A teaspoon of red wine vinegar tossed into a bowl of lentil soup just before serving apparently turns lentil soup into nectar.
Shivasana is THE most important yoga move. Ten minutes is good.
Persimmons for arthritis.
Raccoon poop is best disposed of with a) gloves, b) crumpled newspaper. Forget the trowel or shovel because then how do you clean off the toxic??
Margaret Carney, nature writer and birder extraordinaire, once upon a time worked as an editor at Harlequin.
Lima beans, aka butter beans, will last — tops — three days in the fridge once the tin is opened so after you use half a tin for making a butter bean flan, use the other half — straightaway! — in a butter bean salad (red onion, celery, dressing of choice).
A lavender farm has opened not a million miles away from my front door.
And if that isn’t enough there’s ANOTHER lavender place even closer.
Ways of peeling garlic. (The knife crush is but one.)
Levine Flexhaug. (1918 – 1974) Famous for more or less painting the same cheesy landscape scene over and over in audacious colours and with various ‘differences’. So bad it’s brilliant.
The word minim.
Greetings from somewhere west of Toronto, way west (but not as far as Calgary) (or even Windsor). No idea what’s inside this museum as we didn’t stop, or it wasn’t open, who can remember. What is recalled is the infamous garden at the swanky inn where we stayed (a gift to us from kind souls else we’d never have gone the way of such swankiness). I’d looked forward to staying there mostly because they are known for their enormous vegetable gardens and famously claim almost everything on their menu is seasonal and made with their own produce… but what we saw on the menu didn’t jibe with their marketing schpiel (butternut squash and cauliflower in July for instance). In fact almost everything on the menu was out of season and when we asked the waiter what was up he got a little jumpy and said he’d check with the kitchen but in fact he never came back to our table. Someone else brought the bill. Later, walking in the infamous gardens of menu mythology, we asked a couple of gardeners where the celery was, and the frisee (two of very few things on the menu that were in season) and were told they didn’t grow celery or frisee and so we mentioned the marketing that spoke of how all this magnificent produce was used in the kitchen. Ha! they snorted. The garden, it seems is pretty much for show… while rows and rows of produce go unpicked, none of it on the menu. Not a single string bean, not an onion. Even in the face of oodles of evidence, we didn’t want to believe it… a vegetable garden of this size, being used only as a marketing tool??? Nah. Can’t be true. But in the morning, as we set out for a walk, we watched a delivery arrive from a huge commercial vegetable supplier whose name was painted very clearly on the side of the truck.
I wrote a letter to the inn, asking them about this.
Didn’t hear back.
Other (not always) wordless friends:
I woke this morning with
a yen to swim
in the Indian Ocean, to lick
the tile walls of Morocco, sunbathe
nude on the side of a grassy hill overlooking
the coast of Africa. I wanted to tear
silk underwear to shreds
and tie the rags to the tail
of a kite—
sing to purring elephants at dawn
and ride caterpillars to the tops
of mossy trees. I woke this morning,
then stepped outside
—never happier to be home.
Open-eyed meditation this morning as I watch through the window and a break in the trees a cardinal preening, waiting for his date to the cardinal ball.
They fly off together and then a man in pale turquoise shirt and dark jeans gets into his car and flies off to work.
Nothing else for a while and cat #1, curled up at the very top of her indoor climbing tree facing the window, slowly closes her eyes while cat #2 finds a spot on the carpet to attend to her tail.
Ears perk up, mine too, when suddenly on a not so far away treetop the music of the cardinal ball begins… but it’s merely soundtrack to the contentment of a belly full of tinned turkey and kibble, and soon ears relax and all eyes close.
p.s. and yes, that’s a tulip in the pic
A happy long weekend to you!
It seems to me now on this March day from where I sit near the window, warm with cat and book,
that maybe the baby juniper we planted last year could have been tied with twine a few times round or wrapped in burlap to keep it upright.
As it is it’s become a small flopping thing, arms landing north and south.
East, west too.
But then would it have thanked me for keeping it in better form—
—or is it, in its untidy freedom,
the envy of the landscaped world…
(Junipers have a place in my heart, ever since I met this one…)
I hang small flags
upon the fabric, flickering in a line
across the yard until
not thoughts and prayers
but prayers answered
and uses one for