swindled

i took to the hills. drove off the solid heavy lines of the map onto the ticked faint ones and urged the Volvo down inclines that were perhaps not in her best interest. as i have said the snow mass is still unreal, even in mid July! we slushed along, with noses tuned to the smell catalog of a mountain on whose backside i have never set foot.

dogs are at their happiest when they see a cooler being heaved into a car, followed by their food bowls, bed and human sleeping bag. for them, despite a claim to color blindness, it is a visual equation for empty places. those without crosswalks at which they know to sit until they hear the walk signal chirp, or strange men with beards or bicycles (which terrify them completely.) they know also that if their beds and bowls are coming along with the cooler they will likely have an opportunity for long-term chases of any small boned things that scoot along under the sage and an opportunity to root their snouts in little freshets and creeks until, covered with mud, they will ignore the rule of no dirty dogs in the tent and pile onto the down and wool and made a muddy show of denning down for a night crushed with stars and pine winds.

the Volvo got us safe and sound down the sloping grades of Guardsman Pass and the map led us to a wide meadow, circled with singing aspen groves and not (surprisingly) cut up and slashed with the garish hieroglyphs of a ski resort in summer. we hauled all manner of heavy cumbersome things along when the sign told us the Volvo had to stay where she was and ended up finally in the quiet we had anticipated.

(excuse my lack of finesse in the realm of constructing an acceptable panoramic view...)

and were of course ready to eat some snacks out of paper packets (a few almonds twisted up in newspaper slips, a clutch of apricots, a wedge of Saint Andre that was coyly trying to talk me into eating its entirety before it melted and pooled) and a few bottles of Elephantino, lay around in minimal clothes, paint and read and snooze. we did all of these things. and then were interrupted by someone who, apparently, had more genuine claim to the grove than we. read: large cow moose and luminescent calf crashing through the bluebells to water. it was a lucky thing we were stranded on a rock. if a little humbling to be somewhat of a voyeurist spectacle- we all three being topless and in only our bathing suit bottoms...(although the dogs, to be fair, weren't wearing either bathing suit tops or bottoms.) a cow moose and her calf are a thing that strikes fear into me. not because moose are generally fearsome creatures (just monolitihic). but because the unpredictability of a moose, paired with the unbelievable speed at which you can suddenly be confronted all tucked around a mother's universal and manic protective aggression usually mean a person is stuck. especially when in a broad field with two small animals with sharp voices. we froze and i am grateful the dogs stayed, ears forward, tails puffed, but unmoving and quiet. the rest of the story is anticlimactic really. no there were no heroic shots snapped of the animal pair (a silly ingredient, usually, in those stories involving crushed wilderness enthusiasts who come too close and are too brazen in these situations.) nor was there a stampede of hooves paws and feet, barking or howling, blistered bones or narrow escapes. there was instead just a retreat, with head lowered, backpacks carefully and slowly pulled on, and quiet steps back out of the glade. thus we were unharmed. unharmed and surely swindled out of the abovementioned denning down. the wind was whippy and the celebratory atmosphere had really gone right out of everything. (please let me mention a better part of the Saint Andre was left sadly on the rock.) and so we beat it home, brazenly drinking Elephantino out of a water bottle on the bumpy ride back to the state managed highway and took up on the deck. it was a conciliatory evening, plied with pencils and paint, gin and tonics and some leftover snacks, but we slept inside in a heap of clean cotton and a rotary fan in the end. not much in the way of wild dreams to report.

however, there was a little walk-drawing progress, which is good enough.

: :

: :

: :

hard tack. of sorts.

living alone is a new kind of scarf to swathe my throat it. in some ways the freedoms are chrysallate; being coocooned in any quality of silence or din i cultivate, sleeping when my limbs are heavy, waking only when dogs stir or doves insist and emerging without the weight of anyone's daily plans or intentions. the cramped parts, though, are very cramped.

it is stifling to inspect a homely and spare refrigerator, to eye a jar of raw milk that isn't getting any emptier no matter how many slugs i gamely take, or slinking away from a compost pail that's somehow immediately full and sending up wavering constellations of fruit flies. when you learn to count on the appetite for space and substance of more than your own you immediately lose track of how much you take up. is it possible i've eaten only three eggs in the last week but have gone through, literally, four sticks of butter? apparently i've used less than a fourth of a roll of toilet paper? made only four pots of coffee? additionally, the new nest is paned with mirrors on all the closet doors and i can't help but see myself float through the small rooms looking everywhere for a purpose with which it populate my days.

my knees are  narrow, my ribs show paley beneath my collarbones, my jawbones shave off pares of quiet as i dry dishes. it seems, without some sort of supervision, i am becoming small, crackly and bouyant. it is good thing for so many dog bowls and empty marrow bones to moor me. but at any rate, it seems imperative that i anchor myself in the human world by amassing sustenance.

and so! the first Bread Day in the new nest came and i must say, eating a half loaf in under an hour will certainly make for a soporific kind of couch-based solidity.

an oaty sponge; studded with goji berry, sour cherry, hemp seeds, molasses

: :

kneaded smooth after a 30 minute autolyse, kissed and ready for the first proof

(**an esteemed associate of mine taught me that it is imperative the dough is smooched before it is set to pursue its puffy destiny. i think, probably, any bread success i have is due to her wisdom. unfortunately, my contribution in the form of introducing her to buckwheat was not as well-received.**)

: :

luxury filling: softened butter, brown sugar, himalayan salt, sprouted sunflower seeds.

: :

rolled, shaped, nestled in a little collar of crackly parchment for its last rise...

: :

...baked off and now the worst part: letting the loaf (resounding like a timpany) rest for two hours to set the crumb and develop a fragrant yeasty flavor...

: :

et voila!

that is Survival Bread. and i think it really did wonders. such as sparking a plan to go out and sleep in the wild, necessitating a visual list of course

the tentative plan, barring any other unforeseen dog-sitting, reminder of desperate errands, or spontaneous sloth will i think look like this
 

 

and if i'm lucky, with enough survival bread and almond butter to way me and my pockets down, i won't be blown from the snowy saddle.

one thing is

some gentle turns in the new walk-drawings. like a pilot light kindled, seemingly all burners can be ignited from a single source. the roughage in some secret hopper seems to have been given a hard rap and loosened; all around a balmy light pours and lightens. it is a welcome herald for a certain homecoming, these days the brittle heartbones are strung with cobwebs.

: :

today's walk in killyon's canyon served to buffer the astonishment about our abundance of water this year. there is nothing like climbing up high to find a particularly satisfying crackly and windswept expanse only to be waste high in a fecund froth of growth. absolutely surreal to stand in a place usually so thirsty for dampness on a bed of shaggy lichen. the color rang like polished eggshells behind my eyes. plants that usually struggle to present a modest sprinkling of color have made dragging marks of color on all the hillsides, gone completely to seed and started anew. my bones felt spongy with a sympathetic greenness, i expected to leave a trail of moss and track tiny garlands of mushrooms into the jeep as i packed it up full of dogs and left in a dust devil of chokeweed and rabbitbrush blooms. rain in the forecast for this evening, who knows what color and enthusiasm will be wrung from the rocks when it's over this time.

alchemy

yesterday marked two weeks since the nettle tincture was bottled. (thankfully it was labeled, as it was a suspicious concoction, at any rate, to be swathed in a dingy tea towel and left in the bathroom to steep.)

straining the tincture is an easy task but a rather time consuming one as the nettles have undergone considerably metamorphosis during their exposure to the alcohol.

like most plants, the nettles' compounds are both fat and alcohol soluble. (this is why it is best to eat most vegetables, especially greens, with a considerable amount of fat (bacon, pancetta, butter, ghee, oil, etc.) thus making their fat-soluble compounds available to the body instead of functioning purely as roughage.) while heating the green matter in a fat source would certainly draw the medicinal properties out of the leaves more quickly, it would leave the mixture subject to rather quick oxidation and thus rancidity. this is a fine method of obtaining the medicinal compounds from the plants but would require the forager to consume it within three or four days after preparation. some plants in particular, like flaxseed, are of course harvested and processed to render their oils and these must be kept refrigerated as their molecules are heat-sensitive and not very stable (another reason never to cook with flaxseed oils or anything high in omega-6's or 3's.) however, since nettle is collected for its chemical compounds, the best way to extract and maintain a local source is by suspending it in alcohol which will keep for much longer.

the purpose of using an alcohol medium (known alternately as 'menstruum') is three-fold. firstly, the alcohol acts as a preservative, inhibiting the production of bacteria from decomposition of the plant material. secondly, it acts as an astringent, drawing the phytochemicals out of the plant. and lastly, because alcohol is able to pass through mucus membranes, to access the blood vessels close to the surface in the mouth, and to permeate the stomach lining, its role as carrier of the plant compounds is extremely efficient. however, because the alcohol acts to macerate the material, a considerable amount of alcohol remains in the plant fiber after being strained. therefore, it is important to give the tincture adequate time to drain, retaining as much of the liquid as possible.

jargon and chemistry aside, the process is really very simple and should encourage anyone interested in undertaking to experiment in herbal medicine to give it a try.

here are the basic steps to summarize:
1. harvest the material
2.decide whether you intend to make a fresh or dried tincture. a fresh tincture needs to be made soon after harvest to retain all the active compounds in the plant. a dried tincture needs to be completely dry before processing in order to prevent the formation of molds.
3. chop or pass the material through a food processor or spice mill.
4. cover the material with alcohol in a *clean* jar. fresh tincture ratios should be 1 part menstruum (grain alcohol, ethanol or brandy) to 1 part plant material. dried material ratios should be 1 part menstruum to 2 parts plant material for a comparable potency.
5. store the raw tincture out of light in a cool dry place for two weeks. (no need to store tincture in the refrigerator as the alcohol will prevent spoilage.) agitate this mixture every day or two for two weeks.
6. strain the tincture by pressing it through a few layers of cheesecloth or a fine mesh strainer, press the back of a spoon or rest a heavy or weighted bowl in the strainer to press out as much liquid as possible.
7. store in an airtight, lightfast container. health food stores, co-ops,  and the dreaded whole foods sell blue glass vials in the cosmetic section which are best for storing alcohol tinctures. these minimize the exposure to uv light which will damage and weaken the tincture. they don't, however, keep all uv light out and should be stored in a dark place. if you don't have access to a source for these vials or prefer not to buy anything additional to crowd your medicine cabinet a simple application of duct tape, electrical tape, or light-fast paper can be taped around the jar with equal efficiency.

cheers.

minutiae

so a change. one of middle size. an array of paper cartons, a few broken glasses, spoons and single socks evaporated clean out of existence. new keys, new doors, new quiet.

fortunately, the walks will be the same. in fact, i've taken to them almost desperately now; stimulating the lymphatic system, putting weight on weight-bearing joints, canine sanity aside: these meditations have also undergone a change. of a more considerable size. in this one the role of moving is tipped slightly, put under light and glass. if there are going to be many tracks made on open land |marks, no?|, whose rhythm and weight vary |as line quality|, whose trajectories are honest, organic, and deliberate |and conceptually sound|, then, seemingly, they are drawings in their own right.


this is a kind of vast and dramatic unhinging. a hatching from a vessel that, for a long time, has been thwarted. baked down hard. brimming with stasis of many kinds. don't misunderstand- i don't mean i've come away with a vast stash of monochrome brilliance. nothing so dynamic as Reinhardt, nothing so resonant with intention as Rothko, nothing even as formally basic as Stella. just nothing. when previously things flowed more easily

: :

: :

so now, with the above mentioned water jars, granola-leaking rucksack, occasional shears and sodden boxes of matches i am also equipped, when i step off the smooth road for the coarser one, with an unspoken box of implements of a different kind. granted, the problem remains that there is little, if anything, that can be pinned up, pointed to, smudged, talked at, flipped over, scrubbed with gesso, jabbed at with pencil butts and finally put to rest in a flat file. but the problem of finished product as it pertains to conceptual drive is an old one. usually though, with enough thought, the entire problem of 'making' can be distilled into a single, one-worded solution.
sometimes it is simple.
jam. dough. wool. bone. salad. haste.
other times more esoteric.
nomenclature. opacity. relentlessness.
and this time is neither simple nor esoteric but very literal.

catalogue.
as in the verb. read: reinforcements for the obsessive collection, recording, filing and labeling of everyday life. it is a kind of incoherent haze, suspiciously without angst.

and in honor of a recent poring over of the esteemed Anne Carson- a poet whose profundity stems directly from her electric ability to pin down all things powerful and omnipresent with the most concrete and apt nouns- the walk down into the draggy dusk of midsummer was a simple catalog of smells.

we know that smell is an infinite language and one to which humans have very little access. we know that most living things- especially, brilliantly so, plants- seek to emanate false smells with the direct intention of camouflage and deception. and we know, with streamers of longing as we lift our noses, that the thing that so enraptures us about smell is its simultaneous ability to confound our human urgings to name, by being at once fleeting and long lasting. we struggle to name smells for the simple reason that we cannot keep them for very long. and so it was, walking through a settling of light and a sifting of noise, trying to cull and record all the smells that registered.

at some points the links between a scent and its Name was easy: "anise," "mint," "verbena," "clove." and at other times it wasn't clear if the smell rang because the pheromones actually hung in the air or because they triggered that secret bulky olfactory nerve and were only smell memorie: "ice," "egg shell," "sleep." not surprisingly, with my eyes open, the signals blurred slightly and the words that came out to pin little flags on the smells were colors, "chartreuse," "dusk," "wine." it was a convoluted list, and it was a wandering list, but it was most especially a tangled list. for the list reflected not the simplified task of setting things to name, but, after re-reading it, the task of parsing out all the ways a mind could race after and pursue a single verb, like catalogue. what, i imainged, would be a streaming column of nouns ended up punctuated and peppered with questions, asterices, small drawings, ven diagrams, bits of plant, sample droplets of mossy water and a small tuft of headache behind one eye. but, because the walk ended before the cataloguing was over, i had much more of a handful of words than i anticipated. which is a welcomed bounty. which is a low foggy banner of relief. and which, as far as i can tell, makes this new drawing exercise infinitely promising.

the list

oil

cinnamon

paint thinner

sarparilla

lemon balm

spruce

gin

sawdust

empty rooms

rot

mint

ice

strawberry jam boiling on the stove

chlorine

burgundy

wood plank

wool

sulphur

peach

paint drying on withered apples

oregano

charteuse

vanilla

spun sugar

egg shell

dusty screen

dung

flesh

swimming pools

algae

scum

lettuce

apple

honey

paper

flat ground

paper

burned wheat

paste wax

myrrh

flight

soreness

sleep

quietude

pastry

brine

nervousness

sandalwood

the smallest seeing

one thing is, i don't really care for the fourth of july. i don't care for the ration of forest fires, sprinkled among the state's statistics, that are started by careless fireworks enthusiasts. i don't care to tip my glass over every time i'm startled by bottle rockets going off right outside the window, beginning in the morning and ending sometime near midnight. i'm made uneasy in the supermarkets where a lofty quantity of pale hotdogs and square, pre-pressed hamburgers are sold for a questionably low price. i'm irritated and saddened to stay up with a houseful of trembling dogs whose panic is breathed out in steam enough to fog mirrors. and, lastly, i am of the opinion that there are many other, lovely ways to champion the beauty of high summer that are subtle and more intimate.

having found, surprisingly, an abundance of sweet, fresh figs at the market i happily plied the larder with a stock of pickled figs, a recipe i was eager to try.

steeped in apple cider vinegar, sugar, salt, and spices, the figs were pungent and briny and took on a jolt of fire-cracker like spice that seemed appropriate for the evening (despite a kitchen carpeted with dogs, curled up tight, ears flat, tails limp.)

as we climbed into yesterday's evening walk we were startled to notice, in the course of about twelve hours, that the thimbleberry thickets had seemingly sought to parallel the evening's surfeit of noise and flash and reached out all their blooms at once. these are large, somewhat drowsy plants. their leaves as wide as dinner plates, they will offer up a small, soft berry roughly the same color and shape as a raspberry but with more minute seeds and a shocking amount of sweetness. the ratio of berries to foliage is sometimes silly seeming, with a modicum of fruit in relationship to the size and vivacity of leaves and stem.

inspired by the tiny phenomenon (this universal signal plants give one another which always fascinates me,) i undertook to focus on the minutiae of the walk even though the trail was neither new nor furnished with breathtaking vistas.

if you concentrate all your effort on seeing small spaces you are guaranteed access to parallel universes. often i think of Annie Dillard and her keen eyes, cultivated to noticing, most importantly, the often unseen and unheard of phenomenon as she walks the land.


"...there is muscular energy in sunlight corresponding to the spiritual energy of the wind. on a sunny day, sun's energy on a square acre of land or pond can equal 4500 horsepower. these "horses" heave in every direction, like slaves building pyramids, and fashion, from the bottom up, a new and sturdy world..."--Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.

Some of us took the challenge to invoke minutiae a little more seriously than others...

but in the end, the effort took on a kind of magnetism, informing the rest of the day's adventures and even sleep, it seemed, was compromised on many smaller dreams to make up a whole pane of dark dwelling.

(*fig. 2: as of this morning, the official results of my first date with rhubarb were in. check plus.)

** My pickled fig recipe was adapted from Andrea Reusing (in her new Cooking in the Moment), who adapted it from Edith Calhoun.

yields approximately 5 half-pint jars

1 cup apple cider vinegar
2 cups sugar
1 1/4 teaspoons kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon whole allspice berries
1/2 teaspoon whole cloves
5 cardamom pods
8 black peppercorns

Bring the vinegar, 1 cup sugar, salt and spices to a simmer. Add the figs and simmer over low for about 10 minutes, ensuring the sugar and salt are dissolved. Cool and refrigerate over night.
The following day, add the remaining sugar, bring to a boil, reduce to a simmer and cook for about 10 minutes until the figs are slightly reduced in size, tender and fragrant. Cool and store in sterilized jars in the refrigerator for up to a month.
Seemingly, bay leaf, coriander seeds or mustard seeds would be a welcome addition in place of the cardamom and/or pepper.

asphalt pilgrims

it is uncommon for a desert to lack light. but here we are, cloaked in a damp kind of low shade. it is not surprising for these things to happen for those who live on the coasts, or who live in the Eastern parts of the country. but here we rely on the light; it is a pouring that informs time, change, ritual, sleep, exploration. without it we are disoriented, torpid; we seek to be low to the ground. we are suspicious. it is, maybe, because the wide open spaces are so inexhaustible that the thought of cloud cover enough to keep the whole stretch of day snuffed and diffused is mind boggling.

there is no rain- only the shocking tendrils of the smell of ambient water. we brace ourselves, let our skin lift slightly from our bones with the expectation of being sprinkled by rain. none comes. if you clamber high enough and stay your feet against wind, you can see that the sky dips and smudges towards other horizons, evidence that water is downward sighing somewhere. enough thirst of any kind (mind, body, bone, brain) kindles exasperation. you can combat it by reaching past your arms and waiting or you can put your ear to the ground and source the refuge of deep drinking elsewhere.


Toll canyon is a refuge of many kinds. for those trapped in suburbia it offers refuge from the grinding sound of perpetual highway traffic, for those of domesticated four legs it is a tonic for long naps and close quarters, for the wilder creatures (those displaced and divested of pure homestretches and tender greens) it provides shade, quiet and water. all kinds of living things manage to share this deep place despite its proximity to bulldozers, mobile home park spaces, five car garages and those tiny mechanisms installed to emit sounds terrifying to deer, elk and other garden-browsing creatures. in fact, the proximity to the lives of others requires the pilgrim to plod down the long and exquisitely manicured driveways of private homeowners, lambasted by barking dogs and eyed suspiciously by the gardening help. it is a feat of bravery to reach the head of the trail looking likely suspect: uncombed, slicked in spf, brandishing water jars, leaving trails of granola from a backpack that's seen better days...

but! after proceeding down a slight grade, here and there paved and tufted with eager penstemon, milk vetch, lupine and wild rose the road and the hillcuts give way (with relief) to a narrow canyon fringed with conifers, buffered with trembling aspen groves and grooved everywhere with moving water.

it is often a startlingly still place. this is likely because, due to small claims of private ownership, menacing (if unfounded) signs and that dreadful approach, few people venture into the canyon from its midpoint, choosing instead to access it  lower down the Big canyon. usually, it is hard to pinpoint the direction from which bird calls reach come, so tucked away in the steep branches are they. butterflies are attracted to the bluebells and the flax flowers and they serve as a kind of wobbling yellow atmosphere at shoulder height as one walks along. but birds and butterflies aside, water muffles both ambient sound and movement and it is more like swimming among coral formations than like tracking along forest trails. this pleasant kind of disorientation anchors me in the familiar natural world in an unusual way. here, i am mostly guided along by smell and the sensation of plants and breezes moving across my bare arms rather than by sight and sound. resplendent in blooms, buttercup, wild raspberry and young willows emit such a potent fragrance it is as if you can smell their burgeoning.

i wonder if this is how dogs move through the world: with their noses aloft, eyes closed to a slit, rushing at full speed through bracken and bush.

i am most cheered by the bravery of the wild strawberry. everywhere, it seems, the sprawling spiderlike leaves, with their red trailing stems, punctuate the topography of the little canyon. bright and modest, the little five petal flowers nod agreeably as the little winds jag and bloom in the canyon.

so? jam. and also because it is time to confront my relationship with rhubarb. that is, to cultivate a relationship with rhubarb. specifically. to me, its rigid red stalks are reminiscent of celery or chard, with their minerally woodiness and ungamely strings. but i was fortunate to be served something rhubarby, warm and baked in butter that immediately kindled excitement, and was further spurred on by a rather stoic pile of the stalks at last weekend's market.

somewhat overwhelmed by the esteemed Christine Ferber's recipe for strawberry rhubarb preserve (from her famous Mes Confitures) and put off by Alice Waters' adaptation in her Chez Panisse cookbooks, both of which call for a process involving three days of boiling, simmering, cooling, I took to Liana Krissoff's recipe (from her new, articulate, beautifully photographed, deliciously composed Canning for a New Generation which I can't recommend enough!) and am pleased to report that her traditional one-day escapade had glorious results.also, my clothes smell delicious, as a result of stove-vigilance.

it is humble thing, to melt down the complications of a plant's life. it is less humble to drag it across a thick piece of warm bread, velvety with a cloaking of soft butter. this gesture- toast and jam - heralds the integrity of those things that bloom in the uncomplicated bastions of quiet and shade, and who can find a refuge in the most unlikely of places.