Tulip Parade 2013

This is an annual event at Mucky Boots: the cataloguing of the year's entrants in the Tulip Parade. You'd think this would be repetitious, because it's not as if I plant any bulbs. So you'd expect the same tulips, appearing in the same locations as last year. And there is some of that. But there are also many surprises: tulips I swear I have never seen before, or in locations they've never been before. Someone has a sense of humour, and I'm guessing it's Mother Nature.

Tulips are the flowers that make me want to be a painter. An impressionist painter. Because when I step out the door and see the mass of green punctuated with bright splashes of colour from all the tulips, and when I try yet again to capture it on camera and fail yet again to capture what I see, I think the license I could take as a painter might allow me to show you how magical it is.

But for now, here is the Parade.

And because they don't get their own parade and the tulips feel sorry for them, here are some tag-a-long columbines.

Oh, and the tulips have also asked me to include a photo of the anemones my friend Elisabeth gave me last year, because they are newcomers to the garden and the tulips want them to feel welcome.

Lilac

Today is a happy, happy day at Mucky Boots. Yes, the sun is shining, and it's gloriously warm (the thermometer on the porch is reading 29 degrees - in May, no less). But all that is secondary to something I have been waiting for for years: the lilacs are blooming and filling the air with their scent and I can smell them.

Until my sinus surgery last fall I had virtually no sense of smell for years. Years and years. And of all the scents I missed, the only one that made me want to cry was missing the perfume of lilacs blossoming in the spring. Well, it's spring, and they are flowering, and I can't keep my nose out of them for more than ten minutes, making up for all those years of lost sniffing.



Lilacs!

How to turn orange in 30 days

As I mentioned a couple of posts ago, I have been on an elimination diet for the last six weeks or so in an attempt to figure out if anything I eat exacerbates my arthritis. I have a suspicion there is, and I have a good idea what it might be, but I thought I would try a systematic approach so I can find out for sure.

The program I am following can be found here, and it works like any elimination diet: you begin by restricting yourself to a small number of  foods least likely to be causing problems, and then once your symptoms have subsided you slowly add foods, one at a time, watching for any kind of reaction. The plan sets out three groups of food - Phase I, which should be safe for most people, Phase II which has foods that are more problematic, and then Phase III which contains the heavy hitters like dairy and gluten and nuts.

For someone with a chronic inflammatory condition like the arthritis I have, the suggestion is to stay on Phase I for at least 30 days. I won't bore you with all the other details, but what you need to know (for the purposes of this post) is that many of the Phase I foods are orange.

Sweet potatoes. Squash. Carrots. Peaches. Orange, orange, orange, orange. Yes, there are green foods too - green beans, peas, broccoli and zucchini. But ever since I regained my sense of smell I don't like broccoli, and zucchini is a stretch.


Here is a typical meal: chicken, rice and veg.


Here is another typical meal: chicken, rice and veg. Sigh.

I know I am not too compromised nutritionally because I am also taking a hypo-allergenic supplement while my diet is so restricted. The problem is, I am turning orange.

This first came to my attention about Day 30, when Kim was walking behind me and said "Your ears are orange."

"No," I said.

"Yes," she said.

"No they're not," I said.

"Yes, they are. You're turning orange," she said.

Then a couple of days later, when I was taking off my gardening gloves, I noticed that my palms had a distinct orange hue. I moved to a different light. Still orange.


I cook my orange vegetables in bulk these days.
If I had to choose between being orange and having arthritis pain I know what my choice would be. But still, I think it might be time to start eating some kale.

Magnolia

We have a lovely old magnolia tree by the pond. I can't say it was the reason we bought the property, but I know that when we realized this gorgeous tree was a member of our new botanical family we were both really, really glad.

When it blooms, this tree is a picture of abundance, grace and joy. A gift for the winter-weary, all wrapped up with a big pink bow.

Auction revisited

Yes, those are lamps from street lights for sale. I'm sure all kinds of people went to the auction looking for those.

The annual spring Coombs Farm Auction happened a couple of weekends ago and Kim and I went - we had so much fun the first time we went we decided to make it an annual tradition. (In my family, where we treat traditions with a level of seriousness and commitment most people reserve for their religious beliefs, we believe that if you do something, anything, twice it's a tradition and must be observed faithfully for ever after. Once, if you really have fun.)

If you're a long time reader of the blog and the above photo looks familiar, there's a good reason: the same players were there, bringing the same farm stuff (aka "junk") to be auctioned off by the same family raising money for a children's charity. Here's last year's photo, so you can aompare it to the one above.



Same sign, same guy, slightly different junk. Better weather, though.

This year I didn't try anywhere near as hard to find a diamond in the rough - I just took pictures instead.


Is this junk, or is this junk?


Old rusty barrels.


Dirty and cracked bottles.


Rusty, broken-down Ford tractor.


A fancy cabinet-style incubator with no top and a circuit board full of straw, chicken poop and feathers. It must be functional. For sure.

A lovely cup of tea

My friends Jean and Jim drove up from Victoria the other weekend and it was a perfect excuse to visit a place I've been wanting to see for a while: Teafarm. It's a local farm owned by Margit and Victor, who are experimenting with growing tea (real tea, from the camellia plant) as well as blending teas (black, green, white and herbal) and making art.


Jean and Jim picking out Rooster tea as a surprise for Kim

They sell and serve their tea and pottery in a converted dairy barn filled with light and with amazing views out to pastures and hills. When you first arrive you're treated to a sample of their daily brew, served in one of Margit's handmade cups. Then, if you like, you can order up a proper pot of whichever tea you like (and there are dozens to choose from) and even try a sweet treat, some of which incorporate tea flavours.

It's entirely charming, and the tea is so flavourful I have already purchased four different kinds from their Chinese Zodiac line: Monkey (green tea, ginger, cinnamon, pepper, orange peel, cardamom, fennel), Goat (lemon balm, hibiscus, licorice root, rosehips and ginger), Pig (roasted green tea, rose petals and vanilla bean) and Snake (white tea and holy basil).

If I'm waxing rhapsodic it's because I think this tea has saved me: for the last six weeks I have been on an elimination diet to try to determine if there are foods that are exacerbating my arthritis. Which means I eat rice, chicken, a small assortment of vegetables and peaches. No gluten. No sugar. No dairy. No eggs. No coffee. No nothin'. But I get to have green tea, and so the ritual of making a fresh pot of flavourful tea has replaced all the other food rituals and treats that used to make my life worth living.

And what lovely tea. I have settled into a routine of a pot of Monkey in the morning with breakfast, Goat with my afternoon break, Pig when I'm settling in for a relaxing evening, and Snake whenever I'm feeling I need an extra lift. All made in the favourite tea pot Kim gave me as a birthday gift many years ago, and sipped from one of my three beautiful handmade tea cups.

A lovely cup of tea indeed.

Nest

Look what we found in the orchard yesterday, on the ground in the orchard, tucked into the edge of the strawberry bed. It's a miracle it survived the marauding chickens.



And the best part, beside that fact it's impossibly sweet? It has Frankie hair woven through.

Don't read this if you're still wearing your snow boots

Fawn lilies

I don't mean to rub it in - I really don't - but spring has officially arrived at Mucky Boots. Glorious, wonderful, miraculous spring. If it hasn't made an appearance yet where you are and you'd rather go have a stiff drink instead of reading this post I understand - I really understand.

But in case you're in the mood for some signs that spring has sprung, here you are.

Bleeding hearts

The first entrant in the annual Tulip Parade

Ribes

Budding lilac

The funny little shrub that always gets in the way when I'm mowing the lawn

If you're needing some consolation you might notice that there are raindrops in every single one of those photos.

That's spring at Mucky Boots.

Tidying the edges

Gather round, children, and listen well because I'm going to pass on a few words of wisdom. Not my own, but words that were gifted to me about the time we moved to Mucky Boots. Words that for some reason stuck in my head and have been proven true over and over in the four years since. Here they are:

Tidy paths and borders and edges make a garden shine.

(Pause for reflection.)

"What does this mean?" I can hear you asking. Well, it's supposed to mean that if I mow the lawn and weed the perennial beds but don't take the string trimmer to the edges then the garden looks sloppy. But it's even better than that. Tidy edges are so powerful that all your beds can be a mess but if the edges and paths are all tidy the garden still looks great.

Messy edges means messy garden. Tidy edges means tidy garden. And it almost doesn't matter what the garden itself looks like. I am inspired to express this with the following equations:

• Messy edges + tidy beds = messy garden. 
• Tidy edges + messy beds = tidy garden. 

As a mathematician I find this perplexing.

So, if I am feeling just a wee bit overwhelmed by the weeds in my perennial beds (it is April, after all) I can start by using the weed whacker along the border, or sweeping the path free of debris and instantly feel better. Not to mention more motivated to keep on with the weeding.

Kim asked me if I was going to use this as a metaphor for life, and I have to say I was tempted. If not for life then at least for housekeeping - as in my house is a mess but if I make my bed I feel instantly in control of the chaos. But I think, for once, this will be just a post about gardening.

There. That's it. Go tidy.

Apron

We have been on a tear the last week or so, probably because of the gorgeous weather (which is ending today with the clouds rolling in and rain expected). But whatever the reason, I have been working like a little beaver on the spring clean up of the perennial garden while Kim has been taking apart some beds that were infested with morning glory, finding homes for all the blueberry bushes and strawberry plants that were displaced in the process, and then finding a solution for our badly managed, sprawling compost pile. And when Kim gets to work she puts on her apron.

I bought this apron for her on a driving trip around Nova Scotia about seven or eight years ago. It came from a leather worker in Cape Breton with a very quaint shop overlooking the ocean, and I knew when I saw it that it had to be Kim's. It's a sturdy thing made of orange sueded leather, and Kim says it's the most comfortable apron she's ever worn, thanks to the stretchy suspenders. It's totally adjustable, and doesn't pull on her neck or get in the way when she's working.



And maybe it's the orange colour (is it possible to be anything other than happy while wearing an orange apron?) but whenever Kim puts it on there's an extra bounce to her step and an extra glint of determination in her eye. Because if she's wearing the apron it means there's an interesting construction project in the works, one that requires her cleverness and ingenuity. And that makes for a happy Kim.

It's hard work licking out the bowl

But he sure had fun doing it.

Why do I have a greenhouse?

I've been thinking a lot about my greenhouse lately, for three reasons.

Reason #1: The plastic covering has accumulated so much algae Kim has started writing love notes in it with her finger.

Reason #2: It's seed starting time.

Reason #3: It will soon be tomato time.

Here's what I've been thinking...

Algae: this came off the outside pretty easily with a floor mop (the squeegee sponge kind) and hot water with a bit of dish soap and a bit of bleach. (That's the "After" shot above.) But the inside still needs doing, and this will be a real pain because of the framing of the walls and the shelves. It will mean lots of stooping over and under things, and lots of individual areas of plastic to wash. I'm procrastinating on this. Plus, I know the plastic will only be good for so long, and it's already five years old. When I was on a ladder scrubbing the roof I noticed there are areas where it has deteriorated enough that it's beginning to crack and split. Which means eventually it will need to be disassembled and replaced. Hmmm.



Seed starting: it occurred to me this spring that I start my seeds in about the coldest place I possibly can. I know greenhouses are supposed to be toasty but mine isn't especially warm, probably because it's in a location that doesn't get much sun this time of year. Which means I not only have to use heat mats, I have to use grow lights. (I know, I know, you're wondering why someone would put a greenhouse in a shady spot. All I can say is (A) our property has lots of trees, (B) it's sunnier through the summer, and (C) I didn't put it there.) Between my greenhouse and Kim's brooder lights for chicks, our spring hydro bill takes a beating. And if I have to use grow lights and heat lamps anyway, why am I not just starting the seeds in the house where at least it's a bit warmer and I don't have to haul water?

Tomatoes: All I have ever grown in the greenhouse (other than some wimpy basil and a single pepper) are tomatoes. Tomatoes, tomatoes, tomatoes. It works pretty well - the plants are protected from rain, they get lots of heat through the summer, and with windows on two sides and a fan in the door I get enough ventilation to avoid blight and other problems. There's just one big issue, though - crop rotation. According to everything I have read tomatoes should be rotated like other crops, to avoid diseases. But in a greenhouse where nothing but tomatoes are grown, that means replacing the soil in the raised beds every year. (Okay, hands up, who wants to volunteer for that job? Anyone?) I've begun to think that I should put the tomatoes into rotation in the vegetable garden, with a plastic roof to keep the rain off, like I have seen some of my neighbours do.

All of which makes me wonder why do I have a greenhouse at all?

This one's for Ann

If you haven't met Ann at Shim Farm yet, take yourself over for a visit. She lives on a  beautiful rural property in Quebec, has a wicked sense of humour, and is the most expert knitter I (virtually) know. Just have a look at her Saga sweater, for a start.

Ann's beautiful sweaters were what prompted me to pick up my knitting needles after a long hiatus. I was never an expert knitter, but a long time ago I did manage a couple of Lopi sweaters knit in the round, and I seem to remember spending one long winter in my university days knitting mittens as a fund raiser for a disarmament group.

But mostly my needles have been buried away in a cardboard box in the storage room. Until I met Ann, that is.

So last summer I dug out my needles and learned to cable knit, and at Ann's recommendation I ordered a bunch of Lopi wool direct from the manufacturer in Iceland. (Man, what a deal!) But I couldn't get started on a sweater: I couldn't find the perfect pattern, and I worried about it turning out the wrong size. But again, at Ann's urging, I got off my butt and got started. (Are you getting the idea this sweater wouldn't have seen the light of day without Ann? You're correct!)

The pattern is the Iounn cardigan by Ragga Eiricksdottir with a major tweak: I liked the pattern, but my heart belonged to this little sweater and so I adapted the pattern to incorporate this design. That was one of the things I learned with this project. Another was how to use short rows for shaping: the cardigan has short rows through the upper back which makes the neck come up higher in the back, which I like, and it also has short rows at the elbows to give a little more fullness there so they don't get worn out.

But the biggest thing I learned was how to use a steek to knit in the round (which is easier than back and forth). Once it's done you do the scariest thing imaginable: you cut it open to make a cardigan. (That's why they call it a stEEEEK!) It was nerve racking but it worked. And then the hard part was figuring out how to finish the front edges. The pattern was a little vague in that regard, and to complicate things further I knew I wanted buttons but I had never done a button band before. But thanks to the all the kind people who post how-to videos on You Tube, I managed to sort out something I'm pretty happy with.

Of course I've finished it just in time for the weather to be too warm to wear it...

Thanks, Ann!

Good morning. Good night.

Good morning.

Good night.

Someone's having fun with the clean up

Welcome spring

Today the CBC was telling us that Canadians all across the country would be greeting the arrival of spring with rotten weather. According to a climatologist with Environment Canada, "If we sent out search parties for spring, we would not find hide nor hair of it. Everyone is in misery, and everyone has a cross to bear." The article went on to say that "every region would be either windy, rainy, wet, snowy, drifty, blowy or there will be a big snow dump to clean up."

Well hello to you, too, Spring.

We got the windy part. Yesterday was wet, with a drenching steady downpour, but the sun came out this morning and then this afternoon it started to blow. Man, did it blow. We don't often get enough wind in our little protected river valley to move the trees, but they were dancing today. At one point I looked out the window to see a shower of twigs and branches blowing down from the sky - a shower that went on, and on, and on.

When it was over our property was covered with tree debris. Little branches...



...big branches...



...and lots and lots o' branches.

It will be a lovely afternoon's work raking all that crap up. But it beats shovelling snow.