Friday Favourites

 

The perfume of the lilacs came in little 

puffs on the crystal air.

L. M. Montgomery (Magic for Marigold)

This evening the scent of lilacs wafts from the dining room table. We have three lilac bushes and sadly, one is coming out tomorrow to make room for the patio expansion. So I am cutting blooms with abandon. Pounding the woody stems with a hammer seems to make them last longer in vases. 

Days filled with sunshine and a few puffy clouds make Spring delightful. I love this weather, but we do need some rain as the ground is already quite dry.

I still find each day too short for all the thoughts

I want to think, all the walks I want to take,

all the books I want to read,

and all the friends I want to see.

John Burroughs

Clouds of blue forget-me-nots fill the ground beneath the rose bushes that have transformed from bare sticks to full leaf. A few tiny buds appear - a promise for the weeks to come. Red tulips are almost over, but there are more in other spots. 

I'm spending lots of time in the garden, moving some plants, weeding, and looking at everything with a more critical eye than usual as I try to bring to life my vision for this space. 

Adults follow paths. Children explore. Adults are content

to walk the same way hundreds of times, or thousands; 

perhaps it never occurs to adults to step off the paths,

to creep beneath rhododendrons, to find

the spaces between fences.

Neil Gaiman

Our one rhododendron is filled with showy blooms holding gold-tipped stamens. They are very pretty when looked at individually, but I find the mass of them a wee bit overpowering. I didn't find any children under the rhododendron, but I did find a large yellow tulip, one that I never planted. Did a squirrel bring it from a neighbour's garden hoping to nibble on it in the winter and then forgot all about it?

Go out, go out I beg of you

and taste the beauty of the wild.

Behold the miracle of the earth

with all the wonder of a child.

Edna Jaques

I've enjoyed some lovely books recently. Sometimes it seems like my book choices are rather mundane, enjoyable but not memorable, and then I choose others whose characters and story lines I turn over and over in my mind. 

The Enchanted April

A comforting re-read. Who wouldn't love to escape to Italy for a 

month in the sun and find one's self transformed?

The Comfort of Crows

Margaret Renkl

Essays on ageing, gardening, the wild natural world. Renkl writes
"The world will always be beautiful to those who look for beauty. Throats will always catch when the fleeing clouds part fleetingly and the golden moon flashes into existence and then winks out again."

A Killer in King's Cove

Iona Wishaw

A new-to-me writer with a number of books I'm looking forward to reading featuring Lane Winslow, a young British woman who moves to rural Canada shortly after WWII and becomes embroiled in solving murders. 

Go out, go out I beg of you

and taste the beauty of the wild.

Behold the miracle of the earth

with all the wonder of a child.

Edna Jaques

Apple blossoms are the prettiest things. I look down on them every morning from my bedroom window. Last year we had very few apples and I'm hoping this year will produce more of them. 

These days are full of many things, but not overly busy. Every day I go out to inspect my garden, to see what's coming into bloom and what's finished. Lettuce, spinach, and peas are growing nicely in the potager. Tomato plants are thriving in the greenhouse. It's simply a wonderful time of year. 

Sending wishes for a beautiful weekend.

Easter Monday

 

Easter Monday. A quiet morning here. Puffy grey clouds move slowly across the sky. Hopefully the bright spot on the horizon will expand as the day goes by.

I dyed eggs last week with the help of young Cora. We used natural dyes made from red cabbage, blueberries, yellow onion skins, and dried marigold flowers. I use much the same materials each year and am always surprised at how different the results are. 

 

Paska buns. An Easter tradition from my Ukrainian Mennonite heritage. The real tradition is to bake them in loaves, but I prefer the buns. Easier to divide and give to family and friends, and as my husband says, the icing to bread ratio is better. 

I sometimes wonder from where traditions like these arise. Because this dough is light and uses a lot of eggs, I think it was first baked at Easter when the hens began laying again, and the strictures of Lent were loosened. 

From a recent walk. Steps set into the side of the hill invite me to walk in and further up. The woods are rich with green and dotted with flowers. 

Salmonberry (Rubus spectabilis) blooms promise small, pale orange and slightly sweet berries in summertime. Native to North America, I don't believe they are cultivated, but only found in the wilk. I find them a bit mealy and am happy to leave them for the bears who love them. 

We gathered with our family yesterday, and the parents of our daughter-in-law. Fifteen of us. There was an egg hunt outdoors, lots of fun and games indoors, and a dinner made special by the faces around the table. And pie. Four kinds of pie. All delicious. All cut into very small pieces to enable sampling. 

Easter is joy, hope, love, and renewal.

Easter is proof that we can begin again.

Richelle E. Goodrich

The Forest in Spring

 

Spring has never been a favourite season. Too capricious, and rather deceptive. The bright sunshine on my head warms me, but the sharp wind off the ocean drives to the bone. However, I am beginning to like Spring more and more. I love the colours after a winter of brown and green, and the way life springs in every corner.

Come to the woods, for here is rest.

There is no repose like that of the deep green woods.

Sleep in forgetfulness of all ill.

John Muir

Tim and I took a few days away camping in our trailer/caravan about midway up Vancouver Island. All around our site, low to the forest floor, bloomed hundreds of pink Fawn Lilies (erythronium revoltum). It's generally the pale white ones I see here, so to be surrounded by the pink variety was such a treat. I recently learned that they are categorized separately with the white ones labeled erythronium oregonum. They were everywhere on our hikes, pink stars against the green. 

And then there were the Western Trilliums (trillium ovatum), less prolific, growing singly or in clumps of two or three. The Western Trillium takes 15 years before blooming, and if the flowers are picked, the process must begin again. Their season is short, and has almost finished, so I was glad to see so many. 

Forests are like churches, hallowed places.

There is a stillness about them,

a sort of reverence.

Sabrina Elkins

Beavers are so effective at their work, reclaiming abandoned fields with their dams. Beyond the beaver house in the photo the land is mostly dry, but the line of the dam creates a pool for fishing and swimming. My husband's grandparents once owned a farm further north, and after they passed, the fields were neglected and the beavers moved in, creating wetlands that support many species. 

Western Skunk Cabbage  (lysichiton americanus) 

If you walk in the woods, you might start to smell something rather odd. Some liken it to marijuana, but most find it reminds them of skunk scent. Then you see it, a bright yellow plant growing in swamps and damp patches in the forest. The flowers are on the tall stalk protected by the showy curved spadix. 

A patch this large can throw off quite a strong scent, attracting insects and pollinators. 

As is the case with many camping trips, there was one very rainy day. After a cozy and leisurely breakfast we explored in our vehicle rather than on foot, driving to the end of the Muchalat Inlet, just past the small town of Gold River. Enroute, waterfall after waterfall gushed from the steep canyon walls down beside the roadway. The falls seen above left passed under the road into the river below via a large culvert. 

And here is a video of the top of the falls. How noisy it was. 

Another noisy sound was this Red-breasted Sapsucker tapping furiously on a metal sign. They do this, not for food, but to communicate and establish boundaries. Perhaps, being Spring, this bird was looking for a mate. 

We've been home again for a few days, catching up on the tasks of everyday life. I'll leave you with one more image of one of the shy wonders of the forest, elegant and short-lived, but so admired. 

Threads of Life

 

Easter dinner table a few years ago set on a vintage tablecloth from my mother-in-law. She didn't often use her table linens, and gave me quite a few of them. My own mother had similar tablecloths, but they have been long worn out by frequent use. 

Everywhere I look in my home there are textiles, from the carpet on the floor to the cushions on the couch, tea towels and napkins in the cupboard, sheets, quilts, and towels upstairs, and of course, the clothes I'm currently wearing. 

I recently finished reading Threads of Life: A History of the World Through the Eye of a Needle by Clare Hunter, and have been looking at the textiles in my home a bit differently ever since. 

This piece of threadwork, a bed canopy, was likely worked by Anne Boleyn, mother of
Queen Elizabeth I. Seen at Sudeley Castle in 2016. 

The book chronicles the story of textiles beginning with the Bayeux Tapestry, a piece of linen 70 metres (230 feet) long and 50 centimetres (20 inches) high that illustrates the Norman Conquest of England and the events leading up to it. Stitched by unknown hands not too long after the events, history is silent about the women who plied their needles, adding personal touches to the story, and making their voices heard. 

Thrifted damask linen napkins dyed with indigo.

I found it fascinating to learn how Mary, Queen of Scots, cousin to Elizabeth I, carefully chose her clothing at crucial moments in her lifetime to convey varying sentiments. For her execution she wore crimson brown, the colour of martyrdom in the Catholic Church. Such soft power is still used by the Royal Family today, reflected in wardrobe choices such as King Charles wearing his Canadian military medals several times in the past months. 

Personally, I love textiles of all sorts, looking at them, touching them, and working with them. In my sewing room there are stacks of fabrics that inspire me. I've not sewn much lately, but enjoy simple embroidery that transforms a piece of linen. In 1893 an unknown writer said,

 "The new embroidery is common in this respect to the oldest arts. It takes the everyday things in life, and by the simple individualistic process, seeks to make them beautiful as well as useful." 

(quoted from Studio magazine)

The idea of making useful things beautiful goes along with William Morris' words

"Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful." 

I'm glad that for the most part I don't have to choose between useful and beautiful, for well-designed useful things have a beauty all their own. 

My husband's grandmother crocheted the tablecloth in the above photo, probably in the mid-1960s. The motifs are dense with fine stitches and it's something I treasure. I hope that I will pass this work of family art down to one of my own daughters, who will value it equally. 

From my mother I have handmade quilts, cross stitch pictures, and the memory of many items of clothing made throughout the years, such as our Easter outfits seen above. We are standing in front of our car by a motel where we stayed. And when I look at these photos, I see my mother sewing at the kitchen table in the evenings, listening to the radio after we children were put to bed. My father was a trucker and was gone often when I was very young. Sewing was a way not only for my mother to clothe her children, but an enjoyable way to while away the lonely evenings. 

I also find pleasure in a utilitarian stack of tea towels neatly ironed and folded, and in silky old damask linen napkins loosely folded and ready to place on the table. Crisp bedsheets and pillowcases make getting into bed delightful. I savour the softness of a towel pulled off the rack to dry my skin. 

Textiles in the world today are often thought of as disposable. The silks, wools, cottons, and linens of yesterday are often difficult to find, and expensive. But they are so much nicer to wear, look more luxurious, and are kinder to the environment. I wonder what historians of the future will think of our use of textiles. 

Do you have textiles you treasure? Pieces passed down from family members? 

 

A Friday in Spring

 

I awake to the sound of exuberant singing outside my window - birds singing their morning hymn to welcome the day. 

In the woods where I walk the Fawn Lilies (erythronium montanum) brighten the green with their shy stars. 

Native to North America, they bloom for a short while in spring, along paths and in tree-shaded meadows, no more than 8-12 inches above the ground. Another blogger, in Cornwall, found the pink version in Trelissick Gardens. 

Out of the woods, there is at least one cherry tree (prunus) frothy with blossom, on every street. Some streets are lined with them, an avenue of pink. Even on a dull day they glow. 

Rain threatened, but none fell. Soon the Garry Oaks will be covered in a faint cloud of acid green that quickly turns to full leaf. I am filled with immense delight at the sight of the earth springing up from her winter sleep. 

In my own garden colour appears in the flower beds. I picked a sample yesterday and had a fun few minutes arranging them for a photo. Later, I realized I had missed a few. 

I plan to spend this morning in the garden, trimming, potting up a few vegetables for the potager, and generally enjoying the day that promises to be sunny. There was a bit of frost on the roofs last night, but that bodes well for a clear day. 

I baked a batch of Hob Nobs this week, a delicious British cookie (biscuit), redolent with butter and oats. The secret ingredient is Golden Syrup, and I had a can of Lyle's Golden Syrup in my cupboard. I confess to licking the spoon after pouring out what I needed. So delicious. These are a bit thinner than I usually make, but the man who eats most of my baking says that improves the chocolate to cookie ratio. 

This week I also made Potsticker Soup from Brenda's blog, and Endives au Jambon. An Asian-inspired dish and a French one. What a long way from the meat, potatoes, and vegetables of my childhood. Those are still cooked here and are delicious, but how I enjoy a variety of food. 

Currently reading The Comfort of Crows by Margaret Renkl, and The Sweet Taste of Muscadines by Pamela Terry. 

Wishing you a weekend of sunshine and beauty. 

A Rainy Day Road Trip

 

Above is Saanich Inlet, curving around steep, tree-covered mountains, layer upon layer, with clouds drifting in the valleys. Even on a rainy day, it's a beautiful sight. 

My husband celebrated a birthday last week. We like to make the day special and I planned it, not telling him where we were going until just before. The Malahat Skywalk is a new attraction, built by the Malahat First Nation. An elevated boardwalk leads from the visitor centre to the spiral tower through the coastal rainforest. There is no elevator at the tower, but walking up the 10 storey structure is made easy by 600 metres of gradual incline. 

The view over Saanich Inlet is broad and extends to many of the islands surrounding us. 

A curving slide is one way down. Tim chose the slide. I chose the walkway. He was at the bottom long before I was. Maybe next time I'll try the slide. 

Lunch was next on the agenda. We tried out a new pub overlooking Shawnigan Lake. Raindrops splashed the water while we enjoyed good food and warming tea (for me) and coffee (for him). 

I thought we could visit the Kinsol Trestle next. Rain kept falling, but we had our rain gear along. Construction on the wooden rail trestle began in 1914 but was halted due to the First World War. After the war, construction resumed and was completed in 1920. The railway was used to transport logs to sawmills and ports. In 1979 the last railcar passed over the trestle. 

The Kinsol Trestle is one of the highest wooden trestles in the world, standing 44 metres above the river, and stretching 187 metres long. When we first visited this spot about 20 years ago, a fire from 1988 had destroyed some of the structure, making it uncrossable. 

A conservation project began in 2008, replacing damaged beams. Each beam was carved with its place in the structure and those marks can be seen today. Handrails were added to the sides of the railbed, making it safer to walk. 

We walked the length of the trestle and then underneath, looking up through the timbers to the heart of the structure. Moss covers the cement foundation piers. 

Our recorded history is not long compared with Europe. However, I think of the effort it took to make such a railway through the dense forest and over rivers in deep canyons. It took perseverance and determination. 

It was a fun day for the two of us. On Saturday we held a family party with the children and grandchildren - chaotic and enjoyable. 

Five to Delight on Friday

 

Tugboat seen along a walk along the breakwater in downtown Victoria

Here we are at the end of another month, and one-quarter through 2025. 

We took a walk through the neighbourhood yesterday evening in warm (14C) temperatures with more humidity than usual. Thunder rumbled and occasional shafts of lightning arced high above us. Only a few fat raindrops fell before we arrived home again, but then the heavens opened and rain fell in sheets. This morning the air is fresh and cool, with a watery blue sky mostly hidden behind pale grey clouds moving in from the Pacific. 

Big boats on an even bigger boat being transported who knows where

In the potager seeds are beginning to emerge - peas, spinach, radishes - and I've planted out onions and kale that I started indoors and moved to the greenhouse. Sweet peas next, and Snapdragons are ready to plant outdoors. The flower beds hold bright spots of colour - daffodils, hyacinths, muscari - and the sharp points of tulip leaves.

Himalayan Blue Poppy seen in the indoor Spring Prelude at Butchart Gardens

Several people inquired about the squash lasagna I mentioned in my last post. I used my regular recipe for Bolognese sauce and the filling (cottage cheese or ricotta). In place of the pasta, I cut butternut squash into rectangular pieces to fit into my dish, about 1 cm or a thick 1/4 inch thick. Before assembling the lasagna, I brushed the squash with olive oil and roasted it at 425 F until tender. 

There are many recipes online for Butternut Squash Lasagna, but I've found that baking the squash from raw in the casserole tends to take a very long time and can become quite watery. I also have a Butternut Squash Lasagna recipe on my recipe blog - it's a vegetarian version. 

Bellis Daisies growing outdoors at Butchart Gardens

I read Erica Bauermeister's The Scent Keepers this week, picked up from the library more because I enjoyed her other novels than being taken with the premise of this one. Once I started, however, I could not stop. Her descriptions of the landscape of the west coast evoked memories of our boating excursions, so much so that I wondered if she had visited some of the same remote places. As I read at the end of the book, she had, setting her story in the remote Broughton Archipelago, where islands jut straight out of the sea and tidal lagoons are crossed only at slack tide. It's a wild and wonderful place we visited in 2018, my first post is here, and one we hope to visit again this June, weather dependent. 

The Scent Keepers left me stunned with its beauty, the thoughts and feelings of a girl who grew up away from human contact other than her father, and the idea of being able to capture moments in scent as humans have learned to do with our sight and hearing. Relationships in the story are tangled and make for captivating reading. 

A bouquet of grocery store tulips

Two weeks of Spring Break are almost over. I've spent a little more time with the grandchildren while they've been off school - going out for lunch one day and baking madeleines, plus time here at home. They grow up so quickly. 

Light stays now later than 7 pm. How I love the longer days. And no matter how cold, wet, or snowy the weather can be in March, spring is inevitable. I'll leave you with a few words by Daniel Blajan from his delightful book Foxgloves and Hedgehog Days: Secrets in a Country Garden:

If one is to believe the almanac, it is easy to distinguish one season from another. It rigidly divides the year into four equal parts; on the twenty-first of March winter simply slinks away and in comes spring, tripping like a prima ballerina through our gardens. Nature, however, sublimely ignores these calendric hints and frequently neglects to indicate a clear borderline between the two. An unusually mild day in January's tail never fails to trick the birds into a feeble and premature Jubilate, whereas I remember occasions on which the daffodils sported idiotic coiffures of snow as late as April.