garden

queen anne’s lace, relative of the carrot, scented only in the sun

Pretty sure this is neither trout nor toad lily—lovely, innocuous thing, tucked away behind the clematis, not demanding attention, just there. For some reason, each year I’m surprised to see it… it’s like I keep expecting it to give up in a huff one of these days, offended that I’ve forgotten its name.

UPDATE:

Thanks to Cheryl Andrews and Associates (never under-estimate the power of associates!) it might be that we’ve put a name to the face. Looks pretty much the same beast to me, no? The difference in tonal quality being more of a lighting thing.

Thank you, Ms. A!

An egg[plant] for us.

And one for the rabbit.

This may look a little freaky, the way the red ‘pops’, but it’s not photo-shopped. Just happened to catch some weird late afternoon ‘light’. Keeping the Cardinal flower company are Veronica, Shasta Daisy, yellow ‘Maria’ flowers (someone named Maria gave us a couple—now they’re everywhere), and a few wee something elses that look like a kind of Ox-Eye Daisy. The garden’s always a happy surprise; untamed, and different every year.

Makes my heart sing.

The picture doesn’t do this bounty justice. All of which was less than seventeen bucks. And yes, that’s the last of the asparagus (sad to say goodbye—it’s been sooo good). The first (for me) of the strawberries—which, by the way, I learned recently, are best picked and eaten in the morning when the dew’s still on them—just in case any of you are heading out to a strawberry patch in the coming dewy days.

To the left, a pile of mini hothouse cukes, most of which got left out of the snap. (Tomatoes are also hothouse; I normally wait for vine-ripened, but it was my first day at the local farmers’ market, the sun was shining, and, well, I had a mad moment…)

From the garden, there’s this—

I’m slightly insane about salads. They would be my preferred last meal were I to face a firing squad and be offered a choice.

This one includes nettles, dandelion leaves, mesclun, arugula, lambs’ quarters and purslane. Oh, and nasturtium leaves and flowers for oomph and a peppery je ne sais quoi-ish quality that never hurts and is not hard on the eyes.

Also garlic. I couldn’t resist pulling one from the still ripening crop. Normally the ‘First Garlic Bulb of the Season’ is almost a ceremonial event around here. Not this year. I just yanked one out and diced a few perfect, crisp, translucent, completely-unlike-the-stuff-from-China cloves, then topped the whole schmozzle with my favourite dressing: olive oil and fresh lemon juice.

Anyway, definitely oodles to choose from at this time of year, right from our own ‘backyard’. (It’ll be months before I step inside a grocery store again, except to buy detergent and sardines.)

The gardening robin is in the serviceberry tree. The fruit’s just ripening and he’s all over it these days, flapping amongst the leaves, hopping nervously from branch to branch. He used to be more relaxed about things but I guess he’s twigged that I’m also fond of the stuff.

It breaks my heart to see him looking over his tiny shoulders, scanning the yard, wondering when my berry bucket will appear.

He needn’t be so afraid, I want to tell him; I’m happy to share.

Update: Now the cardinals are in on things.

Can you see how his beak is twisted into a tiny worried frown?

Being originally from Niagara I’m wired to think it’s a kind of viticultural sin to eat grapes from anywhere else and normally I don’t. I very happily wait for the deep purple Coronation ones of September, which every year take me back to an abandoned vineyard I used to walk through on my way to school, picking whole bunches en route.

This year I’ve even planted my own crop (oh that’s rich—my crop—who am I kidding? the birds and squirrels are already huddling, scratching out complicated plays in the cedar mulch)—a single seedless dark purple called Mars.

But I digress.

The point of this post is confession.

I wouldn’t normally eat grapes outside grape season—much—but having recently been to Chile and fallen in love with the country, I’ve been making some [many] off-season exceptions.

So sue me.

Question: If a grape falls in a Chilean table grape forest, and there’s only one semi-remorseful Southern Ontarian there to hear it—does it make a sound?

The scapes have started.

They look like tiny swans’ heads.

You snap them off, then trim the long chivey ends, leaving the pale green tip and about six inches of stem. Toss them in olive oil, salt and pepper; wrap in tin foil and leave on the grill for fifteen minutes or so. (Bonus: removing the scapes means fatter garlic bulbs.)