by Mimi Hedl

These winter days have an amorphous color and texture. Some people say they’re depressing and use terms like mid-west drab. This is the time of trees with bare branches, life buried under quiet earth, cedar trees offering the most color though if you look closely you see the expanding buds on the dogwoods, the parsley lush in emerald green. Or wait until sunset when the evening skies dissolve into vibrant colors unseen in spring.  Granted the landscape does not seem overly generous. I like that. Looking at winter with different eyes helps me see the patterns of bird tracks, where the neighbor’s cat has prowled, how many persimmons the critters have eaten leaving the seeds behind; the structure of a winter landscape viewed with a quiet perspective.

The decreased light creates opportunities for both crawling inside my mind and listening to it spin and spin. Not always a pleasant experience.  Recently a haunting kept me alert to the “stuff” I’ve accumulated. It was a monster under my bed, speaking, taunting me as it did when I was a child. Finally, after repeated confrontations and requests for that monster to leave me alone, I took action. I pulled out six suitcases, big suitcases, some super-sized, tucked under the beds, out of sight, out of mind for 41 years. These suitcases, filled with letters from as far back as the late 1960s, kept the mice at bay, the letters secure. But in all these years, I never once picked up a letter and re-read it. Thousands of letters. I saved them as a matter of fact. A ritual I’d go through at the end of each year. Bundle up the letters, store them, never giving thought to the day that I, or heaven forbid someone else, would have to deal with them.

I’ve had experience with overwhelming projects. They make me see stars. I want to dissolve into the ether, float away, where peace and calm reside.  I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing, should I recycle everything and be done with it? My mother would do just that. In fact, she wouldn’t have saved anything. My dad would’ve saved it all and then protested when my mother said it had to go. So I approached my project in the only way I know how – organize.

I put each person’s letters in a pile. The queen-sized bed wasn’t big enough to hold the piles. Then I used boxes. I allowed myself an hour each day unless more pressing duties called. The first day I got lost in memories as I read one letter after another. Too many memories stuffed inside me all at once.  My mind spun. Voices echoed through the years. I had to have a firm stopping point to avoid unraveling.  “I’ll never finish this.”

Piles, piles everywhere! Some from family, my niece, my sisters, my daughter, my ‘other’ daughter whose letters made me burst into hysterical laughter. Letters from high school friends, college, the Ribeiros in Brazil, from grade school, gardeners I’ve met from around the world. From casual acquaintances who wrote thank you notes, old loves, my mother and father, friends I cherished who have either passed or simply passed from my life. Some memories made me sad, some made me laugh, others made me feel fortunate to have known those people. When my hour was up, I’d go outside, breathe in the cold air and refocus.

Outside I’d begun another project with accumulated stuff. The old rabbit shed where I’d stored 400 bamboo canes had a collapsed roof, right on top of the bamboo. In order to move the canes, the tin and then the lumber of the shed had to come down. It’s that old saying about how one thing leads to another.  I felt like a juggler who had lost the art and had to re-figure how to keep many things in the air. Or like with pick-up-sticks; having to decide which stick you have to move before you could move the next one. I stood in the winter cold with a blank look.

It soon became clear that deconstructing the old rabbit shed came first. That was easy once I relaxed. I called Patrick, my friend and good neighbor, and asked him to help. He said, “I could do it in 10 minutes but I suppose you want to save the wood.” (He’s seen my ‘museum’ of curated lumber.)  Of course I did. That voice spoke to me, “there you go, saving again.” Ahhh, I plead guilty. I can’t help it, I just can’t help it.

Patrick and I took our time, the nails did not give up easily.  We carefully took out each one, hammered in thirty-eight years ago, stacking the barn wood that came from Goldie’s sixty-year-old shed down in Belle, a shed Ron and I took down at Goldie’s request, forty-one years ago. Hundred year old lumber holds a special place in my heart. Patrick saw the beauty too.

Once the shed was down, the tin in a pile for Patrick to take home, the lumber sequestered in the museum, I could move the bundles of bamboo canes. No, wait a minute! Like in pick-up-sticks, I couldn’t move the bamboo until I’d moved the basket willows out of another shed because that’s where I planned on moving the bamboo. (If you’re confused, think of how the architect of this plan felt!)

This is the sad part. I’d grown, cut and bundled all those willow rods over many years. I had dreams of making many baskets. Cutting the rods in the stools took time.  I’d be down on my hands and knees in late autumn or winter, with pruners in hand, cutting rod after rod in each stool. Then I’d sort them according to length, bundle, and let cure for a year before I could then re-soak the rods and use them for making willow baskets. Like the rabbit skins I’d tanned and lost to mice with visions of making a blanket, many of the rods had deteriorated over the years, snow blowing in on them, rain falling through the holes in the tin, critters chewing on the end. An inevitable progression when life interfered with plans.

This is what happens to things we love and save. It’s the destiny of all things. The good part for me, during this process of cleaning up, letting go, was the recognition that we and everything are the stuff of stars.  Atoms and molecules simply get rearranged. It’s our minds that get in the way. We want to hold on to what went into making us who we are. And we can, but only for a while, until the time comes for those objects to rearrange themselves in a new configuration. That simple thought lightened my mood, made me release so much of what I was holding on to, inside my head and physically. I did a little jig. I appreciated my optimism when I cut those rods and dreamed of baskets I’d make, the memories the letters held, and the beauty of the weathered lumber from Goldie’s shed.

As I moved the willow rods out of the shed, I began to see how I’d use many of my saved objects. I saw a way to be the architect of the destiny of these things. I’ve promised Brother Cadfael I’d help him prepare the new garden area I’d given him. The garden’s edged by vitex shrubs on the north side and lilac shrubs on the south. In between these shrubs, brome and foxtails and other grasses grow. I’d make Brother Cadfael faux wattle-edged beds in that in between space, using the sad, old willow rods to frame the beds. Letters would cover the bare soil of each bed, cardboard over the letters, then leaves, grass clippings, compost and wood ashes as the cherry on top. I’d use the cedar pieces I’d saved for the stakes to contain the wattle fence … I was figuring it out, seeing the potential once I’d embraced the idea of reconfiguration and letting things go. And it felt wonderful!

I checked with Brother Cadfael to make sure he liked my idea. He was delighted. “You know the beds in the monastery garden had real wattle fences. Some of the young novitiates helped me weave them. The smell of willow has been dear to me. Flowers and herbs will grow in each bed. The buried richness will make them grow well. I have my memories. They’ll rest in this garden too. Thank you my friend.”

After consolidating the letters I’ll keep from those I’ll give to Cadfael’s garden, the keepers fit in two shoe boxes. The suitcases sit empty, waiting to go to thrift stores. I feel divested and free. The monster under the bed has long disappeared. I landed the final blow by opening the suitcases and releasing whatever lived inside them. People have called and written about the letters they asked me to send. One man, the son of a neighbor, was thrilled to read his mother’s letters to me. He said, “She told you things she never told me.” Another gardening friend called and made plans to come visit.

My eyes rest on more winter delights. Look at these cedar branches! Rich with beautiful berries. I watch a hairy woodpecker chase a black capped chickadee from the suet and laugh at his selfishness.  There’s a blue jay by the bird bath, pecking at the ice, telling me to bring hot water.

And you can see the process I used to create the beds in Cadfael’s garden. Still two beds to make and probably more work in the future when things don’t work out quite right. What a grand project of reconfiguration! And you dear reader, will be the only ones to know the origin of these gardens. I wish you well as you figure out how to let go of your stuff and move on. Happy New Year.

We had four inches of snow on the ground this morning – winter is on its way. As we approach the solstice, I start dinner preparations at 4:30, following the prompt of the fading daylight. When I realize it’s too early for dinner I may decide to make a dessert. I hunger for spicy, deep tastes. Gingerbread fits the bill and perfumes the house with irresistible aromas. This is an easy dessert to prepare at the last minute, requiring about 15 minutes of prep and 25 minutes of baking. (It’s also dairy-free.) My mom served gingerbread with a dollop of whipped cream. We sometimes add a scoop of vanilla ice cream.  I like it plain with a cup of coffee or tea.

Gingerbread

Combine 1 2/3 cups unbleached flour, ½ cup brown sugar, 1 ½ teaspoons baking soda, 2 teaspoons ground ginger, ½ teaspoon cinnamon and ½ teaspoon salt. I add fresh ginger for an extra punch, about a 1-inch piece, finely grated or chopped.

Stir in ½ cup blackstrap molasses, ½ cup safflower oil, and 1 large, beaten egg. Add ½ cup boiling water and mix well. Pour into an oiled and floured 8-inch square pan and bake at 350° for 25 minutes until firm and a toothpick tester comes out clean.

Make the glaze while the cake is baking. Combine ½ cup powdered sugar, shaken through a sieve to remove lumps, with a big pinch of zest and enough lemon juice to make a pourable glaze, about two teaspoons. Pour glaze over the hot cake and cool on a rack.

Our current choices for winter vegetables are limited so I’m always looking for new ways to use them. I like to mix up our dinner menu and include our veggies in a salad. This salad tasted great alongside an omelette filled with marinated goat cheese. (below) Or serve with a sautéed chicken breast, grilled salmon or a chop.

For two servings, steam a large stalk of broccoli until tender but with a little crunch. Cool and cut into bite-sized pieces, including the peeled stalk, the sweetest part of the vegetable. Combine with salad greens – lettuce, arugula, radicchio, endive.

Add an orange, peeled by slicing off both ends,  then cutting down the sides to remove the skin. Cut into half-moons. Add two dates cut into ½ inch pieces. A handful of chopped fresh dill is nice here if you have it, or use a big pinch of dried. Toss with a good olive oil, salt and pepper.

I’ve been embellishing a log of Trader Joe’s goat cheese with lemon and olive oil. What a treat served with a crusty St. Vrain Market baguette, a loaf of Moxie sourdough, or in an omelette.

Crumble a log of plain goat cheese, 4-8 ounces, into a bowl. Keep some chunks. Add the zest of half a lemon and a big pinch of hot red pepper flakes. Pour over two tablespoons of olive oil and gently stir to combine. You may want to add more oil to taste as the cheese does absorb some.

Soon we will celebrate the return of the light. Happy holidays!

by Mimi Hedl

In autumn, more often than not, you’ll find me down on my hands and knees, crawling from one space to another, in search of seedlings, mostly cedar, but any tree seedling will do. I embrace seedlings I can wrest from the earth in this dry, dry autumn, part of my job description. On this particular morning, I’d gone up to our only native pine tree, the shortleaf pine, in the south 40, to plant snow drop bulbs. I saw a vision of them blooming on the slight slope in February’s to come, so that when I looked out the bathroom window, I would see a congregation of beauty and promise on a sunny winter’s day.

Down on my knees, marking where I’d plant the bulbs, I saw one cedar seedling after another, I couldn’t go a few inches without coming across another one. You can’t see these tiny sprigs of green from a standing position, they simply blend in with the grasses and forbs. As soon as you spy them a few feet from your eyes, like a child, squirrel or bird would, they come into stark view. Luckily all the pine needles made the soil under this lovely shortleaf pine loose so that the seedlings pull with ease as the root system has not developed a strategy, yet!, to make removing difficult without a trowel and moist soil.

I keep saying I’ll collect the seedlings of one variety so I can authoritatively declare how many seedlings I’d pulled. A kind of bragging I guess. But I get tantalized by the pulling and finding so that I can’t control myself and like a child at Christmas, I go after them with crazy determination. As I pull and toss, I think of the birds that have perched in this pine tree, making the contribution of a cedar seed that had passed through their digestive system onto the soil below. I celebrate their honoring this beautiful tree with their presence, their song and don’t begrudge the seedlings they leave in their wake. Now the mimosa and redbud seedlings are another story! No bird sows those, the wind does, blowing the seed pods every which way, driving the head gardener to a frenzy of expletives. I laugh at her temper over something beyond our control but I must confess I sometimes feel the same way.

The snow drop bulbs rest in the earth, cedar seedlings lay on top of the soil, a pleasant hour’s work. I go about other autumn chores, like splitting cook wood. Not too much time passes before the Three Musketeers, father and two adult sons, who I’ve watch grow from babies into manhood, come with a trailer load of heating wood. We banter like old friends, they tease me about the scars on my ax handle and I blame the missed strikes on a “friend”. We all laugh and they go about their work while their two young sons, 6 and 8, appear, running around with boundless energy.

Now I watch these boys grow up. Braxton, the younger, goes to the deciduous holly tree and asks me if those red things are apples. I look at the tiny berries and can see how through a child’s eye they may look like apples, so I say if you’re a tiny creature they might seem like something big, but then say, “Follow me” and I take them to the persimmon tree, loaded with fruit. They’d never tried one before. Drake bites into one from the ground as I’d instructed them and says, “Yum. That’s good!” I remind them again not to pick any off the tree until we’ve had many cold, cold nights. “Why?” Drake asks. I tell him if he bites into one he’ll never forget how it puckers up his mouth and how the awful taste stays with him.

The persimmon tree and the Shumard oak tree share the same space, touching each other, so it only took a moment for the boys to start finding the acorns under the tree. They loved the caps on the acorns and started picking them up. I went back to the house for a basket as they would find one cap after another that fascinated them. Then I told them how the native Americans made meal out of the meat inside an acorn. (To do this, “the acorns were dried for a year, shelled, winnowed to remove a thin inner shell, pounded into flour, sifted repeatedly through finely- woven baskets, leached by rinsing in water, then cooked into a mush like grits.”)

When they found a cap and acorn intact, they wanted to see what the meat looked like inside the acorn, so I went back for a board and hammer. Through the years we’ve hammered enough hazelnuts to demand a board with grooves chiseled into it so the nut would sit properly and not roll off. The boys watched me crack open one acorn, then of course they wanted to do it. They cracked open one after another, never once hitting their fingers, though they had warned me not to hit mine. They were fascinated by the grub inside each acorn. I pointed out the tiny hole in the shell. Of course they had to hold the acorn to see the hole up close. “That’s where an acorn weevil laid an egg inside the acorn in the summer and that egg turned into this grub.” Braxton asked me to move the grub off the board so he could crack open another acorn. He didn’t want to touch it whereas Drake would’ve squished the grub without a thought. How curious and wonderful the differences among us.

The three of us were down on our hands and knees, collecting caps and acorns and cracking them one after another. They accepted me as one of them. “Look at this one!” Drake would shout, and show me a cool, perfect cap, not damaged by a squirrel releasing the nut from the cap. Then I’d find a cute little acorn with beautiful cap and show them. I told them I’d string the acorn caps and they started to collect in earnest and we had a nice basketful by the time the Three Musketeers came over and saw us crouched together in a tight circle.

What a sight that must’ve made to their eyes, to see the three of us playing together. As they peered down on us, they looked like giants to my eyes now accustomed to being a child. Talk about walking through the looking glass, if only for a short while. I’d entered into the world of the boys. And I liked it.

When I stood up I became an adult again. The spell was broken. Drake had pulled a persimmon off the tree and started to eat it. His face puckered up something terrible and he exclaimed, “Oh Mimi, why did you let me do that! It’s awful.” The men started laughing and so did Drake. The boys left running with a whoop and a holler. Quietly, I did the same.

The autumn in Lyons has been glorious and long with cottonwoods, maples, grasses and brush putting on a colorful show before their leaves fall. As the season slowly turns toward winter I remember with sadness and gratitude the wonderful summer produce from Zweck’s and the Farmer’s Market.

 Here’s a conglomeration of dishes, mainly salads, that I prepared for artists over the last few months.

Connie and Tom Zweck grew these gorgeous poblanos. I bought some to roast and freeze and kept some to make these stuffed peppers. Filled with only-in-summer fresh corn. What a treat. The filling is simply sauteed onions, some zucchini bits, cheddar and corn. Baked at 350° until tender and bubbly. Served with those yummy garden tomatoes and a cabbage slaw.

Rancho Gordo garbanzos marinated with lemon zest and juice, garlic and olive oil. Garden tomatoes, avocado, and cilantro. Garnished with grilled fresh figs, a rare treat.

I have been buying lightly smoked salmon in a tin from Trader Joe’s. A nice addition to a salad made with lettuces, garden tomatoes, cukes, and green beans from Zweck’s and the irresistible Colorado peach. I figure we ate about 60 pounds of peaches this summer. (I did make peach salsa with some of them.)

We are about to leave for The Print Fair in New York City. A week of greeting friends, clients and artists and selling prints at this annual exhibition. We will be showing new work from the last year as well as several favorite prints from past years. I look forward to eating in restaurants and choosing meals someone else prepares.  I hope to be re-inspired in my kitchen after this culinary vacation and by the fall abundance of squash, apples, and root veggies.

By Mimi Hedl

When I’m out in the Cottage Garden, near the bird bath, I think of a neighbor and friend who died from ovarian cancer in late July. Over the weeks since her old boyfriend stopped by to tell me she was gone, I would think of her every time I worked in this part of the gardens, or even if I simply filled that bird bath. Her angelic, kind face would smile at me and she’d say good morning, her eyes would twinkle. I’d find a lump in my throat and not be able to speak for a while. On this particular morning I hung my head in quiet meditation and gave my thoughts to Patty.

Brother Cadfael must’ve felt my distress as he walked over to the Cottage Garden and greeted me. He motioned to the bench in the shade by the sassafras tree and asked if I’d like to sit there with him. I closed my eyes and nodded. He remained respectful of silence. He let me be and eventually the beauty and coolness of the early morning comforted me, as did his presence.

Then I told him Patty had died 6 weeks after she came to visit after an absence of many years. Her cancer had aged her, taken all her hair, made it almost impossible for her to walk. She and I had sat on the bench under the sycamore tree while she told me her story. She’d driven out to see the horses, down the road where she used to live, and to see me. She couldn’t eat anything solid until they removed the blockage in her colon, so she was weak too. She was determined though, to make it to her granddaughter’s graduation.

I knew I was in the presence of someone in serious trouble. We were neighbors for many years, visiting now and then. Her children would come up to talk with Ron and me. Somehow, we loomed large in her life. The only comfort I could give her before her surgery was to listen and then to write her when she went to her daughter’s after surgery. We hugged when she left and she smiled that look of an angel. I keep that with me.

After my story, I told Brother Cadfael,  “I want to celebrate Patty. She had a difficult life and still managed to find happiness.”  After a long pause, he said, “It’s seems only fitting that you choose a flower so that every time it blooms, you’ll think of her.” I blushed. Of course, that’s what I do. I grow things. I think of so many friends, now long gone, who gave me seed or a start of a plant and indeed, they live in the gardens. I guess sadness can cloud the mind.  “Yes, and I know just the flower I’ll choose. It’s called love-in-a-mist, nigella. There’s one species, nigella sativa,  called black cumin. Maybe you know it Brother Cadfael. It’s been around since the time of Tutankhamen, even found in his tomb! I use it in Indian cooking and it has many medicinal qualities too. It’s a blue flower, perfect for Patty.”

Brother Cadfael laughed. “Yes, I know the lovely flower. I haven’t seen it since my roving youth when I traveled to Greece and Arabia. Though maybe I spied some in your culinary garden,” he said with a wink.  “Perhaps you could share some seed with me? I’d like to have some in my garden too. Then I’ll remember this summer morning when we had this visit.” I felt touched beyond words. “Of course, I have fresh seed in the house.” He slowly rose and walked back to his garden, nodding his head at me and smiling, not an angelic smile, but the kind, rich smile of a man who has traveled the globe, seen much, done much, and still gracious enough to help out a sad gardener on a summer morn.

Revived from our talk, I realized the importance of sharing sadness. We carry it around; it can become a troublesome burden. Richard Fariña and Pauline Marden wrote this song, Pack up your Sorrows back in 1965. It says so well what Brother Cadfael understands:

“But if somehow you could pack up your sorrows,
And give them all to me,
You would lose them, I know how to use them,
Give them all to me.”

By now I felt light and joyous. The heat would soon come, so I moved about in the Park deadheading the elecampane, noticing the many colors on these Turkish Four O’clocks. How did the Cottage Garden come to have Turkish Four O’clocks? That’s a story for another time.

The cosmos, the zinnias, all so cheerful and welcoming. The vegetable gardens beckoned, to pick and admire, like the Mexican sunflowers, the plentiful black cherry tomatoes and dragon tongue beans. Oh so many things to do on a late summer morning, collecting happiness and leaving sorrows in a safe place.

As we launch into August, our last summer month, I’m excited about the abundance of late summer veggies. On the cool days and nights we experienced earlier in the summer I was reminded, how fleeting are these treasures. Better get busy and enjoy summer while we can.

Generous friends from Apple Valley brought me cucumbers, green beans and zucchini from their bountiful garden. The zucchini inspired me, along with eggplant, peppers, and basil from the farmer’s market, to make ratatouille. The charming animated movie “Ratatouille” brought the pronunciation of this French word into common usage. Now it’s time to bring it onto the dinner table.

You’ll need two medium sized zucchini, an onion, two or three Japanese eggplant, a red or yellow pepper, garlic, a large tin of crushed or diced tomatoes or 8-10 fresh Romas, skinned and chopped, several sprigs of basil.

Chop onion into bite-sized 1-inch bits. Sauté it in 1 tablespoon of olive oil, in a pan large enough to hold all the vegetables, over medium heat until softened and barely brown about 3 minutes.

Add zucchini halved lengthwise and cut into 1-inch chunks and continue to cook, browning lightly, 3-4 minutes. Stir in the red or yellow pepper cut into 1-inch pieces. When these begin to sizzle, add the Japanese eggplant cut into, you guessed it, 1-inch pieces. No need to peel this delicate vegetable. Add a tablespoon or two of olive oil and cook until lightly browned and beginning to soften, 3-4 minutes more.

Add 2-3 cloves of garlic, minced. Pour in the large tin of tomatoes or the Romas and bring to a simmer.  Add eight leaves of basil. Cover and let cook gently over low heat for 45 minutes into a thick and succulent mélange. Watch so the stew doesn’t catch and burn, adding a bit of water if necessary. Salt to taste – start with a scant teaspoon. When ready to serve scatter with torn basil leaves. This is delicious warm, at room temperature or cold. Even better the next day. We eat ratatouille with fried eggs, grilled fish, sausages, chicken, or on its own with crusty bread and a hunk of cheese. Any leftovers are great as a pasta topping.

Two of my sisters have recently requested salad ideas. I love that they ask me and enjoy conjuring up a recipe. I look forward to hearing their comments. Again, the abundance of summer veggies prompted me to suggest these two salads.

A chopped salad

A cucumber, chopped into ½ inch chunks, peeled in stripes.

8-10 cherry tomatoes cut in half or a garden tomato cut into chunks.

A big handful of steamed green beans, cut diagonally into ½ inch piece

2-3 radishes, julienned

2 very thin slices red onion,  and cut into ½ inch pieces

a peach or two, cut into 1 inch chunks (optional)

Combine these with a vinaigrette:

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 teaspoons red wine or sherry  vinegar

a crushed and minced clove of garlic

salt and pepper

Top with herbs – basil, dill, or chives.

I sometimes add a dollop of yogurt to smooth it all out.

Peach and Tomato Salad

Simply chunks of tomato and peaches in a spicy green salad including arugula, radicchio, a soft lettuce, or watercress.

Dress with the vinaigrette above. Top with toasted pine nuts or sliced almonds.

by Mimi Hedl

Every once in a while in the midst of summer, summer becomes spring if only for a brief morning. That recently happened after a long awaited rain. Before the rains came everything seemed desperate, even the birds. I spied two, TWO, brown thrashers at the bird bath, taking a bath together. They looked so big from the window, fifty feet away, at first I thought the mourning doves had come for the first bath I’d ever seen them take. Through the binoculars, I could see the long tail, the rufous back and striped belly that identified the thrashers as kin to the mockingbird. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw them splash, like my grandsons did at bath time as young ones. It positively took the heat out of the blistering day. I stood there laughing at the delight they took in their bath.  (I took a photo through the window and hopefully my dear Editor will accept the less than perfect picture.) After they’d left I braved the heat to fill up the bath with another quart of water for the next bathers as birds get over heated and stressed too.

Since I had decided not to irrigate the gardens, only water the plants in containers, I’ve had to be content to watch the drought take its toll on water-loving plants like cucumbers and melons. I’ve also been amazed at how tomatoes and peppers, beans and parsley, hang on quite nicely, thank you, with the thick mulch protecting their roots and that underground, mysterious river nurturing them. They may droop in the day to conserve moisture, but come evening, they perk up. Granted, they aren’t putting on tons of tomatoes but they’re doing the tortoise thing, hanging on, waiting for cooler weather, grateful for the underworld of riches.

The rest of the sweltering day and evening I did what people the world over do and have done, I endured. I did my suffering somewhat bravely, barely moving except to eat a meager dinner, drink lots of water and grudgingly do my tai chi. I tried to remain positive about the possibility of rain, but the predictions have not born fruit so I fell into the summertime blues trying out my fake smiles and pretending I was happy.

As I cleared the table on the summer kitchen after dinner I noticed dark clouds in the north and west. Opening the screen door and leaning outside to look further north I felt a breeze, a real breeze, and it felt delightful. Then I saw a bolt of lightning and over the next hour the drama unfolded with strong, bountiful rain pouring onto our parched, beloved piece of earth. Ecstasy.

The next day after that glorious rain, I walked outside and felt the vibrancy of the landscape after a restorative rain. I thought, “this is what spring feels like”. After the darkness of winter our senses come alive with color and after a drought too.

I put a lawn chair in the shade and spent some time sitting, enjoying spring in summer. I looked up at the maple tree and saw the tiny samaras forming, helicopter seeds because they spin through the air as they fall  like a helicopter propeller. I’ve been too busy in past years to notice them when they’re young and colorful. Then I looked down and saw the bottle brush grass, a favorite, moving with the breeze, moving me.

From this same vantage point gold finches, a group of eight or nine, dipped and dived like only they can do all the while chirping a youthful call. Do they ever grow old? They settled on the grey-headed coneflowers, bending them to the ground with their weight, eating the seed before it matured, chattering in between bites.

 I couldn’t help but notice the greens that looked drab only a day ago had taken on a whole new depth of greenness. Blindingly beautiful, shimmering in the light. I breathed in deeply and tilted my head back. Up high I saw three buzzards patrolling the sky, soaring gracefully. Two indigo buntings flew into the shrubs close by as if they had a mission, then detected me even though I didn’t move and flew off. The price of this beauty – sitting still.

That reminded me of an older man on my mail route in Boulder. One summer day he sat in the shade in front of his house with a big wash tub filled with collard greens. He greeted me and we talked like we usually did. I said something about what a big job that was to take the ribs out of all those greens. He looked at me and laughed and said, “I can’t think of a better way to spend a summer morning.” So there he sat, quietly in the shade, doing a simple task, enjoying a summer day. I often think of him when I feel harassed by life and forget how to live.

Ambling about, I took these photographs. They show a piece of what the rain brought out. Let them gladden your hearts as the ‘spring in summer’ did mine.

We spent a week on a family trip to a lake in Minnesota. We took walks in a nearby natural area, cooked meals, watched the birds, talked and talked. I enjoyed seeing the three generations and the changes in us all.

We came home to find the yucca busting out all over our hillsides. They’re blooming a bit late but oh, boy, have they put on a show. Must be all the rain we’ve had, a wet June for the Front Range with over six inches recorded. I’ll pick some of the flowers to add to salad – they are slightly crunchy, with a vegetal, somewhat bitter, taste akin to endive.

After our cool, rainy June, my cooking is taking on the flavor of summer with its long warm days seguing into cool evenings. The stands at the Longmont farmer’s market are laden with lettuces and other greens, radishes, asparagus, peas, and apricots. So of course, salad is on the menu for lunch and supper. As we eat less meat, I use beans, lentils, nuts and seeds, cheese and yogurt to provide protein. Here is a delicious bean salad. I used cooked Rancho Gordo beans but canned are okay. Just be sure to rinse them. Use any variety – pinto, black, cannellini, or your favorite.

Warm 1 1/2 – 2 cups cooked, drained beans in a saucepan. Dress them with 1-2 tablespoons olive oil, the juice of a small lime, big pinches of ground cumin and hot red pepper flakes. Stir in a minced clove or two of garlic (or a chopped shallot) and add salt to taste – I start with a big pinch.

At serving time, add a handful of cilantro, roughly chopped. Serve over salad greens, halved cherry tomatoes, and avocado chunks lightly dressed with olive oil. Top with crumbled feta and toasted pepitas. Enough for 2-3 servings.

by Mimi Hedl

Recently I had dinner with my friend Barbara. She’s an Islamic art scholar with a specialty in miniatures. She knows the art and its history inside out. She can recite dates, places and tell you what was going on in Persia or Pakistan or wherever at the time the art was made. She’s written many books and is as much of a misfit in this rural part of America as I am. Maybe that’s what brought us together 31 years ago when she bought my baguettes and bunches of basil at the Farmer’s Market in Linn.

But can she remember names of flowers or what they need and like or how to propagate them? Give me a break. Of course not. She’ll call me and say something like, “that little white flower you gave me, what’s it called?” And I rack my brain trying to come up with the name of the correct flower from that lengthy description. And if I ask her to describe it, she’ll mumble and fumble and fail to use any descriptive words like she does in great detail in her Islamic art books.

Yes, yes. We have our passions. We have our failings. I give blank stares about so many things. I don’t expect people to know what I know about botany. BUT!! I was horrified when Barbara told me she sprayed some nasty bugs (the carcasses of cicadas, all three of them) because she thought they were eating her Rose of Sharon shrub. GRAB POISON, SPRAY, then ask questions. As we sat on the back deck she pointed at the Rose of Sharon and the fact those bugs were still there. I went closer to investigate and did indeed find the shells the cicadas shed when they molted. I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself down, all the time thinking, “us ignorant Americans”. How often we react instead of try to understand what’s going on. Barbara has spent her life with a can of poison at the ready, never curious as to how Mother Nature works. She wants her beautiful garden to be perfect. Period.

Her garden may be perfect but not to the bees and butterflies. Few pollinators visit. A residue of poison lurks whenever I visit. She forgets my words before I leave and uses her spray can as soon as she sees a bug.  Ahhh… So I pondered what she would do if she had a wall of pipe vine growing on her fence instead of the euonymus.

Now hundreds of caterpillars, in all stages of development, devour the leaves of the pipe vine. Sometimes there’ll be two caterpillars on one leaf. (Notice the color change from the young caterpillar to the mature.) In a few weeks we will have riches of this butterfly visiting the gardens.

The Great Spangled Fritillary has had its moment. I’ve tried to capture the 15 or more butterflies that will flit around the rue or grey dogwood or red clover at one time, in one part of the garden, but as soon as I move, they fly around. They’re everywhere because the nectar plants they love are too. It feels magical to walk through a haze of butterflies, wondering if one will get trapped in my hair.

I came in from weeding and found this inch worm on my shorts. They fascinate me. I kept watching this one scrunch up its body and do the measuring thing. Such fun and what a cool way to move through the world. A great move for a hip hop artist!

The Flanders poppies bloom around Memorial Day. What a beautiful flower to commemorate our fallen soldiers. The flower makes such a bold presence and I can only imagine what the field in Flanders must have looked like before modern agriculture disturbed the poppies after World War 1.

Notice how the bees have literally rubbed the pollen all over their bodies, hence the stamens, the male part, lays in a puddle while the pistil, the female part, stays erect. Sometimes, early in the morning, while it’s still cool, I’ll find a bee laying on all the stamens in the flower, fast asleep.

When well-intentioned neighbors stop by to visit and offer to cut my tall grasses and “weedy” areas (their words, not mine!). I demur and say thank you, but I love it just like it is. I feel sure they go away feeling like I don’t know what I’m doing and that my yard just doesn’t look “right”. I understand. We all see the world differently. I try to remember that when someone has a can of poison in their hand.

We’ve been in a rainy weather pattern with grey skies and cool temperatures. My walks in Apple Valley are accompanied by wonderful scents of flowering plum and apple, all the aromas heightened by the moisture. All sorts of birds trill away as I attempt to spot them in the new greenery. My Merlin bird id app heard lazuli buntings, hummingbirds, grosbeaks and tanagers among others today. At first we welcomed the moisture to our parched soil but really – enough already. I’d like to get into my garden and do some planting. And our poor driveway with its rain eroded gullies needs a good grading.

Rodney Carswell was here making prints and we had a great time over dinner reminiscing about our days at UNM, our art professors and fellow art students. And of course we talked about aging, food, movies and restaurants. Rodney brought gifts of New Mexico red chile, Shed Red, and El Poso tamales. One Friday during his stay  I made a big salad and shared the tamales with the crew.

Most days we eat salad for lunch as you know from my many posts about them. I try new combinations depending on what’s in the pantry and fridge, what leftovers need to be eaten up. I have a fondness for beets with blue cheese, white beans with a mustardy vinaigrette and toasted pepitas, walnuts or almonds topping everything. Here is a quinoa salad accompanied by beet wedges, Amish blue, and avocado over chopped romaine.

Cook quinoa like pasta. Fill a saucepan half full of water and bring to a boil. Add a cup of quinoa and cook for about 12 minutes, until tender but not mushy. Drain. Combine the cooked quinoa with this vinaigrette: the juice of a lime, 1 teaspoon freshly ground cumin seed, a big pinch of hot red pepper flakes, salt, 3 tablespoons olive oil, 2 tablespoons of dried currants.

We had grilled chicken over a salad of radicchio, arugula, and red lettuce with beets, cherry tomatoes and toasted pepitas. I have found that out-of-season tomatoes are greatly improved by marinating them with salt, pepper and some olive oil while assembling the other parts of lunch.

Pork tenderloin is a delicious addition to a salad.

Make a dry rub with ground fennel seeds, red pepper flakes, salt and pepper and let the tenderloin sit in the fridge until time to grill. Drizzle with a bit of olive oil before cooking. On a hot gas grill, (400°- 450°) cook for 5 minutes, turn on edge and cook for 5 minutes. Turn again, cook 5 minutes and then on the last side, for 5 minutes. An instant read thermometer should read 145°. Let rest for ten minutes before slicing. I served this with a cabbage slaw, roasted red pepper, cucumber and asparagus.

On one of the cold, rainy days I made a Bison Bolognese sauce to have with pasta.

In a heavy pot like a La Creuset dutch oven, heat a tablespoon of olive oil and sauté a chopped onion, a chopped carrot and a chopped rib of celery until lightly cooked, not browned. Add a few cloves of garlic, chopped, and a tablespoon of tomato paste. Stir in a pound of ground bison, breaking it up, and cook until the pink is gone. Pour over 1/2 cup white wine and let it evaporate. Add a small tin of chopped tomatoes and a cup of water. Bring to a simmer and cook at low heat, covered, for as long as you have, preferably two hours. Check to be sure the mixture doesn’t dry out. Add water or stock if necessary. Serve tossed with pasta. Top with chopped parsley and parmesan to add at the table.

The grass is tall, the apple tree is blossoming, more rain in the forecast. Ah, Colorado spring.