Seems our neighbourhood is home to a bike gang.
deductions of an amateur naturalist
I’ve noticed that bees like wisteria.
And cornflowers.
Ajuga too, especially at dusk.
And lupins and iris.
All of which makes me think…
Bees like purpley blue stuff.
(although I have no photographic proof, not that I didn’t try—flighty buggers, bees—so don’t strain your eyeballs, there’s no buzzing in those blooms.)
this morning at the beach
book run
Given that I don’t shop at Amazon—and won’t darken a Chapters doorway other than for literary journals (I don’t even buy my candles or patio furniture there)—and given that I live in a medium sized town without a bookshop (ridiculous)—it’s a half hour drive north to pick up my order from the nearest bookseller (to a town much smaller but obvioulsy more bookish than mine) and another fifteen minutes to the second nearest. Not complaining; they’re worth the drive. Plus, there are such very merry things I can do on the way. For instance—
—I can stock up on the best buttertarts in the world from an amazingly innovative farm market-slash-golf-course-slash-outdoor patio-slash-apparent bridal photo hot spot-slash-tobaggoning run in the middle of nowhwere (as well as fresh-from-the-field veggies and fruit, happy meat and over-the-moon eggs).
—Go canoeing or, better yet, watch other people go canoeing while I have lunch
—Commune with emus
For starters.
That said, here’s the most recent haul (picture of buttertarts not taken fast enough):
Cantos from Wolverine Creek, by Brenda Schmidt
Mennonites Don’t Dance, By Darcie Friesen Hossack
Is, by Anne Simpson
Finding the Words: Writers on Inspiration, Desire, War, Celebrity, Exile, and Breaking the Rules, edited by Jared Bland (for PEN Canada)
Are You My Mother?, by P.D. Eastman (and yes, it’s for me)
veggies from the sea
My new favourite food.
I’ve tried a few other sea veggies but dulse is my hands down favourite. It comes in two forms: leaves, like the picture—which lightly sauteed in coconut or olive oil, go crunchy and make a great side to anything. Had them with eggs the other day—delicious, especially if you like your food with undertones of beach wrack and fog.
Also comes in flakes, which I sprinkle straight from the bag onto salads; packed with iodine and protein and other good things and—as if all this isn’t excitement enough—it eliminates the need for salt.
Only down side—I haven’t yet found a Canadian brand. Surely we produce this stuff on our own nautical peripheries??
Suggested reading while eating sea veggies: Drinking the Rain, by Alix Kates Shulman
a few canadian words worth repeating
I don’t do book reviews. At best I occasionally air thoughts on something I’ve read… and then not always the whole book, but one story, one essay, an aspect that strikes me. A sentence maybe. Recently I’ve begun a Q&A series, which I enjoy because I can pretend the chat is happening over food and drink. I even note the appropriate food and drink for the book. (Online is such nerdish tiny-personal-universe fun, eh?) Most of what I read, however, goes publicly unbabbled—for reasons due mainly to timing and whim.
Having said that, I like what John Mutford is doing over at The Book Mine Set, especially his annual Canadian Book Challenge, so have gathered and submitted a collection of CanLit
babbled about on Matilda over the past year.
The art of reviewing I respectfully, and happily, leave to others.
~
My Father’s Hands Spoke in Yiddish, by Karen Shenfeld (poetry)
BoYs, by Kathleen Winter (short stories)
Join the Revolution, Comrade, by Charles Foran (personal essays)
Close to Spiderman, by Ivan E. Coyote (short stories)
The Cat’s Pajamas, by Wallace Edwards (children’s picture book but really so much more…)
Comfort Me with Apples, by Joe Fiorito (extremely delicious essays on food)
Stunt, by Claudia Dey (a novel, which I nearly didn’t finish, then loved madly for reasons I am only too happy to explain)
Player One, by Douglas Coupland (Massey Lectures in the form of a novel, sort of…)
Room, by Emma Donoghue (a novel, read in a garret)
Seeds of Another Summer, by Beth Powning, (essays on nature and gardening and life)
CanLit Food Book, edited by Margaret Atwood (beautifully odd assortment of food-related bits by Canadian authors, including recipes, essays, excerpts, drawings, random thoughts, directions for making toast…)
whale, that’s my story and i’m sticking to it
Dear Young Niece,
First, may I apologize for bad puns.
Second—I’ve decided not to send you the book, Whales of Canada, which was going to be your latest pocalog prize for successfully naming the largest whale, which, frankly, is hardly a giant feat given the willingness of google to do this kind of work for us. And by us I mean you. (And
everyone else in the world. Including me.)
And I say not send… when what I really mean is not send yet… because I do want you to have the book. Eventually. By which I mean in the not too, too distant future. I know you like whales and my hope is that reading about them will appeal to you more than wanting to wave at them from over-crowded tourist boats, that you might choose to curl up, enjoy the book’s photos and recite fun and fascinating whale facts to your family over dinner or while they’re trying to watch Dancing with the Stars.
I’d actually got so far as writing you a note introducing the book; I’d even addressed the envelope into which I was about to slip it when I glanced at the index of twenty kinds of whales, each chapter title being a mini cetacean lesson in itself. (During which time I learned the word ‘cetacean’… and that it includes dolphins and porpoises.) I scanned pages of photos, a cross section of a whale’s head showing how it feeds and a chart showing how a blue whale is twice the size of a Brontosaurus. I flipped through tidily written chapters on diet and range and history and habit that debunk myths and offer up some general commentary on the state of whales and what’s to become of them if we don’t smarten up:
“Perhaps the best thing we could do would be to stay out of their way—with our oil tankers, effluent outpourings, radioactive spills and nuclear tests.”
And as I perused and flipped and scanned, it occurred to me that I couldn’t remember when or where I’d bought the book, or even if I’d ever sat down and read it properly myself.
The point is I suddenly loved it far too much to give away.
I know. It’s hard to hear. But stuff like this happens.
I’m hoping you’ll take some comfort in the fact that you had no idea the book was meant to be your prize. My change of heart, therefore, shouldn’t be too earth shatteringly depressing for you. Not to mention that I’ll be on the hunt for something to replace the book with (because you’re still owed a prize, google search notwithstanding). And given what amounts to more than a soupcon of guilt arising from a twisted sense of selfishness on my part, it should be something good.
But, I hope, for your sake, not too good…
oceans of love,
auntie c.
on today’s menu:
Cold asparagus soup with cream
Hot asparagus soup without cream
Pickled asparagus
Cold asparagus with chopped egg vinaigrette
Warm aspargus wrapped in prosciutto
Sauteed asparagus with grilled salmon
Grilled asparagus with anything
Asparagus tart
Raw asparagus spears in green salad
Open face asparagus sandwich on calabrese with thyme infused goat cheese
And the perennial favourite: asparagus and asparagus
Or… you can just have asparagus.
No spam.
botany lesson: what spring smells like
Soap. The kind that used to come in a small round metal container with a picture of a tiny bouquet, tied with a white ribbon, on the lid. The soap itself, wrapped in paper, was so fragrant, so creamy and perfect, you never used it except to place it in a sweater drawer. Or pyjama one.
Sundays at the Vineland Experimental Farm, which has changed somewhat. Or maybe we just didn’t know it was part of the U. of Guelph. In any case, to walk the grounds on a Sunday was a destination worthy of my dad wearing a jacket and tie; my mother in matching purse and shoes—there was likely a large hat involved, certainly a dress cinched at the waist, stockings and a girdle. And me in knee socks, white patent leather shoes with a giant buckle, pleated skirt and matching, stiff, faux linen jacket over a sleeveless blouse with frills down the front. All topped off with a pilled, nylon hairband and tiny new brown leather shoulder bag containing pennies and a hankie and worn crosswise over my chest like the hipster I was. I dimly recall someone instructing me to stand still, smell a blossom or something, and for god’s sake smile!
Click.
The resulting photo—black and white but I distinctly remember the outfit was cotton candy pink—is me beside a giant lilac bush yanking on a branch and scowling at the camera. (I would have preferred being left to commune with them alone over a mustard sandwich, but alas, there were more pictures to be taken…)
Hay. Easily one of my favourite things in the garden. Used to flavour wine (surprisingly, I haven’t tried this yet) and to make hay scented sachets and pillows (and mattresses too). So far all I’ve done with it is enjoy its loveliness.
No question. Bubblegum.
definition: between a rock and a hard place
Matilda Magtree 
