We were surrounded by the herb boneset (Eupatorium perfoliatum) in full bloom, and so we gathered a full bouquet of the spreading clusters of creamy white flowers.  I tinctured it this evening.  It will be ready in time for whatever flu-like illnesses plague us this Winter–according to Medicinal Plants of the Southern Appalachians it “stimulates immune response, helps reduce fevers and eliminates excess respiratory congestion.”  Author Patricia Kyritsi Howell writes that boneset was once perhaps the most commonly used herb in the eastern United States.  I am particularly pleased to add this herb to my little apothecary.

I have yet to harvest elderberries, although it is definitely time.  They droop dark and lush from the shrubs.  When cooked with honey they will make a thick purple syrup that is wonderful for coughs in particular, and whatever ails you in general.  Peaches are still coming in.  And there’s goldenrod and mint to dry for tea this Winter.

It can be overwhelming, all this harvesting work, but nothing gives me such joy as making medicines.  Peach preserves are sublime, but a half-gallon jar of boneset tincture has a different kind of magic to it.  One is sweet, and the other healing.  I think I’m drawn to the healing, though let me assure you, I have my sweet tooth, too.

And so it is that summer really has come to an end, and we are in those in between days, when the leaves begin to thin and last day of swimming is nigh.

After I canned another batch of peaches I took care of a few assorted tasks, all the while hearing the call of the garden.  So down I went to dig up potatoes.  As I did I sang “Erin’s Lovely Home”–an Irish ballad that tells one man’s woes of crossing the Atlantic during a time of famine:  “there were thousands more left upon the shore/ all anxious for to roam and/ leave the land where they were born/called Erin’s lovely home.“  The humble potato, so weighty in the hand, such a blessing to poor farmers, such a loss if the crop were to fail.

Now the Moon rises above the ridge, full and round and gleaming yellow against the thickening blue sky.  Katydids chant in the shadows, and the cool of evening deepens.  Dinner is late, but we will be having our first meal from the finished cob oven tonight.  There is no famine here, and this meal will be worth the wait.

Yesterday I picked peaches.   I missed a bunch, now rotting on the earth, making for some really happy ants, and thought of James and his giant peach.  I realized I shouldn’t really feel guilty about the lost peaches–I couldn’t get to them for several days before hand.  Then I reached into the branches and picked until my bucket was full.  I knew it was the day to can some peaches.  I ended up making peach preserves, keeping the skins on, which made the preserves a rosy golden color.  Very pretty.

We opened a pint jar this morning and spread it over pancakes.  I used yogurt instead of milk in the pancake mix, which makes for a nice tangy pancake, and the peach preserves complimented them perfectly.

Later in the afternoon I went to the garden with my box of seeds.  The clouds were clotting, the breeze brushing tangles out of the air.  Far off to the north I heard thunder like the drum of the storm, pounding the air over and over.   Sky preparations were underway.

I cleared out a small space–half of a vegetable bed–and spread a mesclun seed mix over the soil, then sprinkled more soil over that.  Then I cleared out two rows in the bed below that for beets, pushing the straw mulch up against the calendula plants that have sprawled out from the center of the bed, thrusting my hands deep into the soil, breaking it up, my hands appreciating its rich texture of life.

I gathered what I had weeded and walked over to the chicken coop to give it to the chickens.  The rain began to fall, a steady, easy rain, the edge of a storm, patches of blue still in the sky.  I stood under the big poplar in my bare feet thinking, “somewhere there’s a rainbow” but I didn’t bother to look.  The rain was falling on my seeds, and falling on my arms, on my earth-covered hands, and on the clover at my feet, on the peaches weighing down their branches, and on the blue roof of my home.

There is something perfect about this very imperfect life, there is something  about the rain, falling perfectly upon my skin, and upon the land that I love; there is something that opens up the sky and lets beauty fall where it will, which is everywhere, if you are paying attention.

Well, I was dreaming, really, and in a creative way, about my little farm. But what I have always wanted is a milk cow (and some horses, and a pond, and a barn). I went with goats, and Nigerian Dwarf Goats in particular, because they are smaller and more suited to the land I have available. I don’t have acres of pasture, you see, but I do have plenty of browse, which goats prefer, in certain areas of my land. So while the goats were a good fit for my land, they were not a good fit with me. So, no goat milk soap in my future, or goat cheese, and that’s is alright by me.

I still have a dream about a little farm–maybe not the kind of farm that sells a lot of what is grown as its income, but the kind of farm where the family is fed. I describe it as  joyful sustainability.  I added the joyful recently to my goal, because otherwise I  get all stressed out about it, pressuring myself to work hard at this goal, which then completely ruins it.

I gauge my success toward reaching joyful sustainability carefully, and realize that I can support sustainability in other ways as well, such as shopping at the farmer’s market.  I am not a master gardener, by any stretch of the imagination.  Every year I make improvements, and I’m hoping the addition of a greenhouse will be a big improvement.  That is on our to-do list.  Somewhere in my future there is a barn, and rabbits and American Guinea Hogs for meat.  And I would love to have a milk cow. It would just need to be a little milk cow, which does exist, by the way.  Way back when joyful sustainability was part and parcel of life for most folks, the livestock was smaller.  There is a wonderful reclamation of these breeds, from miniature Jerseys to Olde English Babydoll Sheep.  I would love to participate in the revival of these breeds.  But for now I have two gardens, eleven chickens, one chick, two Angora bunnies, and no goats.

There is much to do. I can’t think about the floor, and I won’t even try to put my new trees and shrubs in the ground until I get back, but I certainly can wax euphoric about my nursery purchases. I think I’m most excited about the Hybrid American Chestnut. The American Chestnut was the crown jewel of the Southern Appalachian forests, but a foreign blight wiped them out by the 1930’s. Well, not entirely. There are still chestnut stumps that produce shoots, but the shoots are killed off by the blight before they ever mature. The two chestnuts I purchased are American chestnuts crossed back with Japanese and Chinese Chestnuts to produce something close to the original tree.

I also purchased some American hazelnuts. If I had done more research before my purchase I might have bought the European hazelnut, which produces a larger nut more suitable for the home orchard, but now I’m excited that I will be able to produce nuts for our family, and for the wildlife. American hazelnuts are vigorous plants with a tendency to colonize an area, so I’ll have extra plants within a few years that I can plant back in the forest for the deer, bear, grouse, and squirrels on my mountain. By the way, it’s your mountain, too, as nearly all of it is National Forest Land.

There’s nine new blueberry bushes, which means I have now about twenty-five blueberry bushes, though not all are producing berries yet. To go along with the blueberries, I now have two Aronia bushes. These are a native berry extremely rich in athocyanins and antioxidants. Don’t even begin to think that’s enough berries for me! I purchased two female sea berry plants, which have slender silver leaves. When they are loaded down with their bright orange berries, they will be a marvelous sight.

And then there is my Vitex tree. I thought it was Vitex agnus-castus, of which I already have two small plants, but it’s actually something I’ve never heard of before: VItex negundo. Regardless, this small tree absolutely called to me. She has a supple, curvaceous trunk rising to nearly six feet with lacy leaves and delicate lavender flowers. She really does have a lovely shape. This is the information they had about her: A veritable medicine cabinet of a plant. The leaves are anti-inflammatory, anti-bacterial, and analgesic and are applied externally for rheumatic conditions, bruises, injuries, sprains, sores, and skin infections. The seeds and leaves contain valuable medicinal compounds are used internally for chronic bronchitis, all emaciating conditions, to improve memory and eyesight, rejuvenate hair, alleviate loss of appetite, and to manage skin diseases and excessive bleeding during menstruation. The young stems are used for basketmaking. The leaves are insecticidal and used to repel insects in grain stores. The fresh leaves are burned with grass to repel mosquitoes.

While I dream about blueberry pie with a hazelnut crust , or chestnut stuffing for Thanksgiving in two or three years, right now I have Narrowleaf Echinacea, Golden Sage, Passionflower, Valerian, and Bloodflower that need to go in the garden, as in yesterday. Fortunately the hot and dry weather has broken with a thunderific rainstorm. I’ll pull my bolting lettuces and feed them to my rabbits tomorrow, making way for a bed of herbal delights. But for now, my soft bed of pillows calls, and I will answer, for I have much to do tomorrow—putting straw around the potatoes (and purchasing said straw), taking artwork to the frame shop, setting up a trellis for my poor beans, and some other things I’m quite certain I’ve forgotten about, but will remember at some juncture.

.

Yesterday I worked in the hot Sun weeding my long row of onions. By the time I was moving along to mulching them a big cloud strode along and offered me some shade, for which I was most appreciative. Then I gave the onions a nice long drink. Last year’s onions didn’t really bulk up, so I need to stay on top of the watering this year. I am looking forward to thick, juicy onions to stash away in my pantry. I’ve also planted a row of green onions, which should overwinter nicely, unless we eat them all up this Autumn.

I’m still playing catch-up on my garden list. I need to fill in the trenches of my potatoes, and also giving them a good watering. I know July is just around the corner, but I’m going to put some zucchini seeds in the ground and have some by late Summer to devour and to freeze and to pickle. I’m also going to plant a whole row of basil to put pesto away for the Winter. There is simply nothing so uniquely delicious in all the world as basil (though I am also quite fond of cilantro), and I’ve got a good set of plants already. Just not enough to put a bunch away for the Winter.

And yes, that is what I’m thinking about. Putting lots of food up for the cold. If nothing else, the garden has taught me about two things: consistency and timing.  For a garden to be successful, you must give it consistent attention.  Daily attention.  I have two gardens–a row garden and a garden of vegetable beds and perennial herbs and flowers.  That’s a lot of attention for one scatter-brained woman.  It’s exactly what I need to teach me how to be grounded and focused.  As for the timing, well, you really do have to think ahead, plan, and basically be on top of things.  I rather infamous for having none of those skills.  So you see, the garden is just the teacher I need.  Since I have two gardens, I guess I needed two teachers.  Some of us need more help than others.

And of course, the garden has taught me so much more.  This Spring I did not get any spinach in the garden, or other such greens, but The Lady of the Garden knew my need and filled the garden with lamb’s quarters.  Many a meal have we had of this wild and delicious green, and yesterday I harvested armloads.  Tonight I will lightly sautee’ them and then stash them away in little freezer bags.  Come the cold I will be making stews of potatoes and lamb’s quarters and sausage, and marveling again at the wild abundance of Nature, which is perhaps the greatest lesson of all.

When we brought the currant bushes home, my husband told me they looked like the berry bushes that used to grow in his backyard when he was a kid. His mother caught him eating them one time and scolded him fiercely, telling him they were poison. Poison! Poison! Poison! The other day he plucked a crisp red berry from the bush and popped it into his mouth. “Yep, those were the ones that were in my backyard,” he said. “I loved them. They were so tartly delicious. I’m so glad we have some now!”

It’s easy to think that his mom was being a bit harsh, but the truth is, she just didn’t know. Better safe than sorry is not a bad motto, though are there are better ones. Seek and find out, for one, though that’s a little easier now than in the 70s, I’d say.

Consider if my husband, as a child, had been attracted to this plant instead of red berries:

poison hemlock

He would not be with us.   This plant is Poison Hemlock, and  I found it last week growing by my chicken coop.  Though it looks like many other innocuous plants–Queen Anne’s Lace in particular–it is deadly poisonous.   I read that it can kill you even if you are just handling the root, if you have a cut on your hands.  I don’t know if that’s true, but I do know that it’s poisonous enough that I washed my hands after breaking off a leaf to smell.  I thought it might be dill, which is in the same family (Apiaceae) as hemlock,  but I wasn’t looking closely enough.

I’ve educated my kids about hemlock, starting with two years ago when I saw it flowering down the road by the creek. Last year it was blooming on our river land, right by the path, and every time I walked by it with them I’d say, “There it is, the poison hemlock!  Be careful!  That plant can kill you, quick!”  Now they are afraid of yarrow, Queen Anne’s Lace, and any other plant producing clusters of white flowers.  I have pointed out hemlock’s smooth stalk and compared it with the fuzzy stalk of Queen Anne’s Lace, but I think for kids these  things can get all mixed up in their heads.  Learning the difference between what is poison, and what is not, is knowledge that develops over many, many seasons.   Be respectful of each plant, I tell them.  Some are so poisonous they can kill you, some are so rich in medicine they can heal you.  No plant ever poisoned someone that was just looking at it, so learn to use your eyes.  I’m still learning that.  And trying to figure out how I want to destroy this plant before it goes to seed.

Meanwhile, the peonies in my garden are tumbling over themselves like girls just become women, tossing their beauty about recklessly, littering the path with a carpet of pink petals. I feel like peonies are the ultimate flower, the way they burst open with frills and scent and color, and then just can’t stop, falling over with the heavy delight of being a flower.

The valerian is flowering, and one plant has a stalk over six feet tall!  Looks kind of like hemlock, oddly enough.  The root of valerian, where it’s medicine dwells, has a powerful stink-foot smell, but the flowers are sweet and clear.  I’ll be gathering the seed this year, and planting more valerian this fall.  Do you have any seeds from your garden you’d like to trade for some valerian seeds?

Soon the flowers of May will be gone, and the lilies and bee balm and elecampane will begin flowering.  I have really enjoyed my native columbine, which was a volunteer in the pot of another plant I purchased last year.  It has bloomed profusely, and its blooms are smaller than the more domesticated columbine.  I’ll be passing some seeds from this plant along to a friend of mine, who gave me some of the volunteer columbine plants from her garden.   They were so cute–little deep purple doubles!  I’m wondering if the native will cross with these unusual samples from her garden to make even more interesting varieties of columbine.

And last, but certainly not least, is a branch from one of my peach trees.  It’s going to be a peachy summer, I’d say!

]]> http://woodbyrd.com/wordpress/2010/06/of-poisons-and-peaches/feed/ 0 http://woodbyrd.com/wordpress/2010/06/pitch-for-a-shift/ http://woodbyrd.com/wordpress/2010/06/pitch-for-a-shift/#comments Wed, 02 Jun 2010 23:22:26 +0000 stephanie thomas berry http://woodbyrd.com/wordpress/?p=2060 Yesterday afternoon Jay and I sat at the table stripping mint leaves from their stalks, arranging them in assorted patterns on the dehydrator trays.   We were both a bit worn with the day, and so I had made some mate latte tea.  I had mine with honey, and that, along with the crisp scent of mint, seemed to be lifting the tired fog that engulfed me.

We talked a bit about his work, and then I made my pitch.

“Let’s try something new,” I suggested.  “Let’s make our midday meal our main meal of the day.  Before then, we can all work together, in the garden, on your carcycle, whatever.  After the meal, you can go to your shop, I can go to my studio, and the kids can have free time.”

I had this idea that morning, as my children fought downstairs with a vengeance.   I was trying to get a small task done, and had left them to their own devices.  Of course this was a recipe for disaster, but only a minor disaster, the type to which I am somewhat immune.  I need some sort of shift, I thought, as Renee screamed at McKinley at the top of her lungs downstairs.  There has to be a way for us to move more into the life we desire with less stress and more beauty.  There just has to be a way!

As it has been, our life very loosely resembles a traditional set-up, whereby Jay goes to work in the morning, albeit just next door, and usually around 10 am, and I stay at home with the kids.  That is about where the resemblance ends, since “staying home with the kids” might mean swimming in the river, or it might mean discussing the current crisis in Gaza, as we did yesterday.  Still, being the only one with the kids for most of the day means that when I can break away to the studio, I usually don’t have the energy.  Making dinner at the end of the day usually takes what last bit of energy I might have had.

So in our constant quest–sometimes joyful, sometimes not–to do everything, we are attempting a shift change.  We’ll try it for a week and see how it works.  Today was the first day, and oh, today!

We started the day with coffee, as usual, sitting at the table in our outdoor kitchen.  I woke the children by reading some of “The Island of the Blue Dolphins” to them.  Reading with them in the morning, rather than at night, has proven to be the trick to getting my children from sleep to wakefulness without yelling.  Then we read together from “Opening Doors Within,” which is a daily meditation book by Eileen Caddy, one of the co-founders of Findhorn.  Breakfast was followed by jumping on the trampoline, and then into the garden we went, weeding and planting 8 butternut squash plants.  The clouds came and cooled us from the hot Sun, and then the rain began to fall upon us, big thick drops, sporadic and delicious at first, and then a torrent.  We rushed to the house, wet and laughing.

For our midday meal, Jay and Renee made a stack of handmade tortillas (thirty-two to be precise), while McKinley made hummus, and I made a frittata.

I sent McKinley to the garden to take pictures of the row of butternut squash and the limbs of our peach trees, which are laden with peaches.  We have so many peaches that I’ll be making peach preserves, peach chutney, and peach pie come August.  Anyway, here’s the pictures he took:

Baby Butternut

Rose

Baby Peach

My Marvel of Venice beans are coming up strong, and the arugula I planted with the kids a few days ago has made a fine green appearance.  We’ve been getting good rain this week, so the other beans I planted, and the sunflowers, should be showing pretty soon.  The garden grows, the river warms, and summer really is upon us. With my husband joining me in the garden, I feel like anything is possible!

Rather, she is incredible. And McKinley isn’t so bad at the piano game, either. When he sits at her piano, which admittedly sounds angelic compared to ours, his fingers begin playing all sorts of things he’s picked up from the aforementioned brother. He does this in between actual pieces he’s playing for his lesson, and he does this whenever his teacher has momentarily paused in giving him guidance. It’s maddening for me! “Lesson manners!” I remind him, but she just smiles back at me. She understands, she tells me, she had one like this, so full of life and energy. And today she asked him the title of this one thing he’s played over and over until my ears hurt.

“You won’t like it,” he tells her.

“That’s okay, what matters is that you like it,” she smiles, ever so generously.

“It’s Death Clocks Thunderhorse,” he rambles off, then makes some heavy metal air guitar motions. I roll my eyes.

“Okay, I’ll see if I can find the music for it, so you can learn to play it CORRECTLY,” she smiles again, this time her evil-piano-teacher intentions revealed to me by the glint in her eyes. McKinley is oblivious. She’s very good.

Renee got back from her four-day trip to Washington D.C. with friends on Monday. The highlight of her trip was seeing baby ducks at the Botanical Gardens. No surprise there. She was also very impressed with the hotel, a Holiday Inn, because the kids ate free for breakfast AND dinner. There was also a pool, and she had packed three swimsuits in anticipation of this, only to be deeply disappointed that there turned out to be no time for swimming. Instead they walked all over the place looking at museums.

I had told her that when she got back I would take her to a pool so she could go pool-swimming. Poor thing, she’s grown up swimming in a mountain river. Now all that she wants is to swim in a pool. Go figure. But I came down with the dreaded Strange Virus, and was out for two days, during which not only did she have to entertain herself, but she did NOT get taken to a real swimming pool. Now that I could walk up the stairs without my head swimming, it was time for me to take her to the pool down the road.

This I did not want to do. There was so much that needed to be done, I’d missed Monday going to Charlotte to pick her up, and Tuesday and Wednesday with the Strange Virus. My day had already been set back with the rescheduled piano lessons. Since she also wanted to make some chocolate chip cookies (this girl is always planning something) I thought maybe we could do the cookies today, swimming tomorrow. Much girl-grief ensued with this suggestion, which escalated to a small argument in which I got testy and she got upset, crying, “I’m sorry, Momma,” which is really code for, “I’m sorry but will you please give me what I want anyway?” So I called the pool. They’re not even open yet. And of course she doesn’t want to go swimming in the river, which is right across the road and absolutely divine for swimming in.

So we made cookies instead. I had become stressed. I was thinking about my garden. How I’m always behind with planting. How the weeds are everywhere. She wanted to make the “Best Ever Chocolate Chip Dip Cookies” and I wasn’t even sure what she meant by that. We got out some cookbooks, reading over different recipes. This one used three sticks of butter. No, thanks. This one used ricotta cheese. Whatever. Like I just happen to have ricotta cheese in my refrigerator because I might want to whip up some homemade ravioli or lasagne or chocolate chip cookies. OK. Next recipe. Double Mint Chocolate Chip Cookies. Score! Renee LOVES mint, and we have lots growing, well, everywhere.

Renee was really into making the cookies. She did a great job, and enjoyed herself thoroughly. I enjoyed helping her. When we spread the dough onto the cookie sheet, she revealed her secret plan for what a “”Chocolate Chip Dip” cookie would be–one that had a chunk of chocolate hidden in the middle! I was impressed with her innovation.

After the cookies came out of the oven and had been appropriately devoured, she changed into a scarf wrapped about her and began singing about her cookies. They were magical cookies she had decided, and she talked with me at great length about this, peppering our conversation about belief and magic with outbursts of glorious song. “This is just the best day,” she told me. I had reverted to weeding the front flower bed while she sang to me and was now covered in wretched grass pollen that made me feel as I was on fire. “Yes, it is a beautiful day,” I told her, “and I’m going to go inside and relax for a minute or two.”

I washed off and laid down for a little while. I was not in the best of moods, regardless of my delightful daughter, regardless of how the rain came up while we were cooking in our outdoor kitchen, a sudden breeze wafting over us, regardless of the peonies, geraniums, and borage I had picked from my garden and set on the table earlier. Sometimes we are just in a foul mood, no matter what beauty befalls us.

So I went to the garden, chiding myself as I transplanted collards and basil and rhubarb, the last of which I put at the back of the garden where it could grow big and unfettered and perhaps form a sort of border against the weeds that inevitably encroach upon my garden.  I checked on my lettuces, which are doing swimmingly well, and my broccoli, which is looking good.  My tomatoes were stunted by a late frost but are coming back.  And I still have more tomatoes to put in the garden.  Also in the ground are potatoes and onions.  And the beans I planted a few days ago.  So maybe things aren’t so off in the garden department.  And the peonies are blooming.  What could be better than that for a May afternoon?

Libra is “a moist, fruitful airy sign. Good for grains & root crops. Especially good for flowers,” according to The Almanack.com, whose monthly almanac I save to my desktop and check frequently.  I intended to plant more potatoes today, since the Moon is in such a good sign for them, but alas, I spent a good portion of my day helping with the new floor in my outdoor kitchen.  More on that tomorrow.

Even with all the weeds the garden is gorgeous.  I’ll get those potatoes in the ground.  Plus lots of other stuff.  My white peonies are blooming, and my pink peonies are about to.  I really love my peonies!

This morning I got up at six–a very strange occurrence indeed–and picked this bouquet from my garden: