is, do so if they’re Persian lemons. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">These lemons are a recent discovery for me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Until this week, they were just the curiously
round, thin-skinned yellow fruit that I picked from a friend’s back-yard. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">The yard ran down to a canal from Clear Lake, an arm of Texas’
Galveston Bay. It’s an area near NASA, so maybe space-age citrus was in order. Still,
these lemons turned out to be ancient fruit. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Like, Gardens-of-Babylon-age fruit.
Or, at the very least, they’ve been popular in Iran and the Middle East for a
long time, and people eat them at the first sign of a cold. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">We brought those decidedly lumpish fruits inside, thinking
that they resembled ungrown grapefruit more than lemons. My pal sliced them in
half, juiced them as we watched raptly, and handed me a glass an inch or so
full of the opaque yellow juice. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">I looked dubiously, noticing that no sharp, lemon-fresh
scent rose from the glass. What was this? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Cautiously, I allowed my lips to meet the juice and drank.
Wha-at? The juice from these lemons was that strangest of all considerations:
sweet. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">The juice was foamy, frothy, soft to the mouth. Its
citrus flavor was delicate, like the kindest of grapefruit. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We’d established that this was not a Meyer lemon – the yard
had Meyers as well, on a different tree, which we had left alone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I haven’t been a fan of Meyers from the store,
although I’ve yet to have one fresh. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">I’m saying, though, that these lumpy lemons were different. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">At my pal’s urging, we each happily filled a carrier bag with
the charmingly misshapen citrus, carrying them home like pleasing treasure. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">I waited a couple of days to juice one or two more.
In the meantime, the thin-skinned darlings lay in a crisper drawer on their
sides. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">A few times, I pulled open the drawer just to look at them. I waited, because I didn't want to sully them with the wrong approach. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Then, I juiced. I filled the bottom of a glass once more with
the opaque liquid. I tasted.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Would the lemons taste the same, away from the citrus trees
along the leafy edge of the canal? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Their flavor was…exactly the
same. Even in my kitchen, they had the same beautiful and surprising mouth-feel. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">But what <strong>were</strong> these lemons? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">They remained a wonderful mystery. My mother, who works at a
natural food grocery, insisted they were Meyers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">I felt strongly that they weren’t, because I liked them so
much better. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">A few days later, I found Chowhound discussing the
topic, followed by a <a href="http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/home_blog/2012/01/persian-sweet-lemon.html" rel="nofollow">link to a blog</a> with the LA Times. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Persian lemons. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">They could be grown from seeds, the blog
said. An Iranian-American kid in LA had grown some in a back-yard, from a
seed from a local Mediterranean grocery. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Kazow. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">New lemon enthusiasm!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: large;">{p.s. Since then, I also ran across this cool So-Cal blog that also <a href="http://mypersiankitchen.com/limoo-shirin-sweet-persian-lemon/" rel="nofollow">mentions Persian lemons.</a>}</span></div>
Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-49594039147439390832012-12-21T00:46:00.002-08:002012-12-21T10:10:40.579-08:00Buoyed by Citrus in a Sunny Climate<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga3StyMOHOfrln6y_3rCDLYPfwI8gxEylGGwf1n-RBuccxClOqGJ9RzDUT1qPNrdfV_24c9NGuA_7JqRjYynj0PbLzGC4Fs1SXUGHitjIzYyoOlMbfIkh4KZ1oEGD2gwOGDWnlQTiM9hoZ/s1600/washed+oranges+by+cybrgrl+creative+commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga3StyMOHOfrln6y_3rCDLYPfwI8gxEylGGwf1n-RBuccxClOqGJ9RzDUT1qPNrdfV_24c9NGuA_7JqRjYynj0PbLzGC4Fs1SXUGHitjIzYyoOlMbfIkh4KZ1oEGD2gwOGDWnlQTiM9hoZ/s320/washed+oranges+by+cybrgrl+creative+commons.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Photo of oranges being washed, by Cybrgrl, Flickr Creative Commons</span></o:p></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">**</span></o:p><br />
<o:p></o:p> </div>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It all
began when my friend said, “Feel free to have the satsumas in the bowl on top
of the fridge. They’re from the tree out back.” </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was alert
at once. Yard fruit! </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> And tropical
yard fruit, at that. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> This was on a trip to see family </span>in <st1:city w:st="on">Houston</st1:city>, 21 miles from the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Texas</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Gulf</st1:placetype>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Coast</st1:placetype></st1:place>. It was early December. The outside temperature was 60F. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: large;"> Sounds like good weather for citrus, I know. But I'm always excited to see tropical fruits, because they weren't common here when I was a kid. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> There’s
been a real uptick in tropical-fruit growing in recent years, thanks to education from
some of the nursery owners and the local organization <a href="http://www.urbanharvest.org/" rel="nofollow">Urban Harvest</a>, which
offers classes on which fruits thrive in a climate that is mostly warm but
experiences freezes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ZpJ8DJrEGMjbQzrZPbKOPkciEBog2norplMwwOwOuFzFhuiXrshTNh3KgSxO2igZJOMVliD5ig6X_v5ZPQjgTptR98zoNg_gdPSR4EknMLXG0-oMhr6VqcBZ1R6voGZ155Q7fJdbBUuF/s1600/satsuma+tree+by+Shoshanah+on+creative+commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ZpJ8DJrEGMjbQzrZPbKOPkciEBog2norplMwwOwOuFzFhuiXrshTNh3KgSxO2igZJOMVliD5ig6X_v5ZPQjgTptR98zoNg_gdPSR4EknMLXG0-oMhr6VqcBZ1R6voGZ155Q7fJdbBUuF/s320/satsuma+tree+by+Shoshanah+on+creative+commons.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Photo of satsuma tree by Shoshanah, Flickr Creative Commons</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">**</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> I rushed to get the bowl,
gazing at its bumpy orange contents. Real satsumas! They weren't your standard clementines or "sweeties" from a mesh
bag, with 25 identical siblings. These were the
real thing, and I could peel them for breakfast. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I proceeded to do so. The peels
fell away easily, though they were thicker than the ones from the store. Inside were fresh, orange-hued slices,
each separate. That was in the usual way, of course – but these satsumas were remarkable
to me because they’d grown in the yard. <o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
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<o:p></o:p><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW0PMZdT30werDBGPrKVrUpHmjKzzNLRdkYnJIQb5gIcQcmrQkG8C-haN-s9f-2Kpbs75OqTj3CKM-Qvr7UFYcOMDsOYQslYYBSquvKgIV3lwzDRC24HWcfPSF7rbAtt7L5Inj8fyZzycS/s1600/satsuma+by+Patrick+Feller+on+creative+commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW0PMZdT30werDBGPrKVrUpHmjKzzNLRdkYnJIQb5gIcQcmrQkG8C-haN-s9f-2Kpbs75OqTj3CKM-Qvr7UFYcOMDsOYQslYYBSquvKgIV3lwzDRC24HWcfPSF7rbAtt7L5Inj8fyZzycS/s320/satsuma+by+Patrick+Feller+on+creative+commons.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large; mso-tab-count: 1;">Photo of satsuma by Patrick Feller, Flickr Creative Commons. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large; mso-tab-count: 1;">** </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">It’s such a remarkable thing, to
those of us who didn’t grow up in <st1:state w:st="on">California</st1:state>
or <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Florida</st1:place></st1:state>,
these citrus fruits wrapped up in tidy,
peelable packages. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">I'd needed a lift, and this trip was giving it to me. Back in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Seattle</st1:place></st1:city>, I’d fallen behind on blogging, which
I sometimes do when the weather turns dark and perpetually rainy in November
and early December. It no longer seemed like good foraging weather – I hadn’t
really made it out for mushrooms, but I’d heard the fall crop was thin because
of extra sun and little rain in early fall – and I’d used up all my rosehips
and sumac berries. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Ideally, I would have found local
plants to buoy myself, and I did do some research on seaweed and kelp
collections. But when I contacted someone who offers classes on seaweed
collection, she confirmed that most of the collection happens in summer.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">On the hiking trail, too, things
seemed a little discouraging. One hike had been so wet that our rain gear failed and we ended up losing heat at a high elevation, although we fortunately warmed on the way down. On another hike, we set out too late and ended up hiking in the dark when the sun set at 4:10 p.m. because of the higher elevation. We -- and a bunch of other hikers caught in the same situation of early dark -- had to hike carefully and slowly over rocky, descending trail that we could barely see with our cellphone lights. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">In both cases, I resolved to be more careful. Still, I needed a
vacation. So here I was in sunny <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Texas</st1:place></st1:state>,
with oranges in the back yard. It was a pretty nice solution,<em> </em>I had to say.<o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">And there was more to discover.
Later that day, I sauntered into the yard to see the vegetation. I noticed
banana trees, which I’d seen in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Houston</st1:place></st1:city>
before. But on some of the big-fronded trees were groups of oblong green rounds, almost like large grenades. Could it
be? I was pretty sure they were papayas. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: large;">And indeed, nurseries and Urban Harvest confirm that papayas can be grown in the area. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDn6rBLxgfIHNEcRbejYxM056BpkR3UuYAbA6fmK7kAo5sW90bqeaRsBZW8yN7dKuszXoc17ugKSlzuwGzWXEf1H-ki1l4WBiA0LzH6W9PRjhWUA1tF0UC5DiGxmIm6RVRL1suhpckMy4q/s1600/papaya+tree+by+adrian8_8+creative+commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDn6rBLxgfIHNEcRbejYxM056BpkR3UuYAbA6fmK7kAo5sW90bqeaRsBZW8yN7dKuszXoc17ugKSlzuwGzWXEf1H-ki1l4WBiA0LzH6W9PRjhWUA1tF0UC5DiGxmIm6RVRL1suhpckMy4q/s320/papaya+tree+by+adrian8_8+creative+commons.jpg" width="213" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Photo of papaya tree by Adrian8_8, Flickr Creative Commons</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">**</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">The papaya trees were on the other
side of the neighbor’s fence, so I had to leave them alone. They were green, though, so I was less tempted -- just impressed, really.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: large;">I felt fired up. Fruit a-plenty around here!</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Later I went running and noticed that the neighbors' yard across the street had a small,
tropical tree laden with orange fruits. It might have been a satsuma
tree, too. I wasn't able to check, because no neighbors were home. Again, though, I was thrilled to see how much fruit was all around. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">A day later, my friend and I went
off to look at outsider art and metal sculptures around town. At a yard crammed
with distinctive metal sculptures near the railroad tracks, I saw
a tall sculpture of a green monster that can be turned on, so that it moves its arms and legs
and makes a loud growling noise. It's racing through the urban jungle, is the idea, and it was exciting. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">I looked all around at sculptures, each of which was an idea of its creator. That said, I couldn’t help
noticing that in the next yard, separated from us by many feet of metal sculpture and a tall fence, was a tall tree hung heavily with
yellow-orange globular fruits. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> I'd never seen a tree with quite so much large, colorful fruit. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After we
finished looking at the art yard, I pointed out the tree to my friend. He was
excited and said we’d head past on our way out of the neighborhood. We hoped that from the next block,
we’d be able to see it better.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We drove
around the block, craning our necks for the bright yellow fruits that were imprinted
on our minds, but were disappointed not to see them on this side of the block. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> So, this blog entry ends on a questioning note: What was the tree? I think it was a grapefruit tree, based on what I've since read about fruits trees recommended for <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Houston</st1:place></st1:city>
growth. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaUiLtEbedg28Le-VUtAXNZ3DYvW_T6gtIjbXXbFTC2WYe8mTwVoQYgX1INTdxprPkL8Qliv2zxMW-_OVDDcTbV8eske1BtolKZO0csIMjDtypjdQ0qJOJmlCn1_PCVk6-KtJm5-_oI9Jn/s1600/grapefruit+tree+by+antmoose+creative+commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil4cSr4v5ROrNUnW5D0tBtqXzH-9jQneZZsVrHqZmqLPois__t1Hy_W-m3dT4PBGkKB2cNOfJaOXv_z1E0bMXCChuUXRNsJlXbsVBsvNb6M_NM5kB9AqL5fOGIcJGCifZD-BGZUXWOg1fq/s1600/grapefruit+tree+by+Conanil+creative+commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil4cSr4v5ROrNUnW5D0tBtqXzH-9jQneZZsVrHqZmqLPois__t1Hy_W-m3dT4PBGkKB2cNOfJaOXv_z1E0bMXCChuUXRNsJlXbsVBsvNb6M_NM5kB9AqL5fOGIcJGCifZD-BGZUXWOg1fq/s320/grapefruit+tree+by+Conanil+creative+commons.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Photo of grapefruit tree by Conalil, Flickr Creative Commons.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">**</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> It was, I think, a whole tall tree simply chockablock with yellow-orange grapefruit! </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What a thing -- the fruit, less the tree -- to have around for breakfast, eh?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> If you live in a warm climate, local organizations like </span><a href="http://www.urbanharvest.org/education/gardeningeducation/winterfruit.html" rel="nofollow"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Urban Harvest</span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> in Houston offer great classes on choosing and growing tropical fruit trees in your yard. The range of plants possible is broad, from avocados to starfruit to guavas. Articles like </span><a href="http://www.chron.com/life/gardening/article/Learn-to-grow-tropical-fruit-at-home-in-Houston-1739952.php" rel="nofollow"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">this one</span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> are full of great tips. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> In future visits, I look forward to having more homegrown tropical fruits, and finding out what grows on some of those trees that were mysteries on this visit! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaUiLtEbedg28Le-VUtAXNZ3DYvW_T6gtIjbXXbFTC2WYe8mTwVoQYgX1INTdxprPkL8Qliv2zxMW-_OVDDcTbV8eske1BtolKZO0csIMjDtypjdQ0qJOJmlCn1_PCVk6-KtJm5-_oI9Jn/s1600/grapefruit+tree+by+antmoose+creative+commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaUiLtEbedg28Le-VUtAXNZ3DYvW_T6gtIjbXXbFTC2WYe8mTwVoQYgX1INTdxprPkL8Qliv2zxMW-_OVDDcTbV8eske1BtolKZO0csIMjDtypjdQ0qJOJmlCn1_PCVk6-KtJm5-_oI9Jn/s320/grapefruit+tree+by+antmoose+creative+commons.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Photo of grapefruit tree by antmoose, Flickr Creative Commons</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">**</span>Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-12988167268034785512012-11-18T19:11:00.004-08:002012-11-18T19:52:07.146-08:00Sumac tea in tall new Turkish glasses<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNMjYIgg2Me_jFMKjz3j22qL1Uco68c8PWMBXxhzNmDLaxncMCrJZ2KapBMPNnuZ3-gY88nGt4IyrQF6FPXTKKX5GlpGLwgiepGfVF_HKyxvNO2Nx8beT6lfTtTtEUJkaeZARXOl1NwrGv/s1600/sumac+by+Dendroica+Cerulea+on+Flickr+Creative+Commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNMjYIgg2Me_jFMKjz3j22qL1Uco68c8PWMBXxhzNmDLaxncMCrJZ2KapBMPNnuZ3-gY88nGt4IyrQF6FPXTKKX5GlpGLwgiepGfVF_HKyxvNO2Nx8beT6lfTtTtEUJkaeZARXOl1NwrGv/s320/sumac+by+Dendroica+Cerulea+on+Flickr+Creative+Commons.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Photo of staghorn sumac by Dendroica Cerulea, Flickr Creative Commons license.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">**</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Rose hips, pink clover, chamomile flowers. They're all tea ingredients, and I knew about them. But in my secret heart, I'd always thought that tea wasn't the most interesting thing to do with gathered leaves, berries, and rose hips.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Surely, cake was better, right? That's what I thought until last
weekend, when a rainy, cold Sunday met my previously frozen bag of deep red-orange <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sumac" rel="nofollow">staghorn sumac(Rhus typhina)</a> branches and a warm hangout with friends. </span></div>
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPNtMne1mlBfnT4bgAiiSPpxmIIbw486PFRWZ7jIyBfxhrjTj2nrClEstvy2LC9pAij6PvKGoa9BScakHEe3AGnvTVvGfO7CA4zIJaEagYz8KBaTaPbtxRXJPXpU9HzjYRuR3PFyCe-V9Y/s1600/Sumac+by+Muffet+on+Flickr+Creative+Commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPNtMne1mlBfnT4bgAiiSPpxmIIbw486PFRWZ7jIyBfxhrjTj2nrClEstvy2LC9pAij6PvKGoa9BScakHEe3AGnvTVvGfO7CA4zIJaEagYz8KBaTaPbtxRXJPXpU9HzjYRuR3PFyCe-V9Y/s320/Sumac+by+Muffet+on+Flickr+Creative+Commons.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Photo of staghorn sumac in fall by Liz West, Flickr Creative Commons license.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">**</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">In the 1928 house under the deep firs, friends Delia
and Toliver had returned from their circuit of western Turkey,
bringing me a large glass evil eye charm (extra-large, they said, to make up
for my traveling), a red, orange, and yellow woolen scarf, some date-like
fruits, and three kinds of apple tea (dried bits; large and ear-like dried bits;
and some that were encapsulated neatly in green tea bags, ready for quick dunking at every cafe in Istanbul). </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Delia and I had just gone for a walk to gather bright red and orange </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arbutus_menziesii" rel="nofollow"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Madrona (<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Arbutus menziesii</span>) berries</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
and stored them for later use. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">When we returned, Delia opened her freezer and said, “What’s this?” I suddenly recalled the sumac
branches I’d picked a week earlier while walking from their house (where I was housesitting) to the grocery
store. There were the rust-red berry branch clusters, in a freezer
bag in Delia's hand. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Delia excitedly compared the sumac’s berry-hued branches
with the jar of ground sumac that she’d brought back from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Istanbul</st1:city></st1:place> markets. She poured out some powder.
“It’s the same color!” </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">We marveled at this, gazing at the distinctive “stag-horn”
shaped clusters of cinnabar-colored berries, and at the ground spice from bustling marketplaces half a
world away. It was interesting to think of the
same (or a very similar) plant growing in <st1:place w:st="on">Asia Minor</st1:place>,
being ground for market consumption and baked on z’aatar bread and other
savories. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">We tasted the ground sumac. It was distinctly lemony, with a
slight salt tang. Delia seized her laptop and found that ground sumac often includes
salt for longer storage purposes. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipAorLmtSTO2yTax8mXHY7aa1TbnEJJVYlfnvcKTuqSrwQk-HQPqYvzgH_crGjrvS5cj841oabVCsmaENMY-2Fo7jHpzZr9e1RuE0__YpSfkVfwaMJImV6_9lCjn9LkOWaIoJkhyphenhyphenIwSfz-/s1600/Sumac+in+large+group+by+liz+west+on+Flickr+Creative+Commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipAorLmtSTO2yTax8mXHY7aa1TbnEJJVYlfnvcKTuqSrwQk-HQPqYvzgH_crGjrvS5cj841oabVCsmaENMY-2Fo7jHpzZr9e1RuE0__YpSfkVfwaMJImV6_9lCjn9LkOWaIoJkhyphenhyphenIwSfz-/s320/Sumac+in+large+group+by+liz+west+on+Flickr+Creative+Commons.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Photo of staghorn sumac by Liz West, Flickr Creative Commons license.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">**</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Immediately after picking my sumac, I had lost interest in
it, wondering if it was too rain-sodden and late-in the season. (It had actually been pretty late in the season for sumac –they’re typically gathered in late summer – but in the Northwest’s cool temperatures, sometimes plant seasons are extended.) I’d let the sumac dry a bit,
then tossed it in the freezer bag and forgotten it.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">But Delia, thorough and art-minded like the graphic designer
that she is, opened the bag and arranged the antler-shaped branches on a
butcher block. Tidily, she began to separate the berries from the branches.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Soon the wooden block was scattered with tiny, slightly fuzzy, round berries. We looked at them, marveling at the fuzz. Delia put them in a colander under a bright lightbulb to
let them dry. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">A couple of hours later, we dropped the berries into the
tea-leaf (filter) receptacle of a glass tea pot, and poured in boiling water. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZd9fvRmPFde1RCR4FLvjk4zMvvEfMPoEPAGCxFjGybhYB8hIjLZ9XPYAACOaDjS29zTQHt0UyYzE1_WbpDLWJZgZ4nrqtTuDwMRUfg41Zib0koOs6LNM3KyLEqAIQ318V4GwSvSH5uWjQ/s1600/SumacTeaCloseup+of+top+of+pot+with+berries+by+Jody+Marx.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZd9fvRmPFde1RCR4FLvjk4zMvvEfMPoEPAGCxFjGybhYB8hIjLZ9XPYAACOaDjS29zTQHt0UyYzE1_WbpDLWJZgZ4nrqtTuDwMRUfg41Zib0koOs6LNM3KyLEqAIQ318V4GwSvSH5uWjQ/s320/SumacTeaCloseup+of+top+of+pot+with+berries+by+Jody+Marx.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Photo of sumac berries in strainer inside tea pot, by Jody Marx</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">**</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">In the companionable household, sitting at a dining table
covered with bright treasures brought back from <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Turkey</st1:place></st1:country-region>, we waited and listened to
music. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">After ten minutes, Delia brought out her new gold-rimmed Turkish
tea glasses, and poured out the amber-red tea. To each tall, ceremonious glass we added a brown sugar cube
from a dish on the table, and stirred. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">On that gray, rainy day we drank bright, warm tea with a
native, lemony flavor that filled and warmed us. Sumac tea is sometimes called sumac lemonade or Indian
lemonade. It felt wonderful to drink something from immediately
outdoors, that had been carefully and artfully prepared. It came out tasting
of the earth and of lemons and heat, all the layers of something wild. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Oe9N7eItchDtNXRsq1kiSqbU-Y0hYDxr_gdbJvXjhzfVrIbsLljTnSw22oWKdp4g70OnTFcAn76nJibKRxzzscHlGhdq767mE1slvq1Lfl0Vk5LKfA7i-Z6LnXFtZoQgEVnwHUUshCtV/s1600/SumacTeaCatherine+by+Jody+Marx.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Oe9N7eItchDtNXRsq1kiSqbU-Y0hYDxr_gdbJvXjhzfVrIbsLljTnSw22oWKdp4g70OnTFcAn76nJibKRxzzscHlGhdq767mE1slvq1Lfl0Vk5LKfA7i-Z6LnXFtZoQgEVnwHUUshCtV/s320/SumacTeaCatherine+by+Jody+Marx.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Photo of sumac tea by Jody Marx</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">**</span></div>
</div>
Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-9918172816250790062012-10-31T15:31:00.002-07:002012-11-18T19:13:23.172-08:00Botanic garden, Kousa dogwood, and kicking the shut-in habit<style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiWnMQv41uW5qX5xo20dy2U9MPlhaG8CRcaBziOpmWlZEn85gnklafX5PV5R_EfL5QaY1gGfvFI0mMtMa0wJXghUBaQIwaUajavnNNH3Aq59CirzaYA1KXWnypqBoiec7sKzYZnSgo1hOB/s1600/Bungalow+in+gray+weather+by+Wonderlane+on+creative+commons_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiWnMQv41uW5qX5xo20dy2U9MPlhaG8CRcaBziOpmWlZEn85gnklafX5PV5R_EfL5QaY1gGfvFI0mMtMa0wJXghUBaQIwaUajavnNNH3Aq59CirzaYA1KXWnypqBoiec7sKzYZnSgo1hOB/s320/Bungalow+in+gray+weather+by+Wonderlane+on+creative+commons_z.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Photo of a Seattle bungalow in fall or winter, by Wonderlane, Flickr Creative Commons license.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">**</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">One of the things I’ve learned in the past 10 days: When in
a dark, rainy place without the need to leave home for work, and while living
in a lovely Arts & Craft house, well-insulated and well-gardened, it’s easy
to become a sleepy shut-in.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But, here at the housesit house, I’m leaving my slumber. I’m
happy to say that soon I start a copywriting contract gig at an ecommerce
company. Also, I’ve done some political canvassing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Here’s to the vigorous productivity and growth that follow
any plant’s necessary dormant period, right? Ha.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And, as we watch those flood waters slowly recede from New
Jersey and New York—where I once lived, have dear friends, and remember well
the turn of the streets and sounds of people’s voices—it’s good to know progress occurs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">(Last night I ordered a pizza and specified the “South
Philly,” in honor of areas affected by Hurricane Sandy. Because it’s the least
I could do, the “Brooklyn Bridge” was more expensive, and I figured I could add
my own bell peppers, after all.)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0uAnOY_CrOL4AGadqMohatw-S7HOwun21isAu3o5En3cCejJjQmkFYJ9g29obUyTWa5vIGKMBylmaRT35UbUYG7wi4gOifOH2bWNGr6PHV81S4_YrLSw46sdfr8VK7QDOEfuato8nykdA/s1600/photo+of+nyc+pizza+by+arnold+gatilao+on+creative+commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0uAnOY_CrOL4AGadqMohatw-S7HOwun21isAu3o5En3cCejJjQmkFYJ9g29obUyTWa5vIGKMBylmaRT35UbUYG7wi4gOifOH2bWNGr6PHV81S4_YrLSw46sdfr8VK7QDOEfuato8nykdA/s320/photo+of+nyc+pizza+by+arnold+gatilao+on+creative+commons.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Photo of pizza by Arnold Gatilao, Flickr Creative Commons license</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">**</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">On an active weekend recently, I took a field trip to <a href="http://www.kruckeberg.org/about" rel="nofollow">Kruckeberg Botanic Garden</a>. It's a 4-acre public garden in a north Seattle suburb, founded as a private garden in 1958 by </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">husband-and-wife botanists and horticulturists Arthur Kruckeberg and his wife Mareen. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The place has more than </span><span style="font-size: large;">2,000 plant species, collected over 50 years. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://seattletimes.com/html/homegarden/2003013667_pacificplife28.html" rel="nofollow">Kruckeberg, a University of Washington botanist</a> for decades,
is known in regional horticulture circles for ground-breaking writing about Pacific
Northwest and Western native plants. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">His book, <a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio/1-9780295974767-7" rel="nofollow">Gardening with Native Plants of the Pacific Northwest (UW Press, 1996)</a>, is a
comprehensive primer considered enviable by many regions. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The fact is, West Coast bio-climates are unique on the North American continent. They vary widely according to
proximity to mountains, valleys, and the Pacific and other water -- and much of the contemporary
planting research has taken place since the 1950s, including <a href="http://www.pacifichorticulture.org/articles/on-the-road/" rel="nofollow"><i>Sunset </i>magazine’s <i>Sunset Western Garden Book </i></a>and Dr. Kruckeberg’s research. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">What I mean is, these people have done important work
-– so I looked forward to seeing Kruckeberg Garden. It has about 30% native
plants and 70% exotics. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">On a Sunday bus schedule, I took the bus to a spot five blocks east
of the garden. I didn't realize that the blocks were long and terraced, descending toward Puget Sound’s <a href="http://www.kingcounty.gov/environment/waterandland/puget-sound-marine/beaches/richmond.aspx" rel="nofollow">Richmond Beach</a>. The views of the Sound were
pretty, but the streets were curving and sometimes
steep. Luckily, no disabilities hindered my trip. (To those who go later: It's possible to transfer to a bus that travels further down the hill, then walk a level street to the garden.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Plants seen along the way:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Pacific crabapple. I had been on the lookout for these, with their
trademark oval shape. They are smaller than crabapples from some other
regions – each an inch or less in length. They had rosy sides,
and grew on trees in front of an elementary school. I’ve read that crabapples
can vary from tree to tree; these had an unripe, bland taste. I collected
a few, in case they’re better in jam mixed with berries. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2Bd9-qmMtqyMnvP01fE1TlPWPMEqUCTtEkUA6DNywlYZsPd-k6qLe4fGdxhf_btmijSmzhH06r7h6JRVUv0_yx7nxZBti-nAzJ5a_sA2qqUYawFQ97QZR7XAIHa91Rao15tTMujxuQM3/s1600/Creative+commons+pic+of+crabapple+by+Leslie+Seaton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2Bd9-qmMtqyMnvP01fE1TlPWPMEqUCTtEkUA6DNywlYZsPd-k6qLe4fGdxhf_btmijSmzhH06r7h6JRVUv0_yx7nxZBti-nAzJ5a_sA2qqUYawFQ97QZR7XAIHa91Rao15tTMujxuQM3/s320/Creative+commons+pic+of+crabapple+by+Leslie+Seaton.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Photo of (clockwise from top) spindletree (inedible), crabapple (edible), magnolia (inedible), and rose hip (edible), by Leslie Seaton, Flickr Creative Commons license. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">** </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Red huckleberry bushes, with their light, multi-leveled grace,
grew by someone’s mailbox. Unlike in most places around here, huckleberries
still remained on the branches. They were next to the usual salal ground cover,
which grows everywhere in the Northwest.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHamqQysuonJZm-MZtiz1Kl4hHXe9b0wRdOACYSjXsuK9pegNm-vTGBcwmUobJfPOV0KcmrOR4fNvmGeX-w2b3xVVh3vgWJxHzXmUEYhcTJOX37hZbsKXmDWm7EVYEJ551QcVx0-6VQfLD/s1600/Red+huckleberry+in+BC+on+creative+commons+by+waferboard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHamqQysuonJZm-MZtiz1Kl4hHXe9b0wRdOACYSjXsuK9pegNm-vTGBcwmUobJfPOV0KcmrOR4fNvmGeX-w2b3xVVh3vgWJxHzXmUEYhcTJOX37hZbsKXmDWm7EVYEJ551QcVx0-6VQfLD/s320/Red+huckleberry+in+BC+on+creative+commons+by+waferboard.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Photo of red huckleberries by waferboard, Flickr Creative Commons license.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">**</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">An apple tree in a front yard was hung heavily with large
apples. They were rosy and buoyant, indicative of the plenty that is everywhere
if we let nature grow. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">After winding down the hill and past many houses, I found
myself outside the garden and its small, almost residential-sized parking lot. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Trees clustered gracefully at the lot’s edges. A <a href="http://www.slashfood.com/2008/08/29/wild-edibles-kousa-dogwood-fruit/" rel="nofollow">Kousa dogwood</a>, native to Asia, had fruit caught on slender limbs. Each was a small
red sphere flecked with bumps. The flavor is mild; I’ve eaten several more since
then, and their taste has grown on me. They are light-weight, white inside, and
remind me of the light sponginess and look of a cerimoya. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcASK8RBJxeWkecFr5jDHa0iQMJmL734Q6w1NxZbmiytQh1NNEpAyN55g0NOFS5B1Qp3XqXX7D-gFZSWTUzJpn1frmkZ6tSGxFENzw_P8NblkXADnzYiffILEhHHNUz6rj6u-r9siXLEB9/s1600/kousa+dogwood+by+liz+west+on+flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcASK8RBJxeWkecFr5jDHa0iQMJmL734Q6w1NxZbmiytQh1NNEpAyN55g0NOFS5B1Qp3XqXX7D-gFZSWTUzJpn1frmkZ6tSGxFENzw_P8NblkXADnzYiffILEhHHNUz6rj6u-r9siXLEB9/s320/kousa+dogwood+by+liz+west+on+flickr.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Photo of Kousa dogwood fruit (not yet fully ripe/red), by liz west, Flickr Creative Commons license. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">**</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Keep in mind that Kruckeberg Garden is a small public garden, not a standard-sized city arboretum. Once you're there, the trail passes MsK nursery, where native plants are sold -- then descends a slope to a spacious lower garden. This lower area is part statuary and
setting for restful glades, and part labeled plants and trees. If you go, check out the <a href="http://kruckeberg.org/files/documents/walking_tour.pdf" rel="nofollow">online walking tour. </a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">On the slope above the lower garden, a 100-foot-tall <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sequoiadendron_giganteum" rel="nofollow">Giant Sequoia</a> towers. It inspires awe, with a 20-foot
trunk that fans wide like a woman’s hips at its base and becomes narrower
higher on the trunk. This tree was transplanted to the garden by the
Kruckebergs in 1958 as a six-foot sapling. Now it is the height of a 10-story
building, and towers gloriously, with branches fanning like so many umbrella
spines up its trunk. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Next time, when it isn’t raining, I’ll see more of the
garden. I’ll look for the birds, since more than 40 species are found there,
and because the garden is free of herbicides and uses organic fertilizers.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It's worth it for the sequoia alone.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzCjkNVqK9hgR5u_gljtRB9nhHIMDylPqgyxmm5E6gvLlRepz_9yl_qcbBw49I-mCfknX9JaMXOAPLmsehIZE5Zi9gmjRvIIcgQpbT3B4Kko1iqBvQAZMLWf8K17GMPfuSnYydU3YK_GMz/s1600/photo+of+giant+sequoia+by+Upsilon+Andromedae+on+Flickr+from+Kings+Canyon+NP.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzCjkNVqK9hgR5u_gljtRB9nhHIMDylPqgyxmm5E6gvLlRepz_9yl_qcbBw49I-mCfknX9JaMXOAPLmsehIZE5Zi9gmjRvIIcgQpbT3B4Kko1iqBvQAZMLWf8K17GMPfuSnYydU3YK_GMz/s320/photo+of+giant+sequoia+by+Upsilon+Andromedae+on+Flickr+from+Kings+Canyon+NP.jpg" width="214" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Photo of a Giant Sequoia (taken at California's Kings Canyon NP) by upsilon andromadae, Flickr Creative Commons license.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">**</span></div>
Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-72560344951335920302012-10-18T12:04:00.002-07:002012-10-25T00:31:37.752-07:00Wintergreen, and the limits of domesticity, in the Bewitched Garden<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKt7tAQOZTV24aKBT68pcf6s_pzJ9ezdkkDhBM7Ou1kP7TM39LTdwiLKmA0cBM4hYd_tl6zris1mRsZkeV_mFChAl2g9D4KgxqeeWp4pkOqVFrg3QPQrwqMz0b-DmxHqE7s5TRBUVqdML3/s1600/Winterberry-single-robertbenner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKt7tAQOZTV24aKBT68pcf6s_pzJ9ezdkkDhBM7Ou1kP7TM39LTdwiLKmA0cBM4hYd_tl6zris1mRsZkeV_mFChAl2g9D4KgxqeeWp4pkOqVFrg3QPQrwqMz0b-DmxHqE7s5TRBUVqdML3/s320/Winterberry-single-robertbenner.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Photo of wintergreen plants by Robert Benner, Flickr Creative Commons license.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">**</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Today is my first day of housesitting at Bewitched Garden, in the north suburbs of Seattle.
My friends, who gave their house that name because of its intricate back-yard garden, have departed for the marketplaces and fresh SIM-cards of the former
Byzantium. </span><br />
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm in a house packed
with good fiction, a shy, basement-dwelling gray cat, two small dogs (one with tall,
fringed ears that leap in his friendliness, the other pint-sized and barking to
ward me off, the new intruder), and an unfamiliar microwave.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">First thing this morning,
coffee was in order. Preparing to re-heat some left in an urn by the
airport-scramblers, I tapped a button that read “microwave” (it apparently does
other things: toast, de-frost, broadcast CBC…) on the electronic box above the
stove. The printed screen immediately suggested, “Bacon?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Ah, a non-Kosher microwave.
These things usually start with “popcorn,” but figuring I’d go with the flow, I pressed “forward." The machine queried, “Center cut?” -- becoming pressing in its
specificity. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">High-grade pork, it wanted. Okay, I said. Forward arrow,
again. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The screen had a further inquiry: “1-2 slices?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Not for the noncommittal,
steamed-vegetables substituted by Lipton-in-a-cup, microwave-user, this machine.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I pressed “yes” and watched
as my coffee mug rotated. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The oversized crockery mug,
its side painted with holly branches and kilned to a matte, bas-relief finish,
made me think: Perhaps I too should have such mugs. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">In my scrappy way, with my
un-updated apartment and thrift-store items, perhaps I wasn’t setting myself up
for success. I’m setting my goals too low, I reflected to myself over my good coffee, looking at the screen of the PowerMac as I typed. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />I thought about how European houses and Turkish apartments are smaller, the beds narrower, the luxuries decreased. At the same time, I realized: Yes, but our culture (and most contemporary ones) is about the small things that make us feel settled in a place. </span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The house is a 1928 bungalow.
It has lovely windows and well-restored interiors. Its details are subtle,
design-aware. On the back doorstep, tiny painted stones and rounds of mirror
balance near a railing. They’re something to look at, meant to catch the light.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I woke this morning with
light at the fine, square-set windows, each placed just where I would have it
in the 1928 walls. Around me were soft, many-thread-count sheets, several
pillows, and a warm and fluffy comforter. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Through the open windows, the
sounds of birds singing and calling drifted up from trees and the pine-needled
ground. Conifers could be seen through the shades. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I live in Seattle, but not in
a place where I can sit in a garden, hear birdcalls, or smell conifers. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">My home is walking distance
from nearly everything exciting in the city, in my point of view. It’s a short
walk from museums, urban parks, and much people-watching. It is near coffee
houses and art spaces and interesting little night clubs. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">This morning I sat with my
coffee at an iron-work table in the Bewitched Garden. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">It was clear, even there,
that some things are always about perspective. I had a choice of two garden
tables, one near the center of the patio, the other larger but stacked with
outdoor chair-cushions under an umbrella. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Trying out the table without
cushions, I realized that this section of yard was lower, more seeped by Seattle morning damp. A bit to the left, under the umbrella, the air was
lovely and I leaned back with my mug. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Wintergreen plants grew near the
table, I knew. My friend had instructed me to keep an eye out for them. She’d
often had wintergreen as a child in Michigan. “It tastes like gum,” she
said, this morning, before they scrambled for their late-arriving taxi.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The garden is indeed
bewitched, its paths meandering like a country stream. They begin on the left side of the
yard and pass a trellised grape vine, beds of violets and something like wild
ginger, and a slender tree that might be a peach tree (it doesn’t produce, I’m
told). </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />In addition, there are Japanese maples with their starry fall foliage, a shed in the
corner, an iron bed-stead around which plants poke and grow, a few plaques and
signs, a thin iron canopy over a bench -- its supports hung with a
sparkly-sided lamp with a lavender bulb, herb gardens in squares, trellised
wisteria, a side garden, and three gnarled apple trees set like benign witches
around the yard. </span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I look forward to exploring
the garden, and its wintergreen. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihvS5D5bwiDaDHgEXEXlgMjai4Bl1gENmP3kB1b5mjgSyaneZUefBSASaxUS6TJSpjIwdYvWtyUGglQxxath4podwHcN4zlFsRf8oWUL2VMu4tvycPegHabkDRCK2kHSE8I1bwzh3uzdjO/s1600/SinglewinterberryNicholas_T.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihvS5D5bwiDaDHgEXEXlgMjai4Bl1gENmP3kB1b5mjgSyaneZUefBSASaxUS6TJSpjIwdYvWtyUGglQxxath4podwHcN4zlFsRf8oWUL2VMu4tvycPegHabkDRCK2kHSE8I1bwzh3uzdjO/s320/SinglewinterberryNicholas_T.jpg" width="317" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Photo of single wintergreen berry by Nicholas_T, Flickr Creative Commons license.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">**</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
</div>
Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-41147515017091736082012-10-14T15:56:00.002-07:002012-10-18T12:57:01.876-07:00Wild Vitamin C, Feeling Brighter in Dark Weather<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinWwbWQwS5IolQswZ-J7GsosPsrYoik9n_WRskRuG37gWzZb77NW1pRZp2WJH6l4TWKfE42PLN92YD9yobpn01Gm8erahWAtYAjh6L_xhbw5oZ0e1wwipuw-REr9mNbOF3Tx5mGZgv9Yee/s1600/Photo+of+rose+hips+with+water+drop+by+Quapan+on+Creative+Commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinWwbWQwS5IolQswZ-J7GsosPsrYoik9n_WRskRuG37gWzZb77NW1pRZp2WJH6l4TWKfE42PLN92YD9yobpn01Gm8erahWAtYAjh6L_xhbw5oZ0e1wwipuw-REr9mNbOF3Tx5mGZgv9Yee/s320/Photo+of+rose+hips+with+water+drop+by+Quapan+on+Creative+Commons.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Photo of rose hips and water drop on fence, by Karl-Ludwig G. Poggeman, Flickr Creative Commons license. **</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Yesterday was a dark, Northwest fall day. The sky and the air
were the color of middle-grade slate. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">To me, this weather is a bit like having hot weather all the time, or truly frigid weather all the time -- one gets tired of it. Also, cloudy weather lacks drama. Days like yesterday fail to provide the
comfort of furrowed clouds before a snowstorm, or the excitement of racing
clouds before a thunder-shower. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Here the entire day, morning
to actual nightfall, has the light quality of 6:30 p.m. in winter. And it's
considered very routine. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Thus, this afternoon I decided to do cheery things. I’d exercise
and go to a busy, brightly lit space – a large library. I’d walk in the
crowds, use the Internet, listen to indie power-pop bands on
earphones. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">(If you’re wondering, I listened to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Bears_(band)">The Bears</a>, <a href="http://www.matesofstate.com/">Mates of State</a>, <a href="http://twodoorcinemaclub.com/">Two Door Cinema Club</a>, <a href="http://www.myspace.com/tennisinc">Tennis</a>, <a href="http://mattandkimmusic.com/">Matt & Kim</a>, and some things that came
up randomly on Pandora.) </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">These things helped enormously. I felt socialized, cheerful.
However, I’d told myself that I’d also go to a park and do plant-ID-ing. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But the minute I set foot outside the bright library, I
thought, “Oh, why leave the light?” </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I'd decided, though: I would see which plants were
turning color. I’d take the bus to the <st1:place w:st="on">East Side</st1:place>
suburbs. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Nightfall approached as I reached <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Kirkland</st1:place></st1:city> a half hour later. The dark weather had brought it on earlier –
and the days were getting shorter. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">In a park near the bus stop I found rows of salal plants and
pulled off handy clusters of the round, dark berries. Some were dried but
flavorful, like slightly grainy raisins. Round, fresh ones burst with flavor. I
loved them. It was great to find them still around, late in the season, too.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixE4acYl48-WLynymMpqGOYqg9O-0O2_kPkBRjkc9cvIulgkPliRdG4zF2A8fOnZDV2mJyLHRGc2Eu7QbHLHBYgJz1RoiBeGGEak3rp1aRAD-kLCdpCHw7zvD_SDaAhF9UY2cKdq7zMlhX/s1600/Photo+of+salal+leaves+and+blossoms+by+La.Catholique+on+creative+commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixE4acYl48-WLynymMpqGOYqg9O-0O2_kPkBRjkc9cvIulgkPliRdG4zF2A8fOnZDV2mJyLHRGc2Eu7QbHLHBYgJz1RoiBeGGEak3rp1aRAD-kLCdpCHw7zvD_SDaAhF9UY2cKdq7zMlhX/s320/Photo+of+salal+leaves+and+blossoms+by+La.Catholique+on+creative+commons.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Photo of salal leaves and blossoms by La.Catholique, Flickr Creative Commons license. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">**</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Pure usefulness must be why the Scottish
horticulturist/explorer David Douglas took salal back to the <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">UK</st1:place></st1:country> for use in
English gardens. He knew a good shrub when he saw it!</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Around a corner, the
bright orange and red urn shapes of rose-hips burst from dark shrubbery. Roses
gone by! They were large, which is handy because it means more orange flesh for
each mass of seeded insides. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Reaching for a large, dark-red one, I bit it and chewed its
softness, feeling the immediate pop of Vitamin C and of consuming wild nature on a
dark day. Everything seemed to brighten around me. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">A man in his 30s passed and asked in surprise, “Is that
a…tomato?” I told him what it was – he nodded, knowing what a rose hip was.
“Vitamin C!” I said. He laughed and passed on toward the grocery store. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqMlw_s_SSc5uPCczfi0tfPIA3KJV3YfgNtUocSOKPobEv0QX3AWKzi0bQMNK_tJBJ-KsB6WbIy1_Nwcf0IpW9ThWlxkq4omuwV2xVNKJEzpWI6ZCNhMXLCWP-F6p2oJdtQZYk7nf8DRAa/s1600/Photo+of+rose+hips+in+white+background+by+Duncan+on+creative+commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqMlw_s_SSc5uPCczfi0tfPIA3KJV3YfgNtUocSOKPobEv0QX3AWKzi0bQMNK_tJBJ-KsB6WbIy1_Nwcf0IpW9ThWlxkq4omuwV2xVNKJEzpWI6ZCNhMXLCWP-F6p2oJdtQZYk7nf8DRAa/s320/Photo+of+rose+hips+in+white+background+by+Duncan+on+creative+commons.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Photo of rose hips in profile against white sky by Duncan Harris, Flickr Creative Commons license.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">**</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Now massed in a bag for making jelly are about a pound of
rosehips, their flesh orange and red, their furled leaf ends curling friskily. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As full dark came on, the orange rose hips could just barely
be made out, springing out from the abundant shrubs. Plenitude and brightness
in the dark. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">##</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So, that was Saturday. Sunday dawned much brighter,
the sky white instead of dark-gray. I’ve seen the contrast and observed enough to be glad for the
light in the day. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's also nice to have those pretty rose hips in the refrigerator. Now, to
get some cheesecloth or a jelly </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">bag!</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC0BThvD5mpggalWO-ZpMnOPfOstl2cZrRGnqhJntKyEPpuPy7A0fpZ857r7Cv7Y46bgHOONzCGeww95xnAhKAU9YJmai9srXqXDHWshR8yffnw5_WUR8hHIZOv_RfugJHrUkKfogddzxP/s1600/Photo+of+rose+hips+in+glass+bowl+by+Wonderlane+on+creative+commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC0BThvD5mpggalWO-ZpMnOPfOstl2cZrRGnqhJntKyEPpuPy7A0fpZ857r7Cv7Y46bgHOONzCGeww95xnAhKAU9YJmai9srXqXDHWshR8yffnw5_WUR8hHIZOv_RfugJHrUkKfogddzxP/s320/Photo+of+rose+hips+in+glass+bowl+by+Wonderlane+on+creative+commons.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Photo of rose hips in a glass bowl by Wonderlane, Flickr Creative Commons license. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">**</span><br />
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Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-11440580784166059672012-10-11T19:44:00.000-07:002012-10-14T15:58:27.871-07:00Five-hundred fifty apples<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNyl6l9MWXwT2em9qPPuwwKsDeDSealN9eICgb6C9tUoZWYqos-kRxaayh4Z4-MNnUK67H9kr4drUpMkMmKJhUcdgt74NwA__rQL4x6_Vjxs-PHngxtO9SJChXLKjhaj7e2vO9PgXYFNj2/s1600/Photo+of+apples,+jonagold,+by+Floodllama+on+creative+commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNyl6l9MWXwT2em9qPPuwwKsDeDSealN9eICgb6C9tUoZWYqos-kRxaayh4Z4-MNnUK67H9kr4drUpMkMmKJhUcdgt74NwA__rQL4x6_Vjxs-PHngxtO9SJChXLKjhaj7e2vO9PgXYFNj2/s320/Photo+of+apples,+jonagold,+by+Floodllama+on+creative+commons.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Photo of organic jonagold apples by Floodllama, Flickr Creative Commons license.<br />
**<br />
<br />
Sometimes we just yearn to see things that aren't in our region. This weekend is the Harvest Festival at <a href="http://www.seedsavers.org//Content.aspx?src=VisitorCenter.htm">Seed Savers Exchange</a> in Decorah, Iowa, and I'm a little envious that my friend G. is going. <br />
<br />
After all, Seed Savers is an organization that preserves and showcases heirloom seed types, and on their 890-acre property in northeastern Iowa's limestone hills, they have 550 types of apples. That's a mind-boggling number of apples, for those of us who are impressed when we see, say, 25 types at a farmer's market. <br />
<br />
Seed Savers has apples with names such as Fameuse, ‘Minkler Molasses, Swayzie, and Knobbed Russet. Isn't that worth the trip alone?<br />
<br />
I've been interested in Seed Savers since I read <a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio/62-9780615457741-0">Gathering: A Memoir</a>, about the couple who started Seed Savers in their house in the late 1970s.<br />
<br />
I'm hoping that G. will bring back some photos of apples! If anyone else is in the area, let me know about it!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-58716802654614898142012-10-11T18:47:00.003-07:002012-10-18T12:57:43.330-07:00Vine maple color; Sitka Mountain-ash berries<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDXG3FND_qhfYa7AzLcjjFFYjh-8VezbHC2Og7nPLQqrW0QXpDrMD6kF-_tZTCYAkodzOO5oskLlS6y7cBR4wpMl4FkvsntEfZ2sKrdiJhEq0B1WGLX2Spf7NMV5ra8oC-QzTYugWmooVC/s1600/photo+of+vine+maple+fall+color+100912+by+Yaquina+on+Creative+Commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDXG3FND_qhfYa7AzLcjjFFYjh-8VezbHC2Og7nPLQqrW0QXpDrMD6kF-_tZTCYAkodzOO5oskLlS6y7cBR4wpMl4FkvsntEfZ2sKrdiJhEq0B1WGLX2Spf7NMV5ra8oC-QzTYugWmooVC/s320/photo+of+vine+maple+fall+color+100912+by+Yaquina+on+Creative+Commons.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Photo of vine maples by Yaquina, Flickr Creative Commons license. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">**</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Sunday’s hike was golden in many ways. Its drive was overly long, and a foot was sprained on root-y trails. But it involved an isolated alpine lake, fall color
bursting from rocky slopes, and the round, un-glossy delights of farm-stand
apples brought from the town of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sultan</st1:place></st1:city>.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The hike was to <st1:place w:st="on"><a href="http://www.wta.org/go-hiking/hikes/mig-lake">Hope Lake</a></st1:place>, in the Cascades
near Stevens Pass. In less than two miles each way, we climbed over 1400 feet in elevation. This meant it was fairly steep, and traversed narrow
stretches of eroding trail above steep hillsides. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The colors were startling, though. On hillsides above us, <a href="http://www.wnps.org/plants/acer_circinatum.html">vine maples</a> raced across the landscape in yellow and red. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6X_iV3WydLJ5NLiscC4X050WcqLWkdk0-67kv4zOsyNPc9u1Yu941Mkfkt2sO9DrfKGojYKdRJH2PY7gJmf8AY78x8XKpVv1fuI98kZZUHJPkMesdrGkKh7yoYHBPh6Y3A8Wwc7739xig/s1600/Photo+of+vine+maples+against+trees+David+Pattel+-U.S.+Fish+and+Wildlife+Service+Creative+Commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6X_iV3WydLJ5NLiscC4X050WcqLWkdk0-67kv4zOsyNPc9u1Yu941Mkfkt2sO9DrfKGojYKdRJH2PY7gJmf8AY78x8XKpVv1fuI98kZZUHJPkMesdrGkKh7yoYHBPh6Y3A8Wwc7739xig/s320/Photo+of+vine+maples+against+trees+David+Pattel+-U.S.+Fish+and+Wildlife+Service+Creative+Commons.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Photo of vine maples against forest by David Patte, USFW, Flickr Creative Commons license.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">**</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Expecting the dense, dark woods of the typical Northwest
hike, I’d forgotten that we might be dazzled by the light and color changes of autumn. Some ferns and airy huckleberry
bushes had also turned vividly yellow and orange.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As we hiked the narrow incline, we passed
out-of-season bushes bare of <a href="http://pnwplants.wsu.edu/PlantDisplay.aspx?PlantID=257">thimbleberries</a> and <a href="http://pnwplants.wsu.edu/PlantDisplay.aspx?PlantID=280">salmonberries</a>, and I noted them
for later. That said, those two are nearly everywhere in the region. But the
raspberry-like thimbleberries are especially nice. I also like them because they
remind me of the flat, wide buttons on 1950s coats. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Along the ground, bunchberry plants bore their
red berries atop the four leaves. I ate one – only my second ever – and noted
that this time, the grainy taste went down easier. This one tasted deeper and more sun-warmed, and I thought to myself that they'd be fine added to other berries to make jam. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9fflLU-8MVYKcKwvL50k-6C8TJzZ-dgIw0VmToyLqYS2PefsdGuvMwMb92cTbJtcS7bTXBDCMbczgPqNrQOV7qRMiEM3ISsx7AUqAFGuTYZbtm9yYoCFQNckSVRDLV9jznBK7Hv3zlhwb/s1600/Photo+of+bunchberries+in+dew+by+pellaea+on+creative+commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9fflLU-8MVYKcKwvL50k-6C8TJzZ-dgIw0VmToyLqYS2PefsdGuvMwMb92cTbJtcS7bTXBDCMbczgPqNrQOV7qRMiEM3ISsx7AUqAFGuTYZbtm9yYoCFQNckSVRDLV9jznBK7Hv3zlhwb/s320/Photo+of+bunchberries+in+dew+by+pellaea+on+creative+commons.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Photo of bunchberries in dew by Pellaea, Flickr Creative Commons license.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">**</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In <a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio/1-9780976626619-2">Samuel Thayer’s book Nature’s Garden</a>, one of my favorite foraging guides, he talks fondly of bunchberry. The berries grow in
cool, northern forests, including Thayer's native <st1:place w:st="on">Great Lakes</st1:place>
region.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We reached <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Hope</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Lake</st1:placename></st1:place>, which is really a
pond. It appears shallow, and is backed by tall evergreens -- probably
hemlocks and Douglas-firs. Hope seemed more peaceful than the other lakes I’d
seen in the Cascades’ Alpine Lakes Wilderness. This was the first time that the lakeshore was silent; no one was there, nor calling out as they ate their lunches. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Lakes in the backcountry of Yellowstone are quiet like this, too. This pond in the Cascades was like Grebe Lake or others circled by huckleberry bushes that I saw when I was a new hiker, a kid from a hot climate working at the park during college summers. At the time, my heart raced when I saw fields of berries at a remote lake. Where were the bears? Were they watching? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3rc4DFyHVp1qChaV3Mx8P04GXIWeyolPlvyRk28de5So4S2C7q4CWvavmGVqB_9KOY-nCEjrjEYGgGcK3mV_KdVi7ioUVOt-lENdVyKjve9ce1LhZqIXjM4HS3UjVg1hKanIzj9YHqJny/s1600/Photo+of+sitka+mountain-ash+turning+color+near+woods+by+heystax+on+creative+commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3rc4DFyHVp1qChaV3Mx8P04GXIWeyolPlvyRk28de5So4S2C7q4CWvavmGVqB_9KOY-nCEjrjEYGgGcK3mV_KdVi7ioUVOt-lENdVyKjve9ce1LhZqIXjM4HS3UjVg1hKanIzj9YHqJny/s320/Photo+of+sitka+mountain-ash+turning+color+near+woods+by+heystax+on+creative+commons.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Photo of Sitka mountain-ash turning color, by heystax, Flickr Creative Commons license.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">**</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">At Hope Lake, two weeks had passed since I'd been to one of the Alpine Lakes. Before, we'd seen only green and somber woods, but now, red and yellow huckleberry bushes and <a href="http://www.wnps.org/plants/sorbus_sitchensis.html"><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Sitka</st1:city></st1:place> mountain-ash</a> crowded
the lakeshore, their colors splashed across the water surface. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Even late in the season, when most of the huckleberries had
been picked clean of their fairy bushes, the mountain-ash was laden with
bunches of red berries. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sitka mountain-ash berries can make wine, I hear -- alhough I haven't tried it yet. It was great to see such plenty, to know that for every departed salmonberry, thimbleberry, or huckleberry, something new came with fall: something bright and wonderful.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisfUCbhhGM_r0oyN_omBOJBeJKctsD_gLiPnXkA-iFLL8e1AcKbje8rynhyphenhyphenVMnX0A9PHMsFh-oJVKVxYjMwZ-m0Xig3kVNNjoiiWMjg5ODPf76WQZXedAMeqL8rnECTuZs0OXsW1kvAha1/s1600/Photo+of+Sitka+mountain-ash+by+Tim+Green+on+Creative+Commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisfUCbhhGM_r0oyN_omBOJBeJKctsD_gLiPnXkA-iFLL8e1AcKbje8rynhyphenhyphenVMnX0A9PHMsFh-oJVKVxYjMwZ-m0Xig3kVNNjoiiWMjg5ODPf76WQZXedAMeqL8rnECTuZs0OXsW1kvAha1/s320/Photo+of+Sitka+mountain-ash+by+Tim+Green+on+Creative+Commons.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Photo of Sitka mountain-ash by Tim Green, Flickr Creative Commons.</span><br />
**</div>
</div>
Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-4141916958717124492012-10-08T15:59:00.001-07:002012-10-09T18:23:43.402-07:00Rediscovering a friend on a bus; gooseberries<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjndh68dBVsxGATdRX6JxSpiiw_uuCIRIkGYzyEwXyMeyCW8MHdNfiIB6ub5T0uuvM5wkw4EucvmhjUdygEcdV0FxgBcoYZvcW4P3q5w67Tg7w9jWm5WXkdECESyuFbM7Zzst3aTzufoVzu/s1600/Photo+of+red+currants+in+box+by+Muffet,+on+Creative+Commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjndh68dBVsxGATdRX6JxSpiiw_uuCIRIkGYzyEwXyMeyCW8MHdNfiIB6ub5T0uuvM5wkw4EucvmhjUdygEcdV0FxgBcoYZvcW4P3q5w67Tg7w9jWm5WXkdECESyuFbM7Zzst3aTzufoVzu/s320/Photo+of+red+currants+in+box+by+Muffet,+on+Creative+Commons.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;">Photo of red currants by Liz West (Muffet), Flickr Creative Commons license.</span><br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;">**</span><br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span><br />
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Yesterday
on a bus to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Seattle</st1:place></st1:city>’s
Eastside suburbs, there was something familiar about the older woman sitting
next to me, and the copy of the <em>New Yorker</em> that she was poring over. </div>
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Surreptiously,
I checked out her eye-glasses. Had I seen them before? Had her hair been that
exact shade? <br />
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I wasn’t
sure, you see, whether she was the lady whose seat I'd shared a month and a half
before, on the return trip from an Eastside park where I’d gathered a bag of
golden plums so ripe that some fell off their pits en route.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">On that bus ride, my new buddy and I had talked avidly about politics, <em>Harper’s</em> magazine articles after 9/11, her war-protest activities downtown, and gathering edible plants. We had even exchanged email addresses, but I couldn’t recall whether I’d contacted her. It had slipped between the cracks of looking for possible roommates, considering whether to relocate to a sunnier city, and finishing out the field notebook I'd been using that week. </span><br />
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Yesterday, I
decided I would lose out if I kept silent. When she had turned away
from her <em>New Yorker</em> pages to look at me, her face changed and she smiled. “Well,”
she said in her slight English accent, “Can we believe this?” We had indeed met
on that previous bus trip, going the opposite direction. <br />
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It was great to see her again. This is what I like about talking with
people about plants and gathering: Standing alongside a trail in any quiet
park, I’ve met inquiring people who can either tell me more about the plants I
see, or about the land where we stand, or who have questions for me. In every
case, I have felt the sparkle of exchanging vital, life-giving information with
another person -- and learning a bit about them. </div>
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Was I gathering
plums again? my friend asked on the bus, then smiled to acknowledge that she
had remembered: Right, plums were no longer around, weeks later. </div>
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Not this
time, I said: Going hiking. As I flipped through a field guide I’d brought, <a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio/1-9781551050942-0">Trees & Shrubs of Washington, by C.P. Lyons (Lone Pine Publishing, 1999)</a>, my friend said that she’d like to see
gooseberries around, that she missed the days when they were considered
standard pie material, especially in <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">England</st1:place></st1:country>. <br />
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I'd also like to see gooseberry pie early and often. Gooseberries and currants are about and they're being
used, I said – although it’s true that they’re not the commonplace pastry
material they once were. These days they aren’t standard; they’re pleasingly
retro.</div>
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Still, I’d
seen both berry types sold at mid-summer in the standard grocery store near my house. The farm name on the boxes, when Googled, turned out to be in <st1:state w:st="on">Washington</st1:state>’s <st1:place w:st="on"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yakima_County,_Washington">Yakima Valley</a></st1:place>. It's an area known for
its berry farms. The farms, it turns out, are supported by a network of irrigation systems
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At a farmers’ market I’d talked with
another farmer from the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Yakima</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>, who said that his
family grew blueberries in the soil, which was rich from age-old volcanic
activity in the area. “The blueberries love it,” he assured me, shaking his
head. I imagine that the gooseberries and currants do, too.<br />
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On the bus,
my friend and I looked at photos of gooseberry and currant bushes in <em>Trees
& Shrubs of <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Washington</st1:place></st1:state>.</em>
“That’s it!” she said happily. </div>
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In the same
park where I’d picked the golden plums, I’d gathered a few currants and
gooseberries that grew nearly pushed out by over-eager blueberies, I told her. I grew up in a warm climate, one with its warmer types of berries, like dewberries -- so I had been excited about picking blueberries, and especially marveled at the currants and gooseberries. <br />
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It was a fine bus ride to have before a hike: Rediscovering gooseberries. My friend said, "Have a good hike," as I headed off. We decided we'd meet again. <br />
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<o:p>Photo of black currants in a bowl (these are like the ones I found in the Eastside park, though mine were smaller) by Glen Fleishman, Flickr Creative Commons license. </o:p></div>
Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-59818145205381781612012-10-03T16:01:00.001-07:002012-10-03T22:04:12.537-07:00Host a Fall Food Swap? Fundraiser for Food Swap Network<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Photo of orange marmalade in jars by Comedy_nose, on Flickr Creative Commons license<br />
**<br />
<br />
So, ever attended a food swap? I plan to go to my first swap this fall. Pals here in Seattle gather with friends to swap their canned goods, baked items, and other goodies (beer, elderberry wine, infused alcohol, truffles, you name it). It's also a great way to share garden excess, by bringing along a basket of zucchini or whatever's left. It sounds great. <br />
<br />
I became aware of food swaps a few years ago, when I joined the Facebook group for <a href="http://www.foodinjars.com/">Food in Jars</a> and began hearing about swaps in Philadelphia. Because I lived in Philadelphia for the summer of 2005 and I liked it a lot, I always pay attention to Philly news. It was great to hear swaps were active there, though I wasn't surprised. <br />
<br />
Now I hear from <a href="http://hipgirlshome.com/">Hip Girl's Guide to Homemaking</a> that the <a href="http://www.foodswapnetwork.com/">Food Swap Network</a> (which spans the U.S., Canada, and overseas) is holding a fundraiser, and we can help out by hosting (or attending) a swap before November 30th. Swap hosts are asked to collect donations from swappers for the network. <br />
<br />
Kate Payne, Hip Girl's blogger, lists handy suggestions for swaps here: <a href="http://hipgirlshome.com/blog/2012/9/14/september-urban-farm-handbook-challenge-swap.html" target="_blank">Annette’s Urban Farm Handbook challenge post</a>. <br />
<br />
Here's some background information: The Food Swap Network currently has 90 swaps and is growing every day. The fundraiser will help cover the costs of creating a network site and making it a functional and attractive resource for existing and new swappers. Plan is, the fundraiser will cover five years of operations for the network. <br />
<br />
Here's how to help: Host or attend a fall swap! Swaps can take place anytime before <strong>November 30th. </strong>Swap hosts are asked to collect donations from swappers. If every swap raises at least $45, which is about $2.50 per person for a small swap, the network will make its goal. In any case, any amount swappers provide will help to reach the goal. <br />
<br />
Donations can be sent by PayPal after you've had your swap, or contact the network if you'd like to mail FSN a check. Here’s a link to <a href="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=EMF3EQUBLG65U"><span class="s1">contribute directly to Food Swap Network</span></a> if you are unable to host or attend a swap this fall.<br />
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A last note from FSN: <br />
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"Thank you for helping us fill up our swap basket so we can continue to share that feeling of going home with a full basket of homemade goods!"</div>
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And, ah, isn't that a fine, fine feeling? Yes, I think so too. </div>
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Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-66118180622492325572012-10-02T19:30:00.001-07:002012-10-04T16:45:17.233-07:00Found: Berries and Salal on trail to Annette Lake<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo of mountain lake by Henofthewood on Flickr Creative Commons license. </span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: x-small;">**</span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Saturday, a hike to <a href="http://www.wta.org/go-hiking/hikes/annette-lake">Annette Lake</a> in the Cascades with
my friend E. We snacked along the way on clustered <a href="http://www.wnps.org/landscaping/herbarium/pages/gaultheria-shallon.html">salal</a> berries – and the
occasional dusky blue or lightly red huckleberry on airy bushes.</span></code><br />
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<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The day
was glorious: The last weekend in September, and still dry and sunny. This is unusual in
the Northwest, but we’ll take it!</span></code></div>
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<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Back to berries, though. Admission: Until now, I’ve never really valued salal. Apparently
that’s because I’d never had them fully, tip-top ripened to a dark navy, and on
a sunny Cascade hillside. <o:p></o:p></span></code></div>
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<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;">They're an acquired taste: I asked E. what she thought, and she said
questioningly, “Grainy, rough?” <o:p></o:p></span></code></div>
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<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;">
Salal aren’t blueberries, I had to admit. They lack the easy charisma and bright flavor of more popular berries. </span></code></div>
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<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;">But in this case, to me, they were downright flavorful. There was a depth to them, a sun-warmed richness. I wanted pots full of them, I wanted pies and crumbles. </span></code></div>
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<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></code></div>
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> I was content with snacking, though. I gathered handfuls, each with its slightly hairy bulb and
knobby end. <o:p></o:p></span></code><br />
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<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></code></div>
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;">They
were ugly enough to be left on their leathery leaf-branches
for me to find on a sunny fall hike, and I loved them for it. </span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span></code><br />
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Photo of salal berries by Nordique on Flickr Creative Commons license<br />
**<br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The berries provided moisture, Vitamins C and A, and
the usual antioxidants as we headed up the 1600 feet of elevation change
between the trail head and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Annette</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Lake</st1:placename></st1:place>. </span></code><br />
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<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></code></div>
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I
found them refreshing, and I was grateful: When I arrived in <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Washington</st1:place></st1:state> state, I often walked past these and other berries, not knowing what they were. My past is full of
the slight irritation of not knowing berries or fruits on trees, of feeling as
I pass them that I could be wasting something valuable that will go bad on the
branch. <o:p></o:p></span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Eating the berries gave me the “I’m a hardy hiker, I’m like Heidi with the goats in the Swiss mountains,” thought pattern that I alternate with “I’m like
Grizzly Adams; I can survive!” when I’m flattering myself. And yet, it was a
little bit true. <o:p></o:p></span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;">After a good many switchbacks and walking past many majestic firs and spruce, E. and I made it to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Annette</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Lake</st1:placename></st1:place>. It is a lovely
lake, surrounded by wooded hillsides. I always like the peace of arriving at a
mountain lake after a long hike, finding the cove in the woods that opens with light, spotlighted by the sun as a rare place, a place of water that
attracts all of us: animals, humans, birds. <o:p></o:p></span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;">We
had our lunches there, E. with her tuna sandwich and shelled pistachios and
fruit leather, and me with my peanut-butter-and-banana pita, HoneyCrisp apple,
and dark chocolate squares. <o:p></o:p></span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;">We
sat in the sun on the grainy beach, facing the light of the water, watching
circles form on the surface and talking about relationships and life and work,
and listening to the calling voices of the fewer than 10 other people on other shores of the lake as they threw balls to retrievers and talked
about we knew not what. <o:p></o:p></span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The
water, just to fill you in, was probably pretty cold. Maybe surprisingly, I didn’t go in! </span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The sky
was overcast when we arrived, and I had the recent memory of swimming two weeks
ago in <a href="http://www.wta.org/go-hiking/hikes/ira-spring-memorial">Mason Lake</a><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on"> here </st1:placename></st1:place>in the Cascades, and finding
that the water was not just limpid and chill, but downright bone-chilling. </span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I’d learned
that although I’ll swim in large bodies of water in any temperature, in
mountain lakes I prefer to dip when they are sun-warmed and it is high summer.
Call me particular, call me someone who doesn't want to be chilled before a long hike in falling light, and you will be right. <o:p></o:p></span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p>Another thing we found: A <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boletus_edulis">king bolete</a> mushroom, or porcini. Not exactly a feast, but we also talked to the Forest Service officers about logging roads that are handy for berries (and presumably for mushrooms). </o:p></span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p>There will be return trips, after all!</o:p></span></code><br />
<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></code><br />
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<code><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></code><br />Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-67862378468348670902012-09-30T16:51:00.004-07:002012-10-01T17:47:30.805-07:00Rose hips and herb nerds with brown paper bags<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0cYEeWPOlN3L1wdvVXBGgriaVNeIema7f3vbgnSQThR6hQWfEUU1wUF7aG6OrLCDs_sXm2gBn-TpvPqL7Uf2p4uokGaJRqhBn_RGPUWs1W0lShu1Ccs9ke0Ngj16o40cMSaE_bBeTF6s-/s1600/rose+hips+-+two.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" kea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0cYEeWPOlN3L1wdvVXBGgriaVNeIema7f3vbgnSQThR6hQWfEUU1wUF7aG6OrLCDs_sXm2gBn-TpvPqL7Uf2p4uokGaJRqhBn_RGPUWs1W0lShu1Ccs9ke0Ngj16o40cMSaE_bBeTF6s-/s320/rose+hips+-+two.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Photo of rose hips by Audreyjm529, Flickr Creative Commons License. <br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">**</span><br />
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Today I've been collecting sun-softened, ripe rose hips into a brown paper bag that I begged off a counter-person at Rainbow Naturals, an apothecary that mixes its own herbs on Capitol Hill in Seattle. When I asked her for somewhere to transfer my bristly handful of rose hips, each the beating color of internal organs, she rustled out the bag and said in an undertone, "We're all herb nerds here, so I understand." <br />
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It was good. I wonder what Rainbow Naturals does with their rose hips, and I'll have to ask.<br />
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Meanwhile, I have a brown lunch bag lined with their rosy rounded forms, each with its autumnal, prickly leaf-stem. Lovely, what a dying rose leaves behind. If this is recycling, then I like it. <br />
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I'd always seen the bright orange hips, seemingly in such abundance on bare fall shrubs. But I never knew that they were things that ripened, that grew soft and tore at the edge when unhinged from the stem, so that each tear resembles a gash in a tomato.<br />
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So far, I'm just peeping at them proprietarily every so often. Tonight I'll settle on whether to make jelly, puree, chutney -- or even rose hip and vegetable curry. <br />
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What do you think? Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-76033313972979347362012-09-28T19:51:00.000-07:002012-10-01T17:46:45.044-07:00Hawthorns and clippings of small presses from 2009<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnTxuSGqd5x_JbjnJHvtJc15li0TFRZBC_lPPqEXmv8PLJeDXpdn96zjx95eC2a0h_dHXTK4o5ybLzWq555PVqFfFoqv-8hNgafFriggP6FfM9HXBJnb-FL3Tf7rn_Pf-laKcuP2MFtogH/s1600/114903180_2f2aabadee_z+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnTxuSGqd5x_JbjnJHvtJc15li0TFRZBC_lPPqEXmv8PLJeDXpdn96zjx95eC2a0h_dHXTK4o5ybLzWq555PVqFfFoqv-8hNgafFriggP6FfM9HXBJnb-FL3Tf7rn_Pf-laKcuP2MFtogH/s320/114903180_2f2aabadee_z+(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Photo of hawthorns (European) by Maura McDonnell, Flickr Creative Commons License<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">**</span><br />
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Lately, hawthorns have been my quarry, though I've only gathered a 2-pound margarine container full of them and left them in the refrigerator, so far. What can I say? I was expecting to have to move this week! I was knee-high in boxes and making decisions about papers and treasured clippings about small presses in New Jersey from 2009. <br />
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Why is it that every review of our small items makes me think that a) I should become a hard-core Buddhist and relinquish all material items, going from door to door with a proffered hat and never again thinking about Comcast and (b) that every piece of paper, each wing-nut from a project and each pearlized button is irreplaceable and that I must keep it for all time to remind me of the fall of 2010?<br />
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Did I say that I did not move? Not yet, at least. I gave notice, then thought about whether I'm ready to go flying off to another time zone to live on a couch until I am able to find a peaceful share with a like-minded person who (hopefully) does not come in at 2:30 a.m. and cook aromatic soups of chicken and spices, at the very least. Because one of my former roommates in New Jersey did just that, and the scent was tempting enough to get a person out of bed and rubbing her eyes. <br />
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It is just the beginning of October, hawthorn and rose-hip season. Our weather here in Seattle is still bright and sunny, and sometimes I swear that we all are living in a waking dream in which we think that it is June. Honestly, I get confused, although on the nippier days (which I love), I notice that the evenings come earlier now as our planet tilts. <br />
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The reason for thinking of moving was partly weather. I'm a person who loves sunlight, or at least loves it in its indirect forms: dappled, glowing into a room at the window, emerging through tree branches, on a light and breezy summer day, and in its amber-bright autumnal glory.<br />
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Often, in late summer, I can hardly stand to think that the sharp concentrations of color that we see here in Seattle in August and early September might change. That said, I am happiest when I live near (by which I mean, keep aware of) the plants and air changes of season. <br />
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That is, knowing which plants are now in season -- hawthorns, rose-hips, the last of the huckleberries at high elevations -- it makes me notice the days better, to walk with a quickness of step. <br />
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So, how shall I prepare those hawthorns? I'm thinking of making a kind of apple sauce, having boiled and mashed and strained them, then adding cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice. <br />
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Late summer and fall, free from a tree. Good start!<br />
<br />Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8583563771536934327.post-47572064585447429802011-11-12T12:37:00.000-08:002012-10-01T17:53:15.611-07:00Cold air and snow brace us<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHJLHDIJ7SsbupE6w2VFjX3T1aM2X32z7f6sq20DWXQmNijNDynOd13tawICYR_31MqUBLMvb3i4Xe7v2ZUSKmWZu4Ol32KvLF0bXuk1JlxZ2pXrRwz7bhop2ObqhXM-idRWC8FqOEzA4W/s1600/lobster+mushroom+by+gabriel+amadeus+on+creative+commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHJLHDIJ7SsbupE6w2VFjX3T1aM2X32z7f6sq20DWXQmNijNDynOd13tawICYR_31MqUBLMvb3i4Xe7v2ZUSKmWZu4Ol32KvLF0bXuk1JlxZ2pXrRwz7bhop2ObqhXM-idRWC8FqOEzA4W/s320/lobster+mushroom+by+gabriel+amadeus+on+creative+commons.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Photo of lobster mushroom, by gabriel amadeus on Flickr Creative Commons license</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">**</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Lately my mind has been consumed with foraging. I think of mushrooms and their fluted caps, rose hips swaggering on branches, bull-whip kelp in brash sections on the beach. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I know little about my topic, though. I look at many blogs, and I went chanterelle-hunting for the first time a few weeks ago. My knowledge is nascent, but I'm building on it.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The weather here in the lowlands of the Pacific Northwest is turning unpleasant for me, wet and full of leaf rot. The past few days have been dusk-dark at mid-day. They aren't just shorter since last week’s time change, but full of looming catastrophe in the hanging darkness and just-deferred downpour. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Walking in Seattle in the dim noonday, taking care not to slip on damp leaves piled along the sloping sidewalks, I think of Snoqualmie Pass and the Cascades. As of this morning, they have received fresh snow and an order to don tire chains. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The air at the Pass, I know, is brisk and cleansing to the lungs. Looming mountains lift the eyes into clear air or air hazed by snowfall. One feels the elevation of the barometric pressure, and steps with energy on snowshoes. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Sometimes the air and the snow are the cold water in which we can swim. </span><span style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I look forward to diving into this land, to finding the rose hips and making a syrup to pour over cake -– to eating that cake and making other starches from chestnuts. </span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: courier new;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To gathering.<o:p></o:p> It is endless, the possibilities.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Catherine Arnoldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16639990941083756081noreply@blogger.com