The Apple of my Ally

A ferocious slurry of winter has thrown itself at us. We've been snowed at, iced on, shoveled half to death, and collapsed upon. A few of us have snow-shoed and snowmobiled our way to some joy, and some of us have sworn off stepping outside until it's gone. Whichever side of the fence you're on, there's no denying this winter's intensity.

I've been on the inside of the fence, well, doors, of this winter. While I'd prefer to practice my newly acquired ability to nature walk despite freezing temperatures, I was not prepared for teasing zero on most of the days, with a few feet of icy snow to boot. So inside I've been, concentrating on hearth and home.

Like a tiny volcano, the mist of apples swirls up from the opening in the green glass bottle.

The lady at the market was selling these fine treats along with savvy-sales reasons why I should buy them. When I told her with delight that I was on my way home with a carriage of apple cider as a novice cider-maker, she perked her eyebrow and tested me on my "right apples".

Indeed her fancy cider tasted similar to a fine white wine with a little sparkle to it, I won't deny. But for my first round of apple cider, mine was arguably better. It was sweet, oh so appley, sparkled like an opera gown, and made for an exceptional birthday toast for a dear friend. And, it cost me under $4 for a gallon.

I bought a bottle of the fancy cider from the apple cheeked lady, if not to appease her woo to bring my carboy to be filled at the farm, or to prove that I was willing to compare. (Or - just because I really wanted some cider with my venison for dinner). But I did not put my 3 gallons of sweet apple cider back. I brought it home and filled my little glass jugs, and set them up with a kiss to ferment.

The fizz and bubble snake down from the lip of the green glass bottle to the lip of my wide mouth crystal wine goblet passed down to me from my Grandfather, a fine wine-maker himself. I sip, slowly, intentionally, inviting in the lineage of libation.

Magic is undeniable in the fermentation process. If there's such thing as a yeast fairy, I believe in it. The transformation from one sweet farm thing to a sour sassy healthy one is like a good date that turns into soul mate material. Keeps you wanting more.

My first round of cider kept the neighborly company of a lacto-fermented herbal infusion-soda and a mead. The latter two went bad. The mead, because I used tap water which had just enough chlorine in it to inhibit proper fermentation, and the lacto-soda because I failed to strain the whey well enough. Bummer.

But the cider - oh my. Oh my. After just a few days the magic starts; the bubbles begin, and the fragrance is like pie. Then on goes the airlock and then begins the battle of waiting.

After a week, the whole family enjoyed the sparkling, pro-biotic beverage with dinner. After 10 ish days, the alcohol began and it was just for mum n dad, and privy guests. By two weeks, there was a mere two glasses left, and the hardness began to set in, like the taste of sparkling white wine, and it was truly exquisite.

Someday I might have the "right" apples, but for now I am very happy with my wrong ones. Whatever this orchard is giving to the local market is blossoming beautifully in my home and I have no complaints (other than I need some more carboys).

Fermented foods and beverages are a new part of my herbal journey that I'm delighted to be on. Not only is it a nourishing commitment to our health, it's a new way of knowing plants, and a dimension nearly lost to our western culture. It is also a fight for the health of our water.

I'm spoiled by amazingly good well water. Here at my new abode, the water has chlorine. Not very much at all, perhaps even undetectable to someone not paying attention, but I smell it and feel it acutely. My hair is drying out, my skin nearly cracking, and I gag if I drink the water from the tap. Water is essential in all the ways I can think of - it's the root of all life - and being a life form and a river lover and plant lover and mama, water is indefatigably important to me.

My fermentations agree - hence the rotting of my mead. I'll soon be taking a trip to the town hall, for more information on our water source. Being in a small farming town, I really wonder what is shed into the sources, the land, our faucets.

I give my belly a rub of love as dinner makes it's way into my body, back into life.

And in everything there is a spiral. Everything is connected. That spiral of mist from the cider tops, to the birds going crazy outside my window the past several mornings. They come in noisy flocks to forage from the white ground. They squawk and chirp and flap. They devour! For all over the ground lay bite sized crab apples.

They relish them; a delicacy in the scarce month of February, the meat of the apple is deep sustenance, and reason to celebrate.


Soon it will be mating season for the little winged ones. What better to prime their fertility than wild little apples? Can you blame them? Apples have been a symbol of fertility and love for centuries.

As I watched these little creatures dine, I thought about this. About apples. The apples in stories, in myth, in medicine, and in my glass. I thought about the apple tree that was the seat of so many of my childhood fairy tale moments; perched on her branches eating cinnamon powder from a toothpick; dreaming of what my life would be when I grew up. I loved the act of climbing the apple tree. How nimble and strong my little body felt! How clever I was to perch and teeter just so on her branches. How sweet the oval leaves of spring were on my fingertips, the delicate blossoms in my nose, and the bitter, astringent meal on my tongue as the fruits appeared. I always tasted them as if one year they would arrive with sweetness, and they never did.

The land at Great Hollow is an old apple orchard. The trees still give apples, and the flowering is intoxicating. If I knew better how to prune them, I would have. I always adored their gnarled beauty and admire their accessible nature. When last spring's storms knocked down a large couple of branches, I pruned them to take home.

For this year's plant ally, I'm choosing the apple tree. It's a daunting plant to pick, really, for it has a history larger and deeper than I can ever know, and a breadth of enormity. But if I've got all year, I can learn at least a little, and maybe not run out of curious notions. I'll be starting my journal soon, and feverishly catching up on my tasks. I love that apple provides such a variety of preparations beyond just your basic ones. I love that it's a food and a medicine, a love potion and a dessert, a sour fermented vinegar which can even hold other herbs, and a sweet, sparkling hard cider.

I'm anticipating a grand seduction, and perhaps a grand surrender.

Here's to you, great granny apple. Cheers

I take the last sip slowly. The sparkle has settled and the sweetness has opened up like warmed honey. I am contented, warm, and lovingly sleepy.

Evil Snow Charm

Clearly I'm having commitment issues with the colors of my blog design. What can I do? All I see out my window is white. I've never seen this much snow in New England since moving here almost 20 years ago. However it feels more like a real winter, as the winters I grew up with in Iowa were laden with accumulated snow tunnels along the roadsides and driveways, prohibiting all safe driving standards and visibility before turning. I remember clearly the wicked gnawing wind at my cheeks as I walked, in part, backwards to school.

The filthy plowed snowbanks towered beyond my head, only white again upon a fresh layer from the snow Gods. They performed exceedingly well as igloos and forts, snow people and temporary storage for party beverages. My mom would fill plastic popsicle-makers with orange juice, place them in the blanket of snow on the back porch, and within a few hours they were frozen enough to eat.

Moon boots were where it was at. Along with a full length hooded down coat and a ski mask, you could produce enough close-loop sweat and snot and hat hair to effectively humiliate yourself at the school lockers while rushing from Inuit garb to uniform code with barely enough time to thaw before asked to hold your pencil. My hair was long and always froze into icicles. I remember the prickle of goosebumps irritated by navy-blue cable tights and my surly disposition to the inability to wear pants and sweatshirts in protection against the drafty blows of the old brick school building. The windows were large and the fields of snow carried on for acres upon acres, decorated only by the sparse prints of a few desperate animals and the curvy wake lines of the wind waves.

I knew the white stuff was slowly watering the daffodil hill, sure to be blooming soon enough. I knew the winds blew around the seeds from the few trees we had. I knew, every year, that winter only lasted one season, but somehow I never managed a level above loathing for the evil Iowa winter.

Today I have more of an adapted ability to tolerate (even sometimes appreciate) the winter season, and a few more coping mechanisms. One of them, obviously, is taking out my restlessness on my blog. Being snowed in for a month now, with more snow every week or more, I've been forced to examine my daily habits, and begin stirring up my deeper visions of my days here on this Earth. The obstacles have been many; job struggles, our dear friend in the ICU, and the challenges and surprises of raising a teen and a tween, spoon out hearty helpings of swearing, intense gratitude, reflection, tears, and fear. And with each inner and outer blizzard I sit with the feelings and inquire.

Inside my icy chrysalis, I dream up ways to prioritize and practice what's important to me, and intentions I have for my Journey with the Plants. Winter is, after all, the dream time. it's the sleep of the year, the nighttime of the soil. In the womb of nature, we must root for the sweet starchy sustenance of our own spirit.

I dress up for no reason other than to add interest to an otherwise timeless day. I put on a little black honey lip gloss and show up for my journal pages. I've got some good ideas, sketched out in my favorite colors, and intimately connected to the goals I already have in motion. I'm imagining another branch, just a snowdrink at a time. With a little research and some continued time, I just might accomplish it, we shall see. I've certainly had enough scarification stratification. I figure whats a little more time waiting in the dirt?

As an aside, since I seem to muse more than make here at Plant Journeys, I'll throw in a little naughty herby-ness for you.

Snow Cream

1 big bowl of fresh, clean snow
1 Tbsp chocolate syrup
1/2 cup powdered sugar
1 Tsp vanilla extract
Drizzles of herbal elixir of choice: I like black birch or white fir.
If you don't have an elixir handy, you can harvest some tree twigs and make a strong infusion. Just cool before using.

Stir it all up and enjoy.

P.S. Don't eat yellow snow.

Images of a Snowy Winter

White Pine Oblation

Your Magesty

I am listening.

I am at your service.

Guide me right for healing.

What lovely cones you bear,

with jewels ancient and glossy.

What fragrant sweet perfume you wear,

your needles sewn with care.

You are regal, yet humble,

a forest sorceress.

You heal and feed,

and soothe every need,

A ministree, you are.

My Queen,

I see the peace in your arms

as you stroke the winters chill

as you caress away the ills.

I feel the cure in my throat

as a tingly coat

and a balm to my every wound.

Your spell casting gaze

and owl hiding ways

I honor and offer you praise.

May I speak for you, touch for you

weave a fancy tale

for you, lead me through

the labyrinth of troubles

with your color of emerald;

a poultice on my soul.

I am listening, speak

whisper, to me through your shape,

body, sap, seeds, and needle. Roots like

lovers to rocks and branches like whirling dervishes

reaching yet bowing

floating yet steadfast

ever green yet evolving

prehistoric yet prophecy,

Commanding presence and quest,

seeker and song.

I am listening, opening, to you

My Emerald Queen.

Weather, forts and trees

Ucky.


And weird. Temperature fluxes up to 40 degrees in a single day. 56 degrees in the middle of February. Frozen snow and ice next to warm slush puddles adorned by whipping winds that remind me of those coiled things in the science museum - where one is hot and one is cold and when you touch it your mind bends with confusion.

The birds are wild. They are driving into activity; by the light I'm convinced, not the temperature. The flocks of blackbirds and grackles and geese are swirling over the open farmlands like an interpretive dance embodying Dorothy's windswept house. They land in succession and continue their percussive movement with hungry little beaks collecting seed, as the blanket of snow has finally been pulled back enough to uncover them.

Our resident Pileateds have been circling our home on nearly a daily basis, coming right to our yard trees more often than ever. Their spiral tree dance is spectacular, and their whooping call never ceases to amaze me, filling every empty crevice of forest with bouncing sound.

The plants seem to be yawning. I imagine the roots just stirring from slumber... the kind that keeps you in bed, lucid for hours, on that rare Sunday morning of lavish time. The hours where reality and dreams mesh together like layers of pastel gauze on a tutu. Their deepest little rootlets take a deep breath, and notice the trickle of melted snow beginning to penetrate the soil bed. The sun, brightest of the whole year it seems, triggers the plants into waking. My mom used to wake me by doing compressions along my legs to get my circulation going. It's just the same under there, as the heat and cold expand and contract, massaging the dirt into life. The red roots of the bloodroot, the first to begin the rise of green, remind me that won't be long before their little hooded beings come out of hiding.

In the distance a brave little soul fashions a winter shelter. He layers boughs and branches as strategically as he can with his little 9 year old hands. He breathes in the life of the quiet land, making beauty and joy out of few resources. He is near the beehive, which may or may not have a huddling colony inside. His place on the hill in his fort dons a patchwork of lichens and mosses as perfect as any decorator could invent. The moddled colors stand out sharp against the white ground.

He is usually the first to notice the details.... the garlic mustard that refused to be anything but green all winter. The tiny imprints on rocks of ancient creatures. The animal tracks in the snow, and the hidden nests in the bramble. The metaphors in the flowers.

The trees he leans his shelter against are right behind Persephone. Persephone guards the beehive, and provides a lovely mix of hardwood among the hemlocks. I have begun to name my trees, you see. This is my effort to know every single tree that is in my immediate yard. It is personal. It is part of my dedication to placed based learning. I know most all of the ground greens that grow, but I don't know the trees very well. I am learning.

This is Maybel:

Or Maybelline, proper. She is the stunning Eastern Hemlock on the far right edge, (there are two), and she lines my view with her feathery limbs through each color of the day's sky. I've taken countless photos of her, since she frames each season with a consistent beauty. The kind of beauty that *I* feel is the real Maybelline kind. Natural. Maybelline guards us against the harshest of Northeast winds, and offers a showcase of bird perches for us to watch. She delights in the diamonds of winter's snow and ice, showing them off like a million bucks sprinkled with fairy dust. And her arms hold at least one visit each summer by a large bird of prey.

Her spirit guards my home.

Her partner, the Hemlock just to the left of her in the above photo, is the provider tree. He hosts a plethora of meals for the Pileateds in his lower trunk, a couple of large nests, and ample bounding branches for the squirrels' daily trapeze practice. My horizon wouldn't be the same without them.

work?

The days I catch myself here..... at nearly 1 pm, and I've been at the computer ferociously writing emails, creating letters and ideas and contacts since I awoke.... are good days. The fact that I never noticed I didn't make it to the shower, never finished my coffee, and my kids have made themselves busy all day, is a sign of a self motivated day. I like those. Things feel like they are just moving, right along, not too fast and not too slow, but just as they are supposed to. 

I am thawing my icy moods a little, and regaining some flow beneath the chill of winters stillness, both in work and personally. I am looking to the sunshine in her highest show of light all year, knowing that she has a divine synergy with the hard ground beneath me. I plant my seeds of ideas, send them to creator, and trust.

Keying Conifers

Learning how to use a key is fun. Last week the kids in my herb class and I did this. First we learned by making a key from our selves, by dividing into two main groups to begin with. The idea is that you start with the most general, and work your way to most specific, splitting the options in to two each time (dichotomous key). First we split into boys/girls. From there we split each group up even further, until finally we could define each individual by their most absolute feature. Then we used the framework to classify two more people (the teachers of course!)

From there, we took on the world of evergreens. We put our order of questioning to work, tracking the least to most subtle details of each bough. Conifers are incredibly fascinating! And the perfect type of plant to learn to use a key from. They also make good material for a starter talk on the evolution of plant life. And it's always interesting to teach kids about 'naked seeds'.

After noting all the defining features of our green trees, we used the information to finally ID each species. We had a wonderful round table debate on the 'Blue Spruce', commonly known but not listed in my books. With a little help from our lead instructor and the Internet, we found it to be synonymous with the Colorado spruce - of which we did not have a bough.

The kids successfully ID'd at least the genus of each evergreen, in some cases they got all the way to species. Woohoo! Ok, I know the poster looks simple.... but the observational skills that get exercised in the process is a lot more noisy and fun and complicated!

The middle one is supposed to follow through to list the Norway Spruce, one of my personal favorites - the way the boughs drape along it's sides like gypsy sleeves. If you get a good blister of sap it makes wonderful salve or wound dressing. They seem to line the highways of Western Connecticut in an elegant way that buffers the otherwise preppy atmosphere.

Hopefully the kids will be examining their Yuletide tree up close this year!