Apple mint at midsummer.

my garden,

I think today might be Midsummer, by my way of reckoning. It’s warm and sunny, and in the last few days, not only did I pick my first zucchini, but the first plum fell, perfectly ripe and delcious, a week or two ahead of its fellows. Back when it was officially Midsummer, my own garden was not feeling it, but now everything is lovely and relaxed, like sitting on a porch at the end of a long day — even when I am still working in the middle of the afternoon.

The lavender is pretty much spent, and needs trimming back. The acanthus likewise. Yesterday I yanked at the enthusiastic, yards-long wisteria runners that were crawling up the sides of the house, trying to get in at the window screens, and managed to pull most of them down and cut them off. Today I noticed that the apple mint has sent out new leaves low on its stems, so I trimmed the tops of those few. I don’t need to make tea or anything right now, so I put the bunch in a vase by the kitchen sink, where for a few days I can better enjoy their soft greenness.

A beehive of comical beings.

creativity, humanity, quotes,

“To be a man and live among men is miraculous, even if we know the vile deeds and crimes that people are capable of. Every day we build together an enormous beehive with our thoughts, discoveries, inventions, works, lives. Even that analogy is hardly accurate; it is too static, since our collective work is constantly changing and displaying itself in various colors, subject to time or history.

“Again, this is an insufficient description, because it ignores the most important thing: that this collective creation is given life by the most private, hidden fuel of all individual aspirations and decisions. The oddity of man’s exceptional calling rests principally on his being a comical being, forever immature, so that a group of children with their easy mood swings from laughter to crying is the best illustration of his lack of dignity.

“A few years pass, and suddenly they are adults, taking control and supposedly prepared to make pronouncements on public matters and even to take upon themselves the duties of father and mother, although it would be good if they first had an entire life of their own to prepare for this.”

― Czesław Miłosz

The Artist Painting, Surrounded by His Family – Otto Van Veen, 1584

A berry pie to celebrate summer.

food and cooking, friends, pie

When July came into view, it occurred to me that pies naturally flow from the season of summer, with its many ripening fruits, and picnics. I don’t recall ever eating pie at a picnic (unless it was a savory pie such as a pastie), but surely I’ve seen a picture in a book of such a spread…? It wasn’t from Harold and the Purple Crayon, I know that, but his is the only pie picnic I can discover at the moment.

Well, that’s how my mind ran, setting off from summertime, and how it began to spin this thread that resulted in me baking a pie last week. I didn’t use fresh fruit, but rather frozen berries, because I ended up combining it with the tradition of always baking a berry pie for my late husband’s birthday, when he was still around to eat them, and several times since.

And I didn’t take it outdoors for a picnic, but ate it with my friends Mr. and Mrs. Bread, who had helped celebrate Mr. Glad’s last birthday on this earth exactly ten years ago. That was the sweetest part. And the crust of my pie didn’t flop!

Night breathes a lullaby.

nature, poetry, ,

LULLABY

Now the day is done,
Now the shepherd sun
Drives his white flocks from the sky;
Now the flowers rest
On their mother’s breast,
Hushed by her low lullaby.

Now the glowworms glance,
Now the fireflies dance,
Under fern-boughs green and high;
And the western breeze
To the forest trees
Chants a tuneful lullaby.

Now ‘mid shadows deep
Falls blessed sleep,
Like dew from the summer sky;
And the whole earth dreams,
In the moon’s soft beams,
While night breathes a lullaby.

Now, birdlings, rest,
In your wind-rocked nest,
Unscared by the owl’s shrill cry;
For with folded wings
Little Brier swings,
And singeth your lullaby.

-Louisa May Alcott

Jean-Francois Millet