This summer has been unusually mild and pleasant, but working on a deadline has kept me at my computer long hours every day. Each morning, though, before I surrender to the tunnel of planning and words, I spend a few minutes wandering through the garden with my camera. It's a peaceful and centering practice that gives me a chance to breathe and observe, and every morning brings something new. Sometimes it's the opening of the latest blossom—a spectacular red hibiscus, or another cluster of blooms on the creamy white Carolina phlox. Other times it's just a ray of sun slanting at a peculiar angle along the hydrangea leaves. But one morning last week it was a graceful green and white spider hard at work repairing its web. The light caught the iridescent strands perfectly, and I watched mesmerized as the spider danced delicately over the sticky surface. Even the tiniest spiders elicit a shiver along my spine, a response I suspect is programmed into my DNA (though watching the terrifying cave spider in the 1930s version of Swiss Family Robinson when I was only six probably didn't help). My mother, a thoroughly modern woman in many ways, was adamant we respect the old French superstitions (to this day I cannot put a hat on a bed). Having spent part of her childhood in her grandmother's drafty chateau, she admired spiders for their ability to keep other insects at bay, but she prized them as portents. "Araigner du matin, chagrin! Araigner du soir, espoir!" (Spider in the morning, sadness! Spider in the evening, hope!). She would go out of her way to avoid any place she thought a spider might lurk in the morning but hunt them in dark corners at night. This garden spider was definitely a morning spider, yet it filled me with hope. There it was, going about its business in a wonderfully efficient and effortless way, and I took it as a sign to do the same. So I went inside and got to work.
Variety in the Woods
Mushrooms on the table are nourishing and satisfying. Mushrooms in the woods are mysterious and a little scary. Maybe I've just read too many fairy tales, but I find myself drawn to their strange shapes and sudden appearances. Mushrooms are beautiful in a weird way, as if they are the negative to the positive of the green plants and trees growing nearby. They do not produce chlorophyl, so in some ways they could be thought of as ghost plants, and they often appear on or near decaying trees. I love to photograph mushrooms—their structures and textures are intriguing, and their pale surfaces soak up light. I sometimes think of them as miniature trees from a magic kingdom—foreign but easy to frame in my lens. I've been working on a series for years, so I'm always on the lookout for new varieties. On a recent evening hike near the Potomac River, I was completely surprised by these mushrooms glowing in a ray of the setting sun. As I bent to focus, I discovered a daddy-longlegs perched on the surface of the smaller one. It was glaring, as if defending its throne, so I got my shots and moved on. I didn't want to discover that it could cast a spell!
Variety on the Table
Growing up in France, mushrooms were a normal part of our diet. My mother never served us a bowl of mushrooms alone, but they were mixed in to her delicious sauces, soups, and stews. Her creamy Coquilles St. Jacques, which she always served in large scallop shells, combined tiny scallops from the west coast of France in a buttery sauce with button mushrooms from the market. Her veal roast with cêpes (porcini) practically melted on the fork. I thought mushrooms were just another vegetable until I was ten, when the "mushroom incident" occurred. Maman had gone to Lourdes for several days on pilgrimage, and she left my father and the children in the care of the young Austrian woman who was the live-in maid and child minder of the moment. When she returned, something suddenly set her to screaming in the kitchen. Apparently my father had expressed his enjoyment of mushrooms, and the maid had thought it would be nice to cook him some for his dinner. She had simply gone out into the park after the rain, picked the mushrooms that had sprouted under the trees, and sautéed them with onions. Maman discovered the leftovers and was convinced the maid was trying to poison us all. She fired her on the spot. I suspect my father, who had not been affected in any way by his dish of very local mushrooms, was disappointed. We were given a strong lecture on never, ever picking mushrooms unless we were with adults who knew what they were doing. The occasion never came up as we were soon swept back to the States, where the only mushrooms my mother could find were in jars or cans, another source of her disappointment with American food.
This has changed, of course, as the healthy food scene and local markets have brought fresh mushrooms into American kitchens in a big way. At our local market, we are especially fortunate to have Ferial, the "Mushroom Lady," bringing a dozen varieties of cultivated mushrooms to pick from every week. She also features seasonal wild mushrooms, and she makes sure they are all edible and delicious. Her mushrooms have inspired my cooking and my art. You can find her at the Arlington, Falls Church, and Vienna markets in Virginia, and the Bethesda and Baltimore markets in Maryland. Don't miss a chance to talk to her about her recipes and her interesting life. If you're fortunate, it will be chanterelle season!
Chasing Rainbows
We had several dramatic thunderstorms last week—'tis the season! Heat and humidity build to such a pitch that late afternoon storms are a relief. I love to walk outside immediately after a storm. The damp air is fresh and charged with energy, and if I'm very lucky, there will be a rainbow. Then I run back inside for my cameras (the iPhone has become a companion to my Nikon) and the chase begins. Because I live in the lee of a hill surrounded by trees, finding a vantage point is always a challenge. As I go running down (or up!) the hill, I think of that elusive pot of gold that is supposedly hidden at the base of the rainbow. The only treasure I'm seeking is the rainbow itself, and sometimes a clear view is hard to locate. Rainbows vanish quickly, so I have to work fast. As I look through the viewfinder, I realize what a beautiful illusion is being created from droplets of water and sunlight. Another reminder to take a deep breath and enjoy the show.
Tried and True
Gardeners are always experimenting, and a long-tended garden is one where lots of plant experiments have been tried with a mix of success and failure. I've lived with my garden for enough years to have seen the shady parts turn sunny (dead trees) and the sunny parts turn shady (growing trees). I've spent plenty of money on expensive hybrids of lilies, daylilies, hydrangeas, and roses (my mainstays), only to see them struggle and fade. It's not surprising, given my style of haphazard gardening. l do ask my plants to thrive on a certain amount of neglect, so that's why I rely on a few tried and true flowers. The showiest (and bossiest) of these are my orange daylilies. From the end of May to the first week of July, they put on a spectacular show. I grew up calling them Tiger Lilies, but they're not the fancy Asian lilies that go by that name. Mine are the old standard daylilies that are now disparaged as—horrors!—invasive species. Tawny or Orange Daylilies (Hemerocallis fulva) are also called Ditch Lilies because they grow so tenaciously and spread with such vigor. They originated in Asia, but they're so widely distributed throughout America, they're often mistaken for a native species. You won't find them in any garden centers, so if you're brave enough to grow them, you'll have to ask a friend to share. Which is another reason why I love my tried and true tigers. Every fall I have to dig up along the edges of the bed to keep the daylilies from strangling their neighbors and taking over more real estate. I always have plenty to give away!
Seeking
My Vermont sojourn always includes at least one mountain hike. The spectacular views of rolling green mountains and blue glacial lakes are worth the effort, but my real purpose for climbing up the rocks is my annual search for the elusive Lady Slipper orchids (Cypripedium acaule). Known as "Les Sabots de la Vierge" (the Virgin's clogs) by the Québecois, the French name reflects both the earthiness and the ethereal power of these North American orchids. Lady Slippers are terrestrial orchids, their rhizomes growing in the top layer of soil, so I have to hunt along the ground to find them. The sudden discovery of a blossom in a shaft of sunlight has the effect of an apparition, especially when it's one of the ghostly white ones (Cypripedium acaule f. alba). Vermont, like all the East Coast, had an especially harsh winter this year, so blooming started later. I hunted in the familiar places without success but was surprised to find flowers where I had never seen them before (this ritual has been going on for years). Once I discovered a blossom, I got down on my knees to begin photographing, an activity not unlike the reverence of a pilgrim worshiping at a shrine.
Atmospheric Conditions
Back in Vermont for "Lake Time," our annual escape to the rural northeast. We celebrate the summer solstice here, and spend two weeks with family, hiking, bicycling, and kayaking (the lake is still too cold for swimming!). My favorite activity, though, is watching the weather move across mountains, fields, and lake (it involves very little movement on my part). Since the light creeps up at 4:30 each morning and doesn't spill back into the lake until 10 pm, there is lots of daylight in which to notice and photograph the atmospheric changes. The sky show shifts constantly—one minute I'm sitting in the warm sun staring at a fat, white cloud as it expands above the lake, the next I'm pulling on my sweater as the wind begins to whip up white caps and carry rain clouds from the mountains in my direction. The old New England expression certainly applies here: "If you don't like the weather, wait fifteen minutes." Just like my mind, I realize, though thoughts and feelings flow even faster than the clouds. I make a point of spending a few moments of each day carefully observing the weather inside, too, and recognizing that, if I just watch and don't get attached, any internal turmoil will just scoot across my brain sky and disappear. Inside or out, the atmospheric conditions may change, but the observer stays the same.
Wishing
perfect in its potential
dandelion yearns
for breeze to free its seeds
—ACF
Roses and Rosé
On a perfect Sunday in early June—when the weather is sunny and warm, but not yet oppressively hot, and the climbing roses are blooming rampantly—my husband and I declare the opening of rosé season with the clinking of our glasses of wine. We've been drinking rosés together since our long ago backpacking honeymoon took us to France, where I spent my childhood in the Loire valley and he spent his best student days in art school in Nice. We were showing one another our favorite places in France, and when we got to the south in that warm September, the rosés of Provence—cool, crisp, and full of the aromas of herb-covered hillsides—were our introduction to a summer habit we revive every year. Rosés are refreshing and low in alcohol (unless you're a fan of California's pink Zinfandels, which are way too sweet), and they go with just about any food, from salads to grills. Rosés have become very popular lately, and they are produced in hundreds of wine regions, from Austria to Australia. We spend the summer tasting, allowing ourselves one inexpensive bottle a week. As artists, we love to look at the colors, which range from the light orange-pink of the Provençal Bandols to the deep purple pinks of some Spanish varieties. And as food lovers, we have fun matching the flavors to our summer meals. Like the roses climbing on every fence and corner of our house, there are too many varieties of rosé to categorize them all, so we just let ourselves enjoy the season.
Toes-on-the-Wall
My twenty-year yoga practice has helped me stay physically limber and mentally agile, despite injuries and life stresses. It is my best tool for coping, but it has certainly evolved over the years. I started with visions of a flexible body and super-calm mind, and I worked hard at the practice, pushing myself beyond what my body was capable of doing (and injuring myself in the process). Brought up to "get it right," I didn't know how to pay attention to the signals my body was sending. My mind kept pressing the "override" button. With growing awareness of movement and connection within my body (known as proprioception), I began to sense what worked for me and what didn't. And my practice changed dramatically from striving to letting go. The pose that made all the difference was Viparita Karani, Legs-up-the-Wall. It was startling to discover that I could do absolutely nothing and feel so relaxed and restored afterwards. Legs-up-the-Wall (and my favorite variation, Legs-over-the Sofa) has been my go-to pose for years. I use it when I'm tired, sick, overwhelmed, wired, or wide awake in the middle of the night (in other words, often!). It's also an effective way to counteract jet lag, something I experience frequently with my trips west to be with family. My husband also enjoys the pose, and our two-year-old grandson is used to seeing his grandparents with their legs up against the wall. In fact, he loves to join us. On my latest visit, he insisted that I come into his bedroom to practice what he calls, "Toes-on-the-wall." Given how exhausting it can be keeping up with his energy, I was delighted to comply.
My Rose
Thorny branches
waving like bare arms,
the climbing rose demands my devotion.
I go to her
dressed for battle.
Ours is not an easy union.
She scorns my efforts
to limit her transgressions.
I grow impatient
with her prickly temperament.
Every spring I threaten to abandon her.
She retaliates
with a blush of fragrant pink blossoms,
tender and chaste as a first kiss.
—ACF
Robin [Non]Sense
Whoever coined the phrase bird brain was surely observing a robin. I am fortunate to have a backyard at the edge of urban woods, so it provides refuge to many nesting birds, including cardinals, catbirds, robins, wrens, song sparrows, and bluejays. They go about their business each spring, courting (and singing lustily) and eventually building their nests and raising their families. Only the robins have trouble getting settled. It seems every year there is a variation on robin nonsense. Last year a pair insisted on building their nest on the low ledge just outside my studio window. It was behind a climbing rose, so they thought they were protected, but every time I moved in my studio, they fled in terror. Worried that they wouldn't sit on the four eggs the female had deposited in the nest, I had to cover the bottom half of the windows. I did occasionally get a good peek at the hatchlings (and a few photos), but I spent my time tiptoeing so as not to disturb the family. Their story has an unfortunate ending, as the low ledge was convenient for marauding racoons. One morning I found the remains of two baby birds in the bird bath, where the raccoons had probably washed them before consuming the tasty bits. It was heartbreaking. Two years ago, robins built in a hedge that provided safety, but the nest was right above the tomato plants. Every time I reached for the ripe fruit, I was attacked by a furious diving robin. I took to wearing a large brimmed hat and long sleeves whenever I ventured into the garden. My most alarming robin encounter involved rescuing a female who got her leg tangled in string she was carrying to her nest. I found her screeching and fluttering upside down in the bamboo, unable to free herself. After some precarious maneuvering of a step ladder, I managed to catch her in a dishtowel and cut her down. Then I drove half an hour with the robin in a shoebox on my lap to a vet who would treat her broken leg. The leg had to be amputated, and I kept the robin in that box for several days, feeding her on ripe strawberries. When I let her go, she flew off in a huff and built her nest in a neighbor's yard. Now a new robin pair is attempting to build above the screen door on the porch—the most used door in the house. The ledge is too narrow, and the grasses and mud just fall off, but this doesn't seem to deter them. They keep starting over in exactly the same place (and complaining every time we pass underneath). So much frenetic energy with no thought to the outcome. Seems like a good definition of bird brain to me.
Spring Assessment
After days of pouring rain, I took myself out to the garden to do some weeding (something I do as much for my state of mind as for the state of my garden). When the soil is wet and loose, I can dislodge some of those tenacious weeds that take up so much room and nudge out the plants I'm trying to nurture. This was also a good time to assess the damage from our unusually harsh Virginia winter. I'm a little behind on that score (my neighbors have already planted their tomatoes!), but my gardening motto is, C'est jamais trop tard (it's never too late). As I moved around the beds, I was dismayed to find that a few long-nourished perennials had died. My cherished fig tree was the biggest loss, as it was just mature enough to feed me as well as the hungry birds. Next there was the lavender that has filled my closets with fragrant sachets, though I could never give it as much sunlight as it demanded. The climbing roses and the flowering vines lost yards of branches, and it was in cleaning under them along the fence that I discovered the most unexpected loss—the hawk. I found an entire wing directly beneath the cypress branch where I had last seen the young Red-tail that lived here through the winter. He had made himself conspicuous, calling out insistently every afternoon, and it was above this very spot that he last scolded me as I passed by. How could such a big, lively bird have died here? There were certainly plenty of smaller birds and mammals to prey on. Was he inadvertently poisoned, or did the severe cold affect him? Was there anything I could have done? I had grown accustomed to his fierce guardian presence above my garden. Holding the wing, I sank down onto nearby steps and found myself assessing other losses. Winter can be hard on humans, too, and several of my friends have gone through rough patches recently— illness, an unexpected move, separation, even death. In any life, there are harsh seasons that bring circumstances we cannot avoid or explain. A spring assessment is one way to acknowledge what is lost. Then, even if it takes its time, renewal arrives in the garden, bringing green to replace what has been lost, and an abundance of colorful flowers to distract us.
Bluebells
Anyone who enjoys wandering through nature—whether garden or wilderness—knows there are places on our planet that transcend description. Several years ago, I traveled for a month photographing on the South Island of New Zealand, and each day was spent in speechless awe (the majestic scenery in The Lord of the Rings films only hints at the experience of being there…). On a recent walk along the Potomac River, I was reminded that I don't have to go so far to feel such wonder. Following a muddy path along the Virginia side of the river near Turkey Run Park, I found myself suddenly in acres of blooming bluebells. In sun-dappled shade, the pale green of spring foliage was sprinkled with thousands of bluebells, their tall stalks crowned with clusters of tiny sky blue bell-shaped flowers. There were so many, that when a slight breeze rustled the plants, I expected to hear them tinkling. Virginia bluebells (Mertensia virginica) are wildflowers native to eastern North America. The pure light blue bells open from pink buds, and the two colors combine in the flowering clusters as if designed for the adornment of fairies. I admit I had taken this walk in hope of finding bluebells, but standing among so many was like being in a dream—disorienting and delightful.
Fermentation
In addition to spending many busy hours with my toddler grandson, my recent trip to LA included participation in Fermentation Fest at the Institute of Domestic Technology. I spent a day with my daughter-in-law, her mom, and several other curious women learning the basics of lactic acid fermentation. With the purpose of reigniting "the passion of how we make food," the Institute of Domestic Technology offers instruction in everything from coffee roasting to fruit preserving to cheese making (and they keep adding new workshops). Our class took place in the historic Greystone mansion in Beverly Hills, where the huge kitchen looked like the set for Downton Abbey. Led by enthusiastic Institute director, Joseph Shuldiner, author of Pure Vegan, several experts took turns instructing us in how to create different fermented foods: organic rye bread from a sourdough starter, carbonated drinks from a ginger bug starter, sauerkraut, and kimchi. The instructors were genial, thorough, and inspiring, and their information was fascinating. I had always been intimidated by these processes and was relieved to discover how straightforward they are. The health benefits of fermentation were lauded by Michael Pollen in his book, Cooked, and Alice Waters offers many wonderful recipes in her latest cookbook, Simple Foods II. Once back home I got right to work, and now I have a jar of sauerkraut and a jar of vegan kimchee fermenting in a dark corner of the kitchen (and the air smells active). I feed my ginger bug every day, and my sourdough starter is set for life (literally). The happy bacteria are busy producing health-enhancing foods, and I'm feeling very accomplished!
Edges
A spring trip to the West Coast gave me plenty of time to contemplate the ever-changing US landscape from my airplane window. I'm not a comfortable flyer, so when weather permits, I distract myself by looking and photographing. On this trip, the weather was turbulent heading west, so our route went north across the Great Plains (including Nebraska, which the pilot identified when we flew near Omaha), then dipped south along the snow-crowned Rockies. The route home crossed over barren southwestern desert before entering the agricultural lands of the midwest. The shifting patterns and colors are always fascinating, but this time I was struck by the places where geography, geology, and human land use have created edges. Like the edges used by an artist to define and emphasize—hard, soft, smooth, rough—the landscape below me was contained and transformed by edges. The quilted patterns of farms, outlined by the sharp angles of roads and meandering curves of streams and rivers, gave way to the soft, fuzzy scrumble of forests and wild hills. Valleys filled with human habitation butted softly against the shoulders of mountains. River canyons carved hard snaking lines across empty plateaus. Mountains melted into flat lonely deserts. And as the plane descended into LA, the ultimate edge appeared—the ocean, edge of the continent. From my lofty seat in the sky, I could contemplate how the edges of geography become boundaries that prevent, protect, or pollute, depending on human intentions and resourcefulness. We have definitely made our marks on the land, but from the air, those marks are beautiful.
Dutchman's breeches
Fed up with winter
and lines of dingy laundry
drying by the smoky hearth,
the Dutchman's wife
hangs her husband's breeches
in cloud-strewn April sun
where billowing white flags
announce to all her neighbors
that spring has come.
—ACF
Clivia
My love affair with orange started when I purchased my first clivia more than a decade ago. I had seen the plant in an expensive garden catalogue, and despite the price, I couldn't resist its vibrant bloom in the dead of winter. By March most of my houseplants are hanging on by their fingernails, and that's when clivias wake up and sing. Native to South Africa, Clivia miniata is mostly grown as a houseplant, though I've seen gardens in Southern California where clivias cover entire hillsides (and I've stood, drooling…). There's a bit of controversy about pronouncing the name (gardeners tend to have strong opinions)—most say it with a soft "i" (like "give"), but it was named in the early 19th century for Lady Charlotte Clive, Duchess of Northumberland, so a long "i" (like alive) is supposed to be official. However you pronounce it, it's a spectacular plant. From the moment the compact flower bud starts to emerge from the center of the elegant, dark green leaves, it is a joy to observe. The cluster of blossoms swells as the stem grows to about 18 inches. Then the swollen green buds open one at a time into deep orange flowers with yellow throats. When the sun shines through the petals, they vibrate like flames. The clivia in my Transience series gives the full picture. As the blooms begin to fade, the color shifts to a lighter, rosier orange, then they drop off one at a time. By then my outdoor garden is waking up, and I can only thank the clivia for getting me to daffodil season.
The all-knowing "No!"
My toddler grandson is about to turn two, and among the many new words he says—playground, garage, Daddy red car, Face Time, big hug—he still cherishes one of his very first words, "No!" It's such an important word at his age, giving him his first experience of contrariness as a way to separate from the adults around him. It's amazing how quickly he picked up on the power of "no!" I clearly remember my son at that age, refusing to climb into his car seat. A mother who had just exited the same event was hearing plenty of "no" from her daughter, too, and she raised her eyes to the skies. "Remember when it used to be so easy," I said across the car roof, and we both laughed. Of course "no" is a word that will serve my grandson well throughout life—a good, boundary setting word, one that he must learn to wield judiciously.
The flip side of the word, however, is the "no" we internalize—the "no" of parents and teachers who are warning us or keeping us in line. For many of us, this becomes the unfortunate, all-knowing "no" that limits our ability to take constructive risks. I've been thinking about this lately, in relation to following my creative impulses. My brain, specifically the prefrontal cortex that governs my voluntary functions, thinks it is in charge, and like an over-anxious parent, uses the word "no" a lot. As I've come to understand it, "no" is a word that conveys certainty. If the brain voice says "no," then it knows it has control over the outcome—nothing new will happen. If it says "yes," then like a parent giving a teenager the car keys, it can't predict what will happen. Anything is possible! If I'm trying to motivate myself to stretch in an unfamiliar creative direction, I'm much more likely to say "no," and convince myself with very adult reasons why something isn't a good idea. It's easier to control the outcome (no work) than to face the uncertainties of the process (possible failure, judgment, or rejection). It's good to understand this, because I'm learning to use "no" on that limiting brain voice. "No", I say back, "I don't believe you." "Sorry," I continue politely, "I'm going to do it anyway." And then I think of my grandson and laugh. He has the right approach. A no-nonsense "No!"
Beech Gold
Following the fog through the woods on the morning of the spring equinox, I was enchanted by the golden leaves of the winter beeches standing out in the gray light. The American Beech (Fagus grandifolia) is a native of North America and is found in forests throughout the eastern United States. It grows into a majestic tree with a straight, smooth, silver trunk and a broad canopy of pointed, dark green leaves. Beeches love moist soil, thriving near streams and rivers, and the woods along the Potomac River are filled with them. They tend to grow in stands around mature trees, sprouting from the shallow root system, so it's not unusual to see groupings of young beeches sprinkled through the undergrowth. There is one section of my favorite park where an entire hillside is covered with them. Since they often hold on to their leaves throughout the winter, their burnished gold halos makes beeches the stars of the winter woods. On foggy mornings like this one, I can imagine myself in my favorite childhood fairy tale, The Twelve Dancing Princesses, running through a forest where the trees have silver trunks and leaves of real gold. I certainly photograph them as if I am under a spell! As I get close, I notice the elongated leaf buds pushing out from the tips of branches, so winter gold will soon be replaced by spring green. This will probably be my last enjoyment of beech gold, but after our long winter, I'm eager for the enchantments of a new season.