Artichoke Time

Thankfully, we are having an early spring.
Foraging time!

I am first and foremost a forager; Rob and I eat dandelions, leeks, nettles, morels, puffballs, fiddleheads, garlic mustard and a variety of other flora. (We do not eat fauna except on rare occasion, like the time we fattened up our own escargot...)

Spring is for foraging and also for artichokes. Don't be intimidated by them if you are unfamiliar with their charms! Look for them at markets and good produce departments. They are delicious and nutritious and considered by many to be a spring tonic. I buy it; they look like thistles and in my book, that makes them medicinal.

Here is my recipe:

Take as many small artichokes as you want to eat. (buy small, firm, fresh, squeaky ones) We eat about 5 or 6 each, as a simple light meal or lunch.
~ trim off stem and top fifth or so of each choke
~ place in acidulated water while you trim the rest (2 tablespoons vinegar or lemon juice in a large bowl of water) otherwise the cut parts will turn an ugly gray-brown colour...
~ steam in an inch or two of water, covered, 8 - 10 minutes, until a skewer easily pierces the thick part...
~ melt some butter with lemon juice and a spoonful of mustard; whisk together... the mustard is an emulsifier;)
~ sit with someone you love and eat the artichokes leaf by leaf. Dip each leaf in the butter mixture and scrape the good stuff off with your lower teeth. As the leaves get smaller, you will eat more and more of them until you get to the inner heart of the artichoke. This you smother in butter, then eat the whole damn thing.

Warning: they are addictive. Also, they contain a chemical that makes everything taste kind of sweet after eating them. How fun!

Amazing Grace

Seamus, looking at stuff.

I don't go to church; I go to the woods.
Easter Sunday. We walk in an area that is destined to become a subdivision. It is privately owned land, near the Grand River, Bridgeport, Ontario. It contains a field that was planted in alfalfa last year and is now home to a vast colony of field mice.

My dogs like to hunt mice. My twelve year old Australian Cattle dog/Border collie mix, Blue, is especially into this game but he is not nearly so good at it as my eleven year old husky mix, Seamus. Seamus is gifted in the ways of the hunt. Today, he stands motionless for a long moment, his head tilted, listening, then he pounces with amazing grace. A moment later, I see a mouse flying through the air, already dead.
Although he is good at killing things, Seamus doesn't seem to want to eat the creatures he kills. This is particularly strange because Seamus will eat damn near anything. I point out to him that it is morally wrong to kill for sport ~ that eating the mouse would at least give its death a purpose ~ he remains unmoved. He touches the mouse with his nose once; twice; wanders off.

Fortunately, Blue has been watching. He sneaks over and quickly eats the mouse.
Hallelujah. Happy Easter.

Crackadaisical

Bitter today.

I'm so fucking tired of the way we've set things up. Why did we have to go and make it all about money? I don't get it. What made us think that unbridled capitalism was going to make us all happy? Didn't we notice the signs that told us that the biggest, slimiest thugs would rape the planet and stomp on the indigenous people and make their fortunes by squeezing the blood from the people beneath them on the totem pole? Didn't we realize that we were the people under them on that pole? Were we fooled by their insincere smiles and genial chuckling? Dazzled by their designer duds and expensive haircuts? Blinded by the glare off their perfect, bleached teeth?

I come from a family of artists, some of them very productive and somewhat successful. I also come from a family of hoarding pack-rats, some of them certifiable. I am blessed/saddled with the familial artistic temperament, tragically coupled with a crippling lack of self esteem that prevents me from sharing anything I create with anyone, even (especially) the people I love. I also carry the tragic and disgusting pack-rat gene, like my mother's aunt Mary. I have this idea that all this shit I've surrounded myself with, is somehow valuable. (Hint: It ain't.)

In order to survive in this capitalist paradise we have created, a person is required to have 'drive'. A person is required to be 'motivated to succeed'. A person is not supposed to be completely lackadaisical, to be content to spend hours watching the birds in the backyard, or thinking about the varieties of beans one might plant. If one had a garden. Which one doesn't. Because one has dogs, instead.

Rewards: today, as I sat on the porch in the unseasonably perfect weather, our resident flock of chickadees came visiting and sat close enough for me to touch, drinking from the rain bucket. The goldfinches were there too, at the niger seed feeder, singing their cheery song and a white breasted nuthatch dropped in for a while, too. I also saw Senor Chipmunk perched on the wisteria, surveying his kingdom. Later, I scratched Seamus's belly and saw his secret smile.

Now I'm going to roust myself out of this chair and make some dinner. Dinner is one of the few areas in which I demonstrate competence. I'm feeling pretty lackadaisical but there is no denying that it's time to move.