Covered head to toe in a veritable space suit and feeling very chilled out and curious, I recently had my first encounter with honeybees. My friend Stacey has two colonies that take up residence in the green twin towers at the top of Cathy and Kaj’s market garden near Erin. They’ve been gorging on blooms all spring and summer and in a few weeks Stacey will extract their divine honey from cells like the ones above.

This is Stacey’s second year with her own hives. She took a beekeeping course at Everdale a few years ago, started with one hive last year, and knocked the socks off her CBC colleagues with her delicious raw honey. Stacey’s bees make the most flavourful honey I’ve ever tasted. And I’m not the only one who thinks so - it’s prize-winning honey.

I got her last jar nine months ago and have been savouring it slooooowly. I don’t put it on toast. I don’t add it to tea or pair it with peanut butter. I lick it off a spoon and let the flavours linger. This gold is so sacred to me that when friends come to visit I’ve been known to tuck it in dark corners of the cupboard and leave decoy jars of sub-standard honey at eye level. That’s horrible, isn’t it?! When I’m feeling generous I do share a spoonful (I only have a 125 ml jar after all) and everyone agrees it’s phenomenal honey.

Good thing more is on the way. This will be full of honey soon if it isn’t already.

And this is full of brood - the baby-making chamber. Stacey leaves enough honey in her hives for the bees to live on throughout the winter so she doesn’t have to feed them sugar water.

This year I’ve put in a large order of honey to sustain me through the winter (and my friends if they’re lucky, or I’m not looking).

I love mustard. And not the cheap stuff.

When my taste buds were young I slapped bright yellow French’s on hot dogs and nothing else. It was a match made in heaven. During high school I gravitated to honey mustard (oh mon deiu!) and then onto even stickier German styles. But I’ve since graduated, with thanks to my refined late Aunt Kathy, to the creme de la creme of moutarde, the posh dijon.

Oh dijon, how I’ve OD’ed on thee. You were the main accompaniment of so many dishes during my university years. So much so that I had to leave you for awhile - probably because I ate such a shocking diet. Your wonderful texture and hot notes lured me back though, and you’ve been a permanent fixture on the top shelf of my fridge ever since. When you’re nearing empty I actually remember to add you to the shopping list. I could remedy the frequency of reaching your depths by just buying jumbo jars but they somehow seem less sophisticated. You are meant to be mini.

This large sac is full of mustard harvested from my field. It looked stunning in June but it had long since been overshadowed by barley and oats. Michael has some plan for it but it since he’s left I’ve been wondering how mustard is actually made and if this is indeed the beginnings of the wonderful prepared stuff. And where can I find homegrown mustard to replace my Maille?

The first option I stumbled upon, Organics & Gold Mustard, claims to be 100% organic made with Saskatchewan mustard, milled in Ontario. Apparently Canada grows over 95% of the worlds mustard! Wow. Maybe that explains the plant’s proliferation in my field?! Canada also has the biggest and oldest mustard mills in the world.Perhaps I should hunt one down. But in the meantime I’m on the hunt for an all-Ontario organic prepared dijon. Can anyone point me in the right direction? Maybe I should just be making my own…

:: plunging (calmly) into beekeeping

:: this most amazing gospel tune - getting major play here and sending shivers down my spine at the 2:43 mark

:: fancy new bristle paint brushes and acrylic paints in fun colours like yellow ochre, burnt sienna, and crimson

:: this striking flower - one of my favourite perennial purchases - that reminded me to splash paint on canvas (does anyone know what it is?)

:: phtalo blue-stained fingers from stemming a 4 lb basket of blueberries

:: friends and neighbors popping in unannounced and veggie trade-offs

:: Yoshi - still chillin’

:: the tantalizing juices of tomatoes, garlic and onions bubbling in the oven - come to me confit!

:: woodsmoke hair from big campfire drumming session under the stars last night

:: size 5 wide Brandywine Reds (and inspiration for, ahem, a soothing footbath for seriously swollen, over-worked feet!)

:: sun-kissed and sundressed

“Let’s try an experiment.  Pick up a coin. Imagine that it represents the object which you are grasping.  Hold it tightly, clutched in your fist and extend your arm, with the palm of your hand facing the ground.  Now if you let go or relax your grip, you will lose what you are clinging onto.  That’s why you hold on. But there’s another possibility.  You can let go and yet keep hold of it.  With your arm still outstretched, turn your hand over so that it faces the sky.  Release your hand and the coin still rests on your open palm.  You let go.  And the coin is still yours, even with all this space around it.  So there is a way in which we can accept impermanence and still relish life, at one and the same time, without grasping.” - Sogyal Rinpoche, ‘The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying’

I think I have a conflicted relationship with letting go. I used to get wrapped up in nostalgia for a time, a place, an experience, or people. It’s a fine balance, isn’t it, of looking fondly upon the past, dreaming about the future and being present in the moment.

Over the past few years I’ve become much more familiar with embracing the here and now. And I’ve put dreams into action. But a wee bit of nostalgia lingered - something which has been niggling at me. As the nights became cooler and bare legs were suddenly covered last weekend, it struck me that a big part of my nostalgia this year has rested in the seasons. In March as spring tiptoed in I welcomed a personal spring unfurling but felt a bit apprehensive for summer. Summer was synonymous with unshackling, exposing, standing in the light. I love the outdoors but I was still being nourished by my cocoon. The warmth lured me out quite naturally, however, and being exposed this summer has been illuminating and deeply healing.

My new-found sense of self is very connected with spring and summer. It’s been a little jostling to think about another transition around the corner. With autumn comes crisp weather and the closing of doors. Some of those doors have taken time to close but then the day comes when it’s just time. I’ve been amazed at the grace and ease that has accompanied this deep inner knowing that it’s just time to let go.

The closing of doors means the opening of others and autumn will also bring a fresh breeze of new opportunities. Social autumn with it’s djembe drumming and painting classes, indoor and outdoor climbing, harvest parties, bike rides, writers’ and jazz festivals.  So while I’m thrilled the weather calls for sunshine and 30+ temperatures this weekend, when autumn rolls around I’ll embrace it… because it’s just time.

This is the product of four months growth in my 2.5 acre field. Looks like a lot of grain, no?! I should have taken a handful to separate further and test as porridge but I was just gob-smacked at the sight of so much grain, harvested so quickly from my little field.

Michael was impressed too. He should be - this crop will help help feed his barn animals.

I was also gaping at this contraption - a 1958 John Deere combine. This beast broke down in the field and Michael tinkered with it for at least an hour before it charged back into action. When something goes wrong that he can’t fix a Mennonite farmer down the road can have things good as new in no time. Micheal swears by old classics like this. I guess they don’t make ‘em like they used to.

I’ve obviously had a lot on my plate over the past few months but as I look at these photos and start to process, I can’t help but wonder whether I’ve been taken advantage of… You see, Roddy had done his research and wanted the first planting on this virgin field to be a green manure of clover. When I returned to Gothic Cottage in February to sort out the farm on my own, Michael sourced untreated clover seed for me to purchase.

I thought the whole field would be filled with clover but Michael suggested it wouldn’t hurt to plant oats and barley too. That time is a bit foggy to me now, but somehow I rationalized this back in March. Just to be clear, I could never plant out, harvest, till, or do anything on a grand scale to my field. I haven’t got any equipment or experience. So I’m hugely appreciative that my kindly neighbor who’s been haying this little field for the past 15 years is helping me out. I offered to pay him for prepping the soil last autumn and sowing the clover this spring but he won’t take my money (just fresh veggies and baking).

I’m immensely grateful for Michael’s help but when I consider the best interest of my field, is it OK that its nutrients have gone into growing oats and barley? I thought the idea was to restore nutrients to the field with the clover. Where is the clover in this equation?!

It’s here. Can you see it? Squint hard and think little clover leaves interspersed in a grassy lawn. Michael tells me this clover will now shoot up and fill out. I’m a trusting person by nature and it makes me uneasy to tickle my uncertainty.

So I’ll pose the question here: Have I been hosed? Or is this a perfectly reasonable country exchange of feed for labour?

I’ve been adding almost daily to overflowing baskets of ruby red Juliets. Friends and family are sent home with armfuls. Neighbors who stroll past me watering my flower beds in the evening ask me about my tomatoes and I send them home with handfulls too. These red fruit have brought smiles when most needed.

This has been a particularly stressful week at Gothic Cottage. I felt like a caretaker of an infant and a toddler, without the added advantage of diapers for cats. An incontinent Yoshi has struggled through much pain and left me struggling to find enough newsprint to line the floor. He relieved himself all over Vancouver Island’s Splendid Other Coast, Tilda Swinton, and Fashion’s Fall Fling with Splatter Prints. In the midst of the incontinence chaos Chika was hit by a car and is nursing wounded legs and trauma to her bladder.

Ashley’s arrival on Friday couldn’t have been better timed. With fresh news from the vet that there was one more drug which may save Yoshi’s life and Chika loved up on kitty ecstasy, I could relax a little bit. Stacey tipped me off last week to the Rebar cookbook’s slow roast tomato recipe - perfect for roma type tomatoes and so easy. The tomatoes cooked through the washing of floors, the laundering of bedding, the cleaning of litter, a visit to the vets, and a pick up at the train station. They were in the oven a little too long at over four hours but I had faith in my Juliets.

I also had the perfect test subject in my old pal Ashley - she’s not a tomato fan and she’s an amateur cook. Ashley knows good food and I wanted to treat her to something tasty. Anyone who brings me a $35 bottle of knockout Norman Hardie pinot noir straight from Norm’s winery in Prince Edward County is going to be treated to fine food! For a starter I stacked the shriveled but brilliantly deep red roasted Juliets atop homemade garlic crostini and humous. And for the main I just tossed a good serving of the toms into a simple pasta dish with garlic braised green beans, chickpeas, olive oil, lemon juice and grated Parmesan.

And the verdict? Ashley couldn’t believe that there was no sugar or honey added to the tomatoes. She couldn’t believe that they came from my garden. She couldn’t stop saying how delicious they were. And we hadn’t even started the main course yet.

We ate Juliet garlic crostini again last night and now back in Toronto, Ashley has a travel-friendly portion of my Juliets roasting in her oven as I write. I think I found a winner. These little flavour bombs are the best way I’ve found to put Juliets to bed, and all the better if you’re inundated with distractions and in need of a gourmet hit at home.

And a jaunty Vampire Weekend tune to lift spirits while those Juliets sing.

Rebar’s Slow Roast Tomatoes

Yields 1 cup

10 tomatoes, halved (I used enough halved Juliets to fill two baking sheets and found the following portions sufficient for this quantity of tomatoes)

¼ cup (60 mL) extra virgin olive oil

1 tsp (5 mL) salt

¼ tsp (1.2 mL) cracked pepper

2 tbsp (30 mL) minced thyme or rosemary

1. Pre-heat oven to 250 F. Slice tomatoes in half and arrange, cut side up, on a parchment-lined baking tray. Brush lightly with olive oil and sprinkle with salt, pepper and chopped fresh herbs.

2. Roast tomatoes for up to 4 hours, or until they are visibly dehydrated yet still meaty. Cool and refrigerate for up to one week.

Rebar’s Garlic Crostini

1 baguette, plain, wholegrain or sourdough

¼ cup (60 mL) extra virgin olive oil

2 garlic cloves

Pre-heat oven to 350 F. Slice baguette ½” thick on the bias. Arrange on a baking tray and brush with oil. Bake until golden (5-10 minutes). Cut garlic cloves in half and rub the cut side of the clove on the toasted bread.

THE GOOD: my friends, neighbours and I have been feasting on tomatoes from my garden for the last two weeks.

THE BAD: Two weeks ago I also noticed the first stages of early blight on a few of my plants.

THE UGLY: It spread like wildfire and quickly engulfed almost every tomato plant.

Let’s backtrack here. A month ago I thought blight was an unlucky phenomenon of the damp UK. Nothing to worry about in our idyllic clime! And my babies had received good mothering right from day one so surely they were immune to such epidemics… You can imagine my horror upon discovering a blemish on one of my plants. And then two, no wait, three!

So I did what any city girl transplant surrounded by seasoned growers would do - I jumped online. Sure enough, a quick google search of blight provided quick diagnosis. Early blight first appears as brown target-like lesions which quickly engulf leaves and then entire tomato and potato plants. It also spreads from plant to plant quite rapidly. With this new knowledge I felt time bearing down on me. What to do?! My go-to gardening source at mytinyplot.co.uk recommended removing diseased plants so I ran out to the garden and hacked down the ugliest culprit, a Juliet (sorry Juliet, your time to die) at the base and chucked her in the bonfire pit. No time for romance.

Then I started pruning, really hard pruning, all the blemished leaves in sight with a pair of kitchen scissors. Spotty leaves and branches were flying as a sweat formed on my brow. I came as close as I’ve ever come to OCD and found myself obsessing over what I’d touched, which plant touched which, where I was spreading the plague. It had only been an hour and the blight already had its strangle hold on me.

I was not going down without a fight. Hands stained florescent yellow after the murder, a calm washed over me and I asked myself: what would Mike Mannix do? It was after dark at this point and not wanting to disturb I fired off a distress text. Mike would set things right.

The next morning a relief text came through from my farming guru:

Early blight is pretty common. Once a plant has it, it’s toast. I haven’t found a way around it, I usually leave ‘em. Different varieties are more or less susceptible, take note. Cutting off affected parts doesn’t get rid of it, but looks better. If you’re destroying, probably pull out the whole plant. If there’s early blight about, I dunno if removing the affected plants will make much of a difference, once it’s established. Some will get it, some won’t, or slowly. You could read up a bit online. Unless you’re using fungicides, it’s one of those wiggly things where there are lots of opinions and approaches, but you end up seeing for yourself… :) 

Mike sends abstracts, not texts! Brilliant service. A wee bit late, but brilliant nonetheless! So I’d basically wasted my time and lost a bit of my mind in the garden the previous night. But I was still dogged with where the heck I’d gone wrong?!

Part of the problem could have been that I watered too much, the wrong way, at the wrong time.

Tomatoes have a voracious thirst when they’re growing and first transplanted. But as Mike guided me in an earlier epic text message, which I also sought out too late: … Oh yeah, one good rule is making sure to WATER well when certain crops like peas, cukes, etc, are flowering and fruiting. BUT, toms don’t need it unless it’s a drought. Think the more crisp veggies for that.

I committed a crucial error by watering at least every other day. For the first few weeks after their transplanting into the garden, I also watered from above which encourages a moist environment ideal for mould and disease. A drip line is best but if watering with a hose be careful to prevent spray back onto lower leaves. I have a long drip line but never got round to hooking it up. Tsk Tsk. And to make matters worse I also watered in the evening, thinking I was doing the toms a favour when I was really furthering along that damp climate. Luckily, I knew enough to prune lower leaves up to the first bundle of fruit so there was sufficient air circulation. The sun has also been prolific here this summer.

But it wasn’t enough. Sigh. Over the course of two weeks the blight turned my vivid green plants into a brown and yellow splattery Pollock painting. Much to my delight, however, I’ve been hauling massive numbers of virtually blemish-free tomatoes off all six varieties. And blight-scourged tomatoes are still edible - just don’t compost any part of them and definitely don’t plant toms in the same spot next year. Although shamefully ugly, the plants themselves are still sturdy and I’m certainly not watering them much. My friend Stacey also told me last week that everyone gets blight, and that it’s airborne. So no matter what good mothering I provide, at some point I have to relinquish control.

One thing I did know with certainty when I planted 30 tomato seeds last April - if I waited until I knew everything about veggie gardening to start a garden on my own I wouldn’t be gardening for years. As Mike says in one of his tomb texts: Experiment, observe, have fun   Check!

What about your tomatoes? Did blight blow into your garden this year? How have you dealt with it? I’d love to add advice and gory, triumphant tales to my text archives… In the meantime, here’s hoping that you’re also enjoying the delicious fruits of your labour, even if they look rather hideous.

:: little European touches around Gothic Cottage that make me feel like I’m France or Germany - I just need fresh croissants

:: speaking of patisserie, breakfast al fresco with Charentais musk melon and Ritter Sport complementing the French/German patio experience

:: Gladiolas from Cathy and Kaj’s market garden - these eccentric flowers add a certain Art Nouveau flair to the place

:: an overflowing basket of my meatiest tomatoes starring in a pasta dish shared with sweetest Stacey

:: a very uncomfortable and grouchy Yoshi finally recovering at home after a week and a half at the vets - means watching over him but puttering around these walls, in the garden, and cooking for friends is so nice and chilled

:: the tall, friendly Rivers Edge Goat Dairy guy who shared his blueberries yesterday at the Farmers Market… I went back for more

:: the sound of wind whipping sheets dry on the line

:: thunder and lightening shows

:: a black and white weekend with Billie Holiday and Stan Getz - it never ceases to amaze me how certain music can completely dictate the mood (check out Daniel Levitin’s book This Is Your Brain On Music for more)

:: bonfire pit ready for more action

:: visions: of wildflower and goldenrod honey here next season stoked by my honey guru Stacey, of renovations complete next month, and of an unfolding adventure soon

:: laughing so hard to this brilliant video my belly hurt

:: Audrey Niffenegger’s newest installment of magical-realism

:: prepping for a seasonal feast with Tori and Nancy this eve - Rivers Edge goat and pork sausages, my roasted carrots and my favourite summer salad on the menu

Hope you’re loving your weekend too!

I’ve been thrown a slew of curve balls recently. Living solo on a farm has certainly tested my resourcefulness. It’s been incredibly empowering to rise to challenges without getting frustrated or discouraged. But when challenges pile up into a toppling mass, well, sometimes I wonder how I can possibly manage a small farm on my own while working too.

Thankfully, I have some pretty spectacular people in my life. I had a great chat over lunch today with my cousin Tim, who emailed me later with these words that I thought I’d share:

Remember - nothing is “wrong” right now.
Be curious, explore the options life gives you.
Remember that setbacks are just a necessary learning point.
Remind me of these things when I forget them. 

Thanks Tim.

I think we could all do with a bit of wisdom from the humble Chika too, who demonstrates above that the best way to deal with shite is to calmly accept it for what it is and relax in it. (Yes, she is sleeping in the mid-day heat on a huge pile of manure)

This charming wee fellow gave me a start when I was puttering around the garden last Wednesday evening. I was headed toward the mass of uprooted pea plants when the luminescent guy (a leopard frog?) jumped in front of my path into the pile of pea sticks.

I’ve had toads visit the garden but never frogs, and never such a huge frog - he was easily the size of my palm. OK, I have very tiny hands but he was not your average dinky frog. And so florescent! I was pretty excited and ran for my camera. He stayed frozen like this, heart pounding while I got closer and closer with my lens, for at least 20 snaps. I really wanted to clear up the old row of peas but I couldn’t bare to disturb him so I just tended to the tomatoes instead and he stayed put for another hour. He can stick around for as long as he likes and gobble up all the nasty slugs, flea beetles, aphids and mosquitoes.

I was a massive frog enthusiast in my youth. I spent hours catching them in the bay with my cousins and friends at my family’s cottage up north. We would catch tadpoles too and keep them in a makeshift holding tank - an old tractor tire filled almost to the top with water in the bay. Good summer fun!

It’s been awhile since frogs have leapt in and out of my life but the theme continued last weekend. As my cousin Mark and his new bride Nicole arrived arm-in-arm at their wedding reception on Saturday evening, a little girl turned to her cousin and said: “Oh look! That’s the girl that just got married!” Her cousin piped up and excitedly replied, “Yeees, and she’s with her prince!”

This frog pond was situated right behind my family’s table under the reception tent and throughout the speeches a gaggle of little girls making “ribbit” noises drowned out the speakers. Nicole spends a lot of time outdoors. She’s no stranger to frogs and later in the evening she caught one for the excited girls.

We never grow up, do we?

Now where did that prince of mine go off to?