Each Little World

Madison memo: Fiber, food & White House farming

Culinary History Enthusiasts of Wisconsin Meeting

WHITEHOUSEFARMER.COM

“Life in the Slow Lane: A Sampling of Local to Global Experiences With Our International Slow Food Family” is the topic of the Wednesday, April 1 meeting of the Culinary History Enthusiasts of Wisconsin (CHEW)
 
Susan Streich-Boldt of Slow Food Madison will take guests on a virtual trip around the world to see local, regional, national, and international projects that embrace the principles at the heart of Slow Food, according to an e-mail press release from CHEW. Streich-Boldt is a member of the leadership team of the Madison chapter of Slow Food and a charter member of CHEW. She instituted the Slow Food Sister City partnership with Mantova, Italy. 

She'll also look at the Madison chapter's annual picnic at Crawford Farm in New Glarus, as well as Terra Madre, the international conference of food communities held in Turin, Italy. Streich-Boldt will show how the Slow Food movement promotes the principles of Good, Clean, and Fair:

Good: Food that is tasty, fresh, seasonal and pleasing to the senses, 
Clean: Produced without damaging the earth's resources or harming human health, 
Fair: Fair pay and decent workplace conditions for those who produce our food. 

THE CAPITAL TIMES

Also on the menu is beekeeper and CSA farmer Claire Strader (above), one of the Wisconsin delegates to Terra Madre 2008. Strader discovered an abundance of fascinating and sometimes strange honeys from around the world at Terra Madre and brought some home to Madison.  She will bring a sampling to taste test. 
 
Locally Strader is best known for her work as the organic farming educator for Community GroundWorks at Troy Community Farm in Madison. But this spring she also has the distinction of being the top vote-getter at whitehousefarmer.com, the site set up in response to Michael Pollan's NYTimes op-ed calling for a White House Farmer. 

The CHEW meeting is at 7:15 p.m. at the Goodman Atwood Community Center, 149 Waubesa Street.

Helen Louise Allen Textile Collection Talk:

Silks of South Asia

Professor J. Mark Kenoyer (Anthropology) will give an informal lecture in front of the hallway cases displaying his collection of wild-silk cocoons, implements, and textiles. Dr. Kenoyer has excavated the world’s oldest-known silk fiber from the Indus Valley site of Harappa. The objects on exhibit represent this tradition. 

Unlike most textile exhibits, you will have a chance to touch the different wild silks at this free presentation from 5-5:30 p.m., Wednesday, April 1,  in the hallway outside Rm. 333, School of Human Ecology, 1300 Linden Dr. The display itself will remain up through Spring term and can be seen when the building is open. For more information on the HLATC, click here.

Last chance to enter

Be sure to enter a comment HERE before midnight TONIGHT to take part in Each Little World's give-away of Julie Moir Messervy's new book, "Home Outside."

I will announce the winner Wednesday morning.

Snowdrops: can you tell the difference?

I have five different varieties of snowdrops (Galanthus spp.) growing in my garden. This year I decided that it was time to take a closer look at them to see if they really do differ in any significant degree — other than name — from each other. All snowdrops have paired, strap-shaped leaves; narrow to broad and bright green to bluish. The flowers are borne on a short pedicel with six unequal perianth segments; outer segments are pure white and longer while inner ones are much shorter and usually have green markings. 

Galanthus elwesii is the giant form while Galanthus nivalis is the common snowdrop. Even a quick glance shows that elwesii is much larger in stem, leaf and flower. I also noticed that the outer perianth segments on elwesii distinctly stood out from the inner segments; they were almost recurved! You can see in the picture that elwesii has typical green markings on the inner perianth edge but there is also a wide green swath at the top of the inner segments as well.

Hitch Lyman is that rare thing in the gardening world, an American Galanthophile — one who fancies snowdrops — cultivating hundreds of varieties at his garden in Trumansburg, New York. Lyman sells some of his snowdrops "in the green" each year via his Temple Nursery catalog. That means he digs them up after blooming and sends the live plants off to you; no dessicated little bulbs in the fall for Lyman. 

It's a wonderfully old-fashioned but expensive enterprise; as are all the best vices. I ordered snowdrops from Lyman in 2002: G. nivalis 'seedling forms' (6 for $10.00) and G. 'Straffan' ($7.00 each). I ordered two of each of those varieties (plus $15.00 shipping). I don't have a recent catalog so I'm not sure how much those prices have changed over the years, though my budget definitely has.

Both of my purchases from Lyman seemed to hang on rather than thrive. My fault, not his, as I decided they were in too much shade with too much competition from sugar and silver maple tree roots. So I moved them a couple of years ago and they're taking off. 

Lyman says "it is uncommon in this country for pure nivalis to set seed." At this point I think the size of my patch is due more to moving and dividing bulbs than seed; we'll see. As for Straffan, I can't resist a plant that's from Ireland in the latter 19th century; the oldest hybrid snowdrop, Lyman says. Supposedly late flowering, my Straffan is just about even with my other snowdrops. It is, however, a standout — short but substantial — and a perfect contrast to the delicate "seedling forms" planted nearby.

The one snowdrop in my garden that is immediately recognizable is the showy G. nivalis 'flore pleno.' This double quickly makes a nice patch with its wide flower heads. It is described as honey-scented; I'd merely say it's sweet — whether you're talking about the fragrance or the form. 

What about you? Can you tell your snowdrops apart — and does it really matter?

Black and White

HE SAID: The one and only photography class I took (35 years ago!) taught me the basics of shooting, developing and printing in black and white. I remember the process as being mysterious and frustrating for the most part, but when everything fell into place the results were magical.

Recently, in another photographic universe, I've been trying to revive the memories of that time and see if those lessons might still have the ability to create magic. I now shoot with a Nikon D-70 DSLR. I keep track of my photos as well as process them with a terrific program from Adobe called Lightroom.

My recent experiments have taken me in a number of directions, some close to home and some further afield. Our garden is an obvious starting point.

I wasn't too excited about this shot of the bog end of our pond. But then I realized that it was the fish that were the real subject. Cropping to them created a photo with some mystery. One's sense of space is disrupted. Questions form in your mind as you try to figure out the relationship of parts.

Even a straightforward shot of the driveway border takes on a new aspect when reproduced in black and white. Without the "distraction" of color, the forms become dominant. Certain plants, like the standard lilac, appear to glow.

Southern Wisconsin is blessed with some gorgeous landscape, especially the Driftless Area: the area southwest of Madison that was not scoured by the glaciers of the last ice age. As often as I can, I drive the back roads of that area with my camera on the seat next to me.

There are objects, especially ephemeral ones, both bizarre and beautiful, that seem to demand documentation. Reducing them to black and white seems to me to give them more substance, more gravitas.

Without the luscious pinks and greens to distract us we can appreciate the forms and relationships of parts.

And there are situations where removing the color simply makes an object less disgusting, allowing us to get past our initial reaction and appreciate a natural process in a new light.

Finally, pattern, especially those produced by the random processes of nature, have always drawn my eye and camera. Processing these photos in black and white strips away the distracting color and helps to emphasize the patterns.

Be sure to enter a comment HERE before midnight on March 30 to take part in Each Little World's give-away of Julie Moir Messervy's new book, "Home Outside."

Just ducky

When I began my garden, I dreamed of all the things it would have: paths and perennials, wildflowers, water, fences, gates, a shed and somewhere to sit. What I never gave a moment's thought to were all the things that turn a garden into a living landscape: the bugs, bees, birds, butterflies and critters whose comings and goings I now watch with as much enthusiasm as I regard any of my plants. From Kingfisher to Cooper's hawk and turkey to fox, the garden has hosted an amazing parade of creatures in the years since we started planting.

 

But the real stars of our garden are Fred and Ethel, a pair of mallard ducks. They flew in about 6:00 p.m. on March 19, a full week earlier than their arrival in 2008; and the earliest arrival date since 2004. They are my one consistent attempt at keeping phenological records. 

 

These ducks are the true harbingers of spring in the garden. I look forward to seeing them even more than the first snowdrop or robin. And this year marks the twelfth year that they've made the garden a sort of pied-a-terre from March to the Fourth of July.

 

They zoom in and out — alone and together — numerous times each day. At this season, when the garden is more brown than green, the two of them easily blend into the plants that edge the pond where they can often be found napping on a warm rock.

 

One of the most familiar of ducks, the mallard is found throughout North America, with a heavy concentration in the prairie states and the Mississippi River flyway. But even in areas where they are not native, they can often be seen near the ponds of most urban parks. That includes a large park at the end of our street, which is where I suspect our ducks spend their time away from us. It seems like a logical conclusion, since mallards typically nest in a location that affords several ponds within about a square mile.

 

Ethel has only brought ducklings to our pond twice; her nest has always been located elsewhere. In the spring of 2007 she spent the better part of a day with the ducklings splashing around in our pond. When she decided that everyone had had enough, she marched out of the garden with the little ones trailing behind.

 

I panicked when the gang headed toward the busy street where our house is located, first cutting across a couple of front lawns. Though Ethel kept the ducklings close to the curb, it was disconcerting to watch their progress toward a dangerously busy intersection.

 

My first thought was to run interference until I came to my senses. I realized that urban ducks, Ethel included, have been making these kinds of treks with their ducklings for a long time. My presence was more likely to cause a problem than solve one.

 

So I turned around and went back to the garden — which seemed rather quiet and lonely. I kept an ear open for the squeal of brakes but never heard them. When Ethel next returned, she was alone. She never brought the ducklings back for another dip, so I can only guess how they fared.

 

Watching Fred and Ethel, I often behave like a kid with a science project: tracking their arrival date, reading up on mallard behavior, making notes and taking photos. But most of the time I'm content to sit and let the two of them provide free entertainment. 

Fred's taken to nibbling the outside of the windows abutting the deck. The first time he did that, it sounded like a bird had flown into the window. I looked out and didn't see anything until I glanced down.

 

There was Fred, hitting his bill against the outside of the window over and over again. Maybe he's eating dead bugs and detritus off the dirty windows, or perhaps paint chips. I can't decide what he's doing — or why. I just know that it's become a ritual he performs multiple times a day.

He looks like he's typing out a sentence as he pecks an invisible line. When he gets to the end, he starts over. Perhaps it's a message for me, watching him from the other side of the glass. He wants to remind me how bland the garden — and life — would be without him and Ethel and all their antics.

This essay appeared in a somewhat different form under my byline in The Capital Times.

To read about the experiences of other gardeners and the wild life in their gardens, check out Gardening Gone Wild.

Be sure to enter a comment HERE before midnight on March 30 to take part in Each Little World's give-away of Julie Moir Messervy's new book, "Home Outside."

My Garden Odyssey: Adding a second water feature

EPISODE XVIII

SHE SAID: One of the advantages to spending time making a master plan — before you even begin to dig a shovelful of dirt — is that you know what's coming next and where it's going. That's held true whether it is one of Mark's construction projects or the planting schemes that I created. During those first months, when he wasn't playing in the mud, I dragged him off to nurseries to get his opinion on trees and shrubs for our garden. 

These plants would be defining choices; and though I compiled the list, we knew we would have to agree on the plant and the placement before we could make a purchase! Without these trees and shrubs, out garden features were lost in space with nothing to anchor them and make them part of the larger garden.

In the case of the large pond and stream that you've been reading about here, construction took the entire summer and planting was only discussed, not actually accomplished. But within sight of that dramatic water feature, Mark built — and I landscaped — another water feature in a much shorter time period and with much less stress. We followed our usual method of using mock-ups to test size and placement before we bought either rocks or trees and shrubs. 

HE SAID: We don't pretend that our "Japanese" garden is in the least bit "authentic." We are not Japanese and we don't live in Japan. That being said, we have borrowed liberally from their tradition when it suited us.

One of the traditional elements of a tea garden is the tsukubai: a place to cleanse one's hands, mouth and spirit before engaging in the tea ceremony. It is not just a container of water, but an arrangement of elements: stones with specific functions, water, plants, a lantern.

SHE SAID: The rocks for this smaller project were all delivered and moved into the back garden at the time the big pond was being dug when large equipment was on-site. The large rock that anchors the tsukubai was set in place as the first step in the construction of this project.

Of course, the same problems that beset the pond project — rain, and lots of it — affected this smaller construction job, too. The water-filled hole is where the re-circulating pump will go; inside a five gallon plastic bucket hidden under a layer of metal screening and smooth black Mexican river rocks.

At this stage of our garden plan, you can see how the yard is bare of grass from the heavy equipment and pond construction except for the areas closest to the house. The rocks for the tsukubai have been set and the pump is under the layer of black river rocks at the center of the arrangement above. Our green marbelized bowling ball is standing in for the container that will overflow with water. 

The first tsukubai plantings included a star Magnolia (Magnolia stellata) in bloom, with a Japanese maple (Acer palmatum dissectum) behind it. The pagoda dogwood (Cornus alternifolia) — still in its nursery container — is awaiting planting.

HE SAID: Rather than try to slavishly imitate the Japanese models we had seen at Anderson Garden and elsewhere, we agreed to look for Western equivalents whenever possible. In the case of the tsukubai, we decided to substitute used copper piping for the traditional bamboo flue and a ceramic storage jar for the usual stone bowl. The jar was made by a local potter friend which gives it another layer of meaning.

Japanese designers often employ recycled elements to add to the Wabi-sabi aesthetic of their gardens. We were fortunate to find some excellent materials, either free or at a very reasonable price, to add a feeling of age and history to our garden. We were told — but have never been able to verify — that the two granite slabs that we incorporated into one of the paths were once part of the steps leading to the Wisconsin State Capitol.

SHE SAID: Just changing the color of the house made an enormous difference in the way the tsukubai felt — and looked. Now the house fades into the background and the focus remains on the garden.

One of our personal rules was no planting within two feet of the house. That area is beneath the roof overhang which keeps it from soaking up any rainwater. Equally important is the need to maintain a clear space to work in when it's time again to paint the house. 

To make it a decorative as well as a utilitarian feature, it's edged in limestone and topped with the same kind of stones used elsewhere in the garden. This feature is now completely hidden by greenery — unless you are standing right next to the house.

HE SAID: The stepping stone path serves several roles in a tea garden. First of all, it keeps your feet up off of the soil. But, more importantly it tends to slow your movements and direct your attention. In our case we also wanted the path to help create an element of surprise. 

It isn't until you arrive at the granite slabs and the large stone in front of the tsukubai that you feel comfortable enough of your footing to stop and look up: the tsukubai is revealed. This is also the moment where you first get a view of the big pond and the mounds behind.

SHE SAID: The view above is from the roof of the house. The trees and shrubs have now filled in so much that they need to be annually pruned to keep the end of the pipe and the dripping water visible when you are standing in front of the tsukubai.

After a number of years of enjoying the tsukubai as originally designed, we decided to take up the grass in front of it and replace it with gravel. The gravel provided a better contrast with the stepping stones as well as being a variation on the raked gravel Moon Garden in front of the house. We also added a row of small rocks with flat tops to edge the shade planting adjacent to the gravel.

Just off the deck is a paperbark maple (Acer griseum), underplanted with a dwarf Fothergilla (Fothergilla gardenii). The tree at the far left is a Ginkgo biloba.

The big pond runs during the day, recirculating over the stream and waterfall, and then automatically shuts off when it gets dark. But the tsukubai — located right outside our bedroom windows — runs continuously. Its gentle splashing masks traffic noise and lulls us to sleep, both unplanned benefits. The tsukubai taught us that it's not only the big projects that provide pleasure.   

For more episodes about the design of this garden, go to My Garden Odyssey in the categories list. Click on any picture to enlarge it so you can see the details.

Be sure to enter a comment HERE before midnight on March 30 to take part in Each Little World's give-away of Julie Moir Messervy's new book, "Home Outside."

The sun, the moon, and Victoria Rivers

"The Sun and the Moon:

Protective Motifs in Central and South Asian Embroideries"

One of the highlights of March in Madison is the Helen Louise Allen Textile Collection's annual Ruth Ketterer Harris Lecture. This year's must-attend event for local fiber fanatics will feature Dr. Victoria Rivers, professor in design at UC-Davis and author of "The Shining Cloth." Rivers will explore the ways in which many rural textiles from Central and South Asia reflect ancient ties to the sun and the moon and to their protective attributes. This free event is at 5:30 p.m. on Thursday, March 26, in Room L160, Chazen Museum of Art.

DEBBIE ALDRIDGE/UC DAVIS

Dr. Victoria Rivers

Rivers previously gave the 2000 Ruth Ketterer Harris/HLATC lecture on "The Shining Cloth." In addition to her anthropological research, Rivers is an artist herself making her ideally suited to explore the use of precious metals, sequins, beads and reflective objects in textile embellishment, since her own work frequently uses them. 

I remember Rivers' "The Shining Cloth" as a terrific presentation and I expect this one should be the same. And it will be a particularly interesting topic, given the conjunction of the spectacular textile treasures currently on display in the Chazen's ongoing exhibit, "Writing with Thread: Traditional Textiles of Southwest Chinese Minorities, on display through April 12.

Be sure to enter a comment HERE before midnight on March 30 to take part in Each Little World's give-away of Julie Moir Messervy's new book, "Home Outside."

Julie Messervy's new book: One for me ... and one for you, too!

When the folks at Taunton Press asked if I would like a review copy of Julie Moir Messervy's new book — plus one to give away to readers — I didn't hesitate. My husband and I have no reservations in saying that the book which had the most profound effect on the process of designing our garden was "The Inward Garden: Creating a Place of Beauty and Meaning" by Julie Moir Messervy (with unforgettable photos by Sam Abell). If you've been following the Wednesday "Odyssey" posts about the history of that project, you've already read our praises of Messervy's talents. 

JMMDS

Not only did we fall in love with her books and ideas, but we were equally smitten with the dry sand garden (above) at the Boston Museum of Fine Art, known as Tenshin-en: The Garden of the Heart of Heaven, where Messervy collaborated on the design with Japanese garden master, Kinsaku Nakane.

All of Messervy's books are intelligent, inspirational — and variations on a theme. She has a very specific method of approaching a project; and it's fascinating to see how Messervy applies her basic principles to widely varying locations, climates and budgets. Her latest publication, "Home Outside: Creating the Landscape You Love," is also the most accessible. 

This is an endeavor whose every page is packed with information and ideas and yet there's plenty of visual breathing space. And it's a book whose message is perfect for its time: Home is where the heart is and where many of us are hunkering down; renovating rather than relocating. We'll be looking for ways to add more living space, comfort and beauty to our homes and Messervy is here to show us how to do it by going outside the walls of our houses.

Among the strengths of the book are Messervy's "Six Steps to Creating the Landscape You Love;" a process that anyone can follow to gain the same confidence designing outdoor spaces that most of us intuitively have for the indoors. She also shows six possibilities for one landscape; the house, driveway and curbside tree stay the same but everything else changes in these widely differing possibilites.

Among the entertaining highlights of the book is Messervy's personality test: "What Kind of Designer Are You?" which will help you figure out what kind of aesthetic style you have; a critical component for getting started and for making decisions. The book provides written and visual answers to the quiz.

As I said, this publication is packed: there are inside/outside/detail shots (all appropriately credited); there are sidebars and sketches and full color renderings; "Did you know" tidbits?; and visual glossaries — colorful double page photo spreads on subjects like materials for underfoot and grandchild's paradise, etc. Of course, there are "before" photos of some rather pathetic spaces; something we all love to look at — especially if they're worse than what we're dealing with. Messervy also considers designing over time and on a shoestring budget. And, though she deals with properties in Seattle and San Francisco and Washington, D.C., she also goes to New Jersey and Ohio and Vermont — the places where the rest of us live.

What I loved about this book is that sometimes the solutions are so easy: paint a wall; add three trees; uncover an overgrown stone ledge. And Messervy caps it all off with an in-depth look at a project that virtually any of us could achieve: transforming a modest house with paint, plantings, time and love.

JMMDS

At this New Hampshire property, Messervy "created a 'turning point' for a handsome pot whose lines mimic the mountain peak beyond."

ENTER "EACH LITTLE WORLD'S" DRAWING TO WIN A COPY OF "HOME OUTSIDE": Leave a comment below and you will be automatically entered in the drawing to win a copy of Julie Moir Messervy's newest book, "Home Outside: Creating the Landscape You Love." You may leave a comment anytime before midnight on Monday, March 30. One comment (entry) per visitor. The winner will be determined by the random number generator. 

First day of Spring

"Walking around

an early spring garden —

going nowhere."

- Kyoshi -

Dandelions

Remember that first bouquet of flowers you picked by yourself, how proudly you presented them to your mom? They may not realize it at the time, but moms' reaction to that motley mess of dandelions clutched in our stained little hands can have far-reaching effects on tender gardeners. 

No child can resist such a fascinating plant as a dandelion: It opens and closes with the sun; its bright color is visible clear across the yard; and it's the only plant that children know it's OK to pick. And you can be sure that in my southern Wisconsin garden, it is among the first plants to green up — side by side with the snowdrops.

So, parents, resist that urge to laugh. This is serious stuff. If one's first dandelion bouquet is greeted properly, it can spark a whole love affair with this widespread plant. That must have been the case with me, because I am a dandelion fancier.

Dandelions — Taraxacum officinale — have as long and fascinating a history as any other botanical specimen. You can eat the young leaves raw, cook them like spinach, turn the flowers into "wine." They blanket the entire U.S., so where ever you go, you will always find them — making them the perfect plant to use as the subject of drawings and photos. The USDA plant database pictures dandelions in many moods — most of them quite lovely. 

Though I am in awe of this traditional depiction of a dandelion (above), the closest I can come to such precision is with a camera. The last dandelion of the 2008 season (below), pulled from my garden in November and photographed on the spot — on a piece of paper on the deck in natural light — is as scientific as I get. 

The dandelion photo is real, it's representational and yet has a certain unstudied charm that makes the plant seem more delicate and much less assertive than it really is. 

Representational is not really my style. I want to render the emotional experience of clutching that hot little handful of dandelion stems, all milky and sticky, then shoved into a pint-size vase. A pencil, not a camera, is what I need to do that.

My picture is as much about drawing as dandelions. It has the botanical name faintly written across the bottom but it also has all the test colors across the top. The smears, the splotches, the splatters all stay. 

Drawing — like life — is not about the destination; it's about the journey. It's about the marks we make and the things that mark us. No erasing allowed.