Carol Goodman Kaufman

Nature

Go West, Young Woman

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Bonanza, The High Chaparral, Rawhide. I loved all those Westerns, and even developed a teenage fantasy about living on a ranch in Wyoming or Montana. That was, of course, before I discovered that I am highly allergic to horses. And to the hay in the barn. And to the cats that live in the hay in the barn. My dream had to be placed in the file under “denied.”

I digress.  Our dear friends’ daughter was getting married, so J and I flew out to Utah for the wedding. We figured that as long as we were traveling such a long distance, it would be a great opportunity to take a few days to explore the area. Well, driving from Salt Lake City through Utah and Idaho to Wyoming brought back all the vast desert and jagged mountain scenery I had gawked at in the movies, on television, and in the pages of Zane Grey novels — but in color.  I fell in love all over again.

Winding through the breathtakingly beautiful Snake River Canyon in Idaho’s Magic Valley,  I found myself gasping at every turn. Thank goodness we have digital cameras now; otherwise, I would have plowed through dozens of rolls of film.

Then we got to Wyoming and its Tetons. I am without words to describe their majesty.  They rise suddenly and startingly from the flat desert, straight up into the air.

We were in the park before dawn to be sure to see the elk rutting. (Hmm. That actually sounds somewhat voyeuristic, doesn’t it?) The fog was thick and, although we couldn’t see much, if any, of the fabulous mountains, we didn’t have to jostle with other visitors. Apparently, most people prefer sunshine.

img_1293 But! Talk about clouds and silver linings.  The bulls, having left their bros during the rut, galloped across the plains with their harems. We didn’t view any fights among bulls vying for the ladies’ affection, but we did view one between two antelope.

The other advantage of the fog was that it was the perfect vehicle to carry the sound of the male elk’s bugling. From our position at the top of a tall peak, we could hear the call bouncing through around the cliffs. Haunting and beautiful. And we had it all to ourselves.

By the time we left the park, the sky had cleared but the road into the park resembled the Southeast Expressway at rush hour.

 

A Tough Nut to Crack

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My obsession with stalking the wild asparagus continues. Dressed like Miss Marple with my hat and Wellies, I love to gather apples, pears, chicory and, of course, my beloved grape leaves. Last week, while searching (alas, failing) to find a new source of grape leaves in a nearby park, I did discover dozens and dozens of pale green orbs hanging from trees like so many Christmas ornaments. I plucked one low-hanging one as well as a small branch of leaves, and posted photos on Facebook, hoping that at least one friend could help me with identification. Within minutes I had my answer: Black walnut. Unfortunately, I had no idea that cutting into the hull of that nut to make the photos would render my fingernails dark brown for two long weeks. Note to self: wear gloves.

Despite the risk of permanent dye, I was on a mission. I just had to gather what so many people claim is a sublimely flavored nut. So, on a sunny and warm Columbus Day, four-year old Max and I headed out to harvest. It turns out that finding the trees was the easiest part of the exercise, and retrieving the ripe globes that had fallen to the ground required little effort on our part. (Having a little kid close to the ground was a big help in the search.)

Finding nuts not infested with slimy little worms was another matter. The longer they remain on the ground, the more likely it is that they will attract the critters. Yuck. So, why not just pick them straight from the tree? Well, if you happen to be 20 feet tall or own a cherry picker, that would be a fine solution. I happen to be 5’7″, and can barely reach the lowest branches.

After one tree’s worth of nuts, we headed home to begin the next phase our project. That turned out to be the hard part, involving water, an exacto knife, and a drying tray, none of which steps yielded anything we could actually eat.

The phrase “tough nut to crack” must have been invented for the black walnut. No simple nutcracker is sufficient here. To get at the meat inside a black walnut, a sledgehammer is the only way to go. Another note to self: Sledgehammers can pulverize the nutmeats.

So much work for so little result. As the woman in the youtube video said, “That’s why they’re so stinkin’ expensive.” (Yes, twice that of standard “English” walnuts.)

Oh, but what a splash they’ll make as a Thanksgiving dessert.

Wistful for Wisteria

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PICT2386Many years ago I bought a wisteria plant at a local garden center. When I got home and took it out of the package, a stick fell out. Just a stick. No root ball hidden by the cardboard label. No indication that it would survive, much less become a magnificent vine heavy with pale purple blossoms.

But, since I had bought it, I planted it out by the stucco wall in the backyard. And just to be safe, I placed a tomato cage around the stick so that nobody, thinking it was a weed, would mistakenly pull it up.

The stick grew inch by inch over the next several years, but not one flower appeared. Then one day, the plant grew large enough that it no longer needed its protective cage. It was also big enough that we needed wire cutters to set it free.

But still no flowers.

Just as I was giving up hope of ever seeing the pendulous flowering vine that I was sure would transport me to the lawn at Mansfield Park or Northanger Abbey, the Sunday New York Times featured an article about wisteria. In it, the writer detailed her own travails with the plant, and she noted that it could take ten years before the first blossom appeared.

We were on year nine when the Times published that article and, wouldn’t you know it, the following summer we awoke one morning to find three small blossoms. Pale lilac in color and emitting a heady perfume, they were beautiful.

But, there was no foliage!

Now, all these years later, we have three distinct seasons of wisteria. The first consists of blossoms on bare, gray branches. The second gives us foliage with no blossoms. The third features both. The vine has grown so hearty that it has spread along and over the wall, and into our neighbor’s garden.

You’d never know that it all begin with a scrawny stick.

They say that patience is a virtue. If you are longing for wisteria, I’d advise you to develop a healthy dose of it.

Snow Job

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growing_orange_on_tree_187928It’s snowing again. Rather, still. Here in Central Mass we will be at, or pretty close to, the seven-foot mark by the time this latest in a series of winter storms ends. And, while trees and shrubs dripping with glistening white frosting are pretty enough to illustrate a book of fairy tales, the glossy, gleaming ice dams building up on my roof are big enough to sink an ocean liner.

Thank goodness for my little sunroom, where I keep houseplants and fruit trees, along with a tray of herbs and vegetables I am attempting to grow from seed. If only the sun would shine.

Today is watering day. Normally, I might just look at that chore as another in a long list of tedious items on my to-do list, but today it is a pleasure. Why? Because within seconds of the water hitting the soil, the aroma of the rain forest begins to waft up and cause body and soul to rejoice.

This hint of Mother Nature’s perfume lasts only a moment, but for as long as it does, I can forget the swirling snow, the howling wind, and the sub-zero wind-chill factor. I can enter my little fantasy world in which I pick my breakfast orange from my own tree,
and enjoy it with a cup of coffee and the morning paper in the open-to-the-sky courtyard of my hacienda.

At least until the phone rings.

The Wish Book

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My kitchen table sits next to a big bay window that looks out onto my backyard. I love to sip my morning coffee gazing out at the expanse of green surrounded by all manner of trees and shrubs. Crab apple, wisteria, potentilla, hydrangea, spirea, climbing roses. Their vivid colors against the lush greens fill my mornings with cheer. Isn’t it great to be alive? And, isn’t it amazing how many shades of green there are?

As the frigid cold descends upon Central Massachusetts, thank goodness for the evergreens. Rhododendrum, azalea, spruce, and arbor vitae provide a warming counterpoint to the bare gray branches that make shiver. Even when it snows, the branches of these backyard stalwarts provide a sculptural framework for sparkling white frosting.

Round about January I start to fantasize about palm trees. Tall and gangly, with a Dr. Seuss-like mop of foliage on their heads, they sway in balmy tropical breezes in time to the rhythm of steel drums while I lounge in a hot sun drinking fruity drinks with little umbrellas in them.

But I am not in the tropics. I am in New England. So, I sit with baited breath awaiting the arrival of the postman. In his bag should be the annual onslaught of seed catalogues. These books filled with fruits, berries, vegetables, and flowers entice me and, even though I know that my plans are bigger than my acreage, I devour their pages with hungry eyes. Vibrant reds, sunny yellows, rich purples – they compete for my attention. And I want them all.

Astronomical spring will be here in about 59 days, and perhaps the path to the backyard will be clear enough to be able to plant some peas, even if I have to start them in the cold frame. In the meantime, I am poised like a Pavlovian dog waiting for the postman to ring twice and set me to salivating.

The Cane Mutiny

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I was determined to find the silver lining through the drug-induced post-surgical cloud. But, it turns out that there’s not just silver. We opened every drape in the bedroom, and through the wall of windows, I could see a veritable Joseph’s coat of colors: red and yellow and blue and pink and gold. Skies are either robin’s egg blue or black with threatening rain clouds. Sheets of water flowed in straight lines from the sky to the grass three stories below me.

And the sounds! Monday morning the garbage and recycling trucks rumbled through the neighborhood. Birds chirped their various songs. The growl of lawnmowers filled the air, accompanied by the buzz saws cutting wood.

In the evening, the rhythmic thrumming of a basketball on a driveway, was accompanied by the joyful shouts of kids enjoying the summer. The roar of motorcycles on distant streets brought back vivid memories of lying in my childhood bed, longing to participate in the summer night’s activities, while a mournful whistle carried through the humid night air ignited a desire to hop a train.

And, the smells of summer. The fragrance of freshly mown grass, the heady aroma of lilies of the valley my neighbors brought. A whiff of gasoline from the cacophonous lawnmowers and weed whackers and edge trimmers. The earthy tang of soil dampened by rain.

Then! When the weather cooperated I was able to hobble along on my cane outdoors. Up and down the street a few times a day.

How much I now appreciate that few minutes of freedom, drenched in the soothing sun. Confinement has definitely made me appreciate so much of what I have taken for granted.

I can’t wait to throw the darn cane out.