Seeds on hand. Column one can be expected to produce this year. Column 2 is alllllll crap shoot because most of it was packed for growing seasons before 2009–the broccoli goes back to 1997 and is the oldest. The three astericked items were collected from plants last year, so we’ll see if they grow this year. And we’ll see if they grow the same sort of taste as the parent plant. I was going to yammer a bit about gardening plans, but I am too tired, now. See you in the morning!

By the by, cooked dock tastes like cooked spinach. So there you go. And it’s not going to make you sick, as you can see I lived to type this.

Still want to turn up Kale and a “packed for 2012″ broadleaf or curly mustard green.

Broadleaf Dock

Beautiful days this week, and then, the weekend. Which included rain all day Saturday and rain all evening today. In the space between, I finally got a few good hours in my garden, and I got the first harvest–broadleaf dock. This is a weed to most people, but as I have mentioned before, anything that is edible and grows in my yard is worth putting on my plate. There is nothing wrong with foraging, especially when the times are tight and getting tighter with the demise of things like Share.*

I haven’t eaten dock before, it’s new to my yard, but I’ve been looking for recipes. It’s much too bitter to eat straight, and not in that dandelion or arguala lettuce kind of tasty bitter way. Instead, it’s rough and punchy, and I will try cooking with it and see if I like it. Since it was growing in my vegetable beds, most of it got turned into the gardens, but since it is a tap root, I have no reason to believe it won’t be back. How this cooking experiment goes will determine whether I let a plant or two survive or just work to eradicate it. No point in letting it grow if it is neither nice to look at nor tasty.

Somehow or another, I managed to buy two packets of eggplant seeds and two packages of beet seeds, so I think I will be eating a lot of that come harvest time. That’s okay, my other big thought this year is to plant pots full of lettuces and spinaches and other greens instead of rows in the ground. So if I have a ton of ground space dedicated to beets, it will be fine.

Because gardening has been an effort to find time between the rains, and sticking with my recent searches for Midwestern poets and authors, I have selected a poem to share that is called “Before the Rain.” It’s still under copyright, so here is an excerpt and the link:

Before the Rain
Lianne Spidel

Minutes before the rain begins
I always waken, listening
to the world hold its breath,
as if a phone had rung once in a far
room or a door had creaked
in the darkness.

[Read More...]

Did I mention that my other big thought is to put plantain and, if I can get it to establish, purslane into all the flower beds? Yes, it will be slow going, but if it eventually takes over the spots that are now places I’m fighting to keep clear of grass, it will be far more attractive. Purslane and plantain grow pretty much flat. And you can eat plantain and purslane. Even I am not so fond of foraging that I’ll eat grass.

Links helpful here:

UW-Madison Weed Identifier

Eat Weeds with a recipe I may try, except with maybe quinoa and lentils and bleu cheese instead of brown rice and feta and seaweed.

An Eat the Weed‘s discussion on Broadleaf Dock

And 19 common edible weeds in a post at Art of Manliness (many useful things there, even if you are not a man, and much less obnoxious than Maxim) so that you know what the hell I am talking about, here. Because we all know I am a guychick (that is, a grown up tomboy. Yay Androgynous gender!**)

—————————————————–

*I am very upset about the loss of Share. They are closing because they can’t compete with Wal-Mart. Read that, think about that. I won’t get too liberal preachy, but think about what that means when the costs of fuel becomes so high that a volunteer-run, wholesale food buying organization can not compete with Wal-Mart. Share is no small organization, either, it encompasses most of the Great Lake states and some of the Mississippi-bordering states. We are living in a world where even when the poor band together to help themselves in the sort of way Republicans are always telling them they should be doing, they can’t help themselves. Half my case load is using Share, and the State of Wisconsin has been promoting it as a way to get good quality food with Food Share (the name of the food stamp program in WI) for years. For those people who *need* Share, this is a blow. One factor people who are not living at sustenance level tend to not realize is that even if you can get similar prices at the Wal-Mart super center, if you can’t get there, the prices don’t matter. This is where Share was really strong, because it came into the neighborhoods folks lived in.

**So, there are culturally acceptable words for women and girls who display an androgynous gender–tomboy, guychick, and although “chick” could be mildly demeaning, it doesn’t bother me when combined with guy. But what about boys & men who are androgynous in their gender? Nothing without derisive connotations comes to mind. Men deserve to have a good word that describes the state of being androgynous. It takes guts in our culture to be that guy and that guy deserves a good word.

Done now.

I thought I was going to spend my day mucking about in the garden, but the weather is much too poor. So I am contenting myself with looking up links for things I find interesting.

The day goes so very fast. How does that happen?

Anyway, April is poetry month, so here is one from the early 20th century; and then shall follow the links I’m listing to keep.

Spring

Marietta Holley

The sides of the hill were brown, but violet buds had started
In gray and hidden nooks o’erhung by feathery ferns and heather,
And a bird in an April morn was never lighter-hearted
Than the pilot swallow we saw convoying sunny weather,
And sunshine golden, and gay-voiced singing-birds into the land;
And this was the song–the clear, shrill song of the swallow,
That it carolled back to the southern sun, and his brown winged band,
Clear it arose, “Oh, follow me–come and follow–and follow.”

A tender story was in his eyes, he wished to tell me I knew,
As he stood in the happy morn by my side at the garden-gate;
But I fancy the tall rose branches that bent and touched his brow,
Were whispering to him, “Wait, impatient heart, oh, wait,
Before the bloom of the rose is the tender green of the leaf;
Not rash is he who wisely followeth patient Nature’s ways,
The lily-bud of love should be swathed in a silken sheaf,
Unfolding at will to summer bloom in the warm and perfect days.”

So silently sailed the early sun, through clouds of fleecy white;
So stood we in dreamy silence, enwrapped in a tender spell;
But the pulses of soft Spring air were quickened to fresh delight,
For I read in his eye the story sweet, he longed, yet feared to tell;
It spoke from his heart to mine, and needed no word from his mouth,
And high o’er our heads rang out the happy song of the swallow;
It cried to the sunshine and beauty and bloom of the South,
Exultingly carolling clear, “Oh, follow me–oh, follow.”

Pop bottle Pots

75 things to compost

Compost FAQ

I wrote a little flash piece today and I wanted to find the poem that I was vaguely recalling when I was writing it. The flash piece is only marginally inspired by it, but nonetheless, the poem informs the flash piece. I have not yet found the one I am specifically looking for (maybe it was Dickens and not Hardy), but this is very similar, and haunting.

By Thomas Hardy

If you are American, and you know of Carl Sandburg, it’s very likely that you know either “Fog” or the first few lines of “Chicago.”

There is a lot more there. Given the nature of our current economy, I thought this one, also from Chicago Poems, was worth sharing for Poetry Month.

GRACELAND

     TOMB of a millionaire,
A multi-millionaire, ladies and gentlemen,
Place of the dead where they spend every year
The usury of twenty-five thousand dollars
For upkeep and flowers
To keep fresh the memory of the dead.
The merchant prince gone to dust
Commanded in his written will
Over the signed name of his last testament
Twenty-five thousand dollars be set aside
For roses, lilacs, hydrangeas, tulips,
For perfume and color, sweetness of remembrance
Around his last long home.

(A hundred cash girls want nickels to go to the movies to-night.
In the back stalls of a hundred saloons, women are at tables
Drinking with men or waiting for men jingling loose
silver dollars in their pockets.
In a hundred furnished rooms is a girl who sells silk or
dress goods or leather stuff for six dollars a week wages
And when she pulls on her stockings in the morning she
is reckless about God and the newspapers and the
police, the talk of her home town or the name
people call her.)

Right now my primary project is to find things in the public domain for Grantswood, a first exemplar volume. I’ve been reading a lot of stuff by Midwesterners, as you can imagine. I came across this poem, and thought I would pop it in here to remember 2 things I love: baseball and poetry. Because Aopril is Poetry Month, but it’s also Opening Day.

Baseball and Writing

Marianne Moore

Fanaticism? No. Writing is exciting
and baseball is like writing.
You can never tell with either
how it will go
or what you will do;
generating excitement–
a fever in the victim–
pitcher, catcher, fielder, batter.
Victim in what category?
Owlman watching from the press box?
To whom does it apply?
Who is excited?Might it be I?

It’s a pitcher’s battle all the way–a duel–
a catcher’s, as, with cruel
puma paw, Elston Howard lumbers lightly
back to plate.(His spring
de-winged a bat swing.)
They have that killer instinct;
yet Elston–whose catching
arm has hurt them all with the bat–
when questioned, says, unenviously,
“I’m very satisfied.We won.”
Shorn of the batting crown, says, “We”;
robbed by a technicality.

When three players on a side play three positions
and modify conditions,
the massive run need not be everything.
“Going, going . . . “Is
it?Roger Maris
has it, running fast.You will
never see a finer catch.Well . . .
“Mickey, leaping like the devil”–why
gild it, although deer sounds better–
snares what was speeding towards its treetop nest,
one-handing the souvenir-to-be
meant to be caught by you or me.

Assign Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral;
he could handle any missile.
He is no feather.”Strike! . . . Strike two!”
Fouled back.A blur.
It’s gone.You would infer
that the bat had eyes.
He put the wood to that one.
Praised, Skowron says, “Thanks, Mel.
I think I helped a little bit.”
All business, each, and modesty.
Blanchard, Richardson, Kubek, Boyer.
In that galaxy of nine, say which
won the pennant?Each.It was he.

Those two magnificent saves from the knee-throws
by Boyer, finesses in twos–
like Whitey’s three kinds of pitch and pre-
diagnosis
with pick-off psychosis.
Pitching is a large subject.
Your arm, too true at first, can learn to
catch your corners–even trouble
Mickey Mantle. (“Grazed a Yankee!
My baby pitcher, Montejo!”
With some pedagogy,
you’ll be tough, premature prodigy.)

They crowd him and curve him and aim for the knees. Trying
indeed! The secret implying:
“I can stand here, bat held steady.”
One may suit him;
none has hit him.
Imponderables smite him.
Muscle kinks, infections, spike wounds
require food, rest, respite from ruffians. (Drat it!
Celebrity costs privacy!)
Cow’s milk, “tiger’s milk,” soy milk, carrot juice,
brewer’s yeast (high-potency–
concentrates presage victory

sped by Luis Arroyo, Hector Lopez–
deadly in a pinch. And “Yes,
it’s work; I want you to bear down,
but enjoy it
while you’re doing it.”
Mr. Houk and Mr. Sain,
if you have a rummage sale,
don’t sell Roland Sheldon or Tom Tresh.
Studded with stars in belt and crown,
the Stadium is an adastrium.
O flashing Orion,
your stars are muscled like the lion.

April Poetry

I won’ be able to do this every day, but another poem for April, of my own construction. This one I’ve shared before, but it’s no longer visible in this blog, so I will link to where it landed, in the webzine I finally managed to do.

(Trying to do that webzine is a large part of why I had nothing to say during March.)

All is dross…

First thing:

Phoenix Now, issue 1

The first piece in there is by yours truly. Happy Poetry Month!

Oahu Sunset

I learned one important thing in Hawaii: 12 foot waves are way stronger than you are.

Of course, that didn’t stop body surfing from being Totally. Awesome. Go North Shore!

However, it is now 2 days since my last swim in a North Shore beach, and the waves pounded me into the sand so completely that I am still washing sand out of my hair today.

We arrived in Hawaii on the 14th, and got home last night. It was among the best vacations I ever had.

On the “Stand in all 50 States before I die” life goal, that leaves Alaska, Washington, Oregon, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Louisiana, Vermont, and Maine. So, still a dozen to go, not counting the Territories, although I expect to visit Puerto Rico and the US Virgin Islands. The remaining territories are so remote (and most not significantly inhabited) that I can’t expect to get there. So, 38 states and one district down, a dozen states to go, plus maybe a couple of territories. As usual, I have digressed.

Anyway, places we went to eat and have fun:
Hawaiiana Cafe
Shangri La
Hanauma Bay
Sunset Beach
Waimea Bay
Pipeline
Aloha Tower
Honolulu Academy of Arts
Pearl Harbor
Ala Moana Center
Pali Lookout
Valley of the Temples
Waikiki
Honolulu Chinatown
Iolani Palace
War Memorial Natatorium
Duke’s Canoe Club
Killer Tacos Haleiwa
Kono’s Haleiwa
Paradise Cove
Giovanni’s Shrimp Truck
Zippy’s Nimitz
Hilo Hattie’s
ABC Store (frankly, unavoidable, but in a decent way)
Leonard’s
Rainbow Drive-In
McDonald’s
International Market Place
La Mariana Sailing Club
Tanaka of Tokyo
Cheese*Burger In Paradise
Round Table Pizza and Sports
Crepe House
Tiki’s Grill & Bar
The Oceanarium
Matsumoto’s

Of course, that isn’t every sight I saw or every thing I did, and I am sure that some of the things I singled out would be strange to some folks. But it is the beginning of my list of things I want to remember, and that’s good enough for now. After all, it has taken me most of the evening to get my photos into the computer, backed up on line, and listing and locating a site for most of these things.

God, it was fun.

Still here, still okay, just not very talkative right now.

Weird, right?