Wild mushroom season has become something we look forward to with particular delight. Around the cottage, autumn always delivers some culinary surprises and this Labour Day weekend was no exception. On Sunday afternoon my partner and I found this cluster of delicious and exquisite chanterelles.
In Ontario, wild mushrooms may appear throughout the growing season, but the greatest diversity appears with the onset of cooler, wetter weather. The holiday weekend was one of the hottest of the summer, so I didn’t expect to find anything spectacular.
We did however go mushroom hunting. I’ll be giving a talk on fungi in February so I wanted to find some specimens to populate my slideshow. Quite a few species volunteered to be photographed, like little people standing in the woods: some deadly amanitas, some edible but confusing and unremarkable boletes and a variety of other characters.
We also found three black elfin saddles, Helvella lacunosa, growing beside the roadway. These were new for us. They’re edible, so we brought them home to sample (they were too small to provide a strong impression, but seemed to have an intense flavour).
I took hundreds of photos. I’ll post some more in the future, but my working laptop has gone for repairs so I won’t be able to process all those images until it comes home.
I spent an hour or so lying down and scrunching up my body to get good shots of the mushrooms. I call it this exercise macro yoga. I was nearly exhausted so we had turned around and were heading back to the cottage when Danny spied a clump of yellow, deformed mushroom caps near the road. They seemed ugly where they grew amid the moss but, overturning one, I found the striking wide gill ridges and recognized the mushroom immediately as a chanterelle. On closer examination we identified it as the most sought-after species, Cantharellus cibarius.
Our previous forays around the cottage have turned up oyster mushrooms and the beautiful, delectable comb tooth, but this substantial gathering of chantarelles was our best find yet. They supposedly smell of apricots but to my nose the fragrance was more evocative of pumpkin. Sautéed in butter, they had a subtly sweet and fruity taste, quite tender and delicious.
As always, I must encourage caution with wild mushrooms. They can be confusing and some are deadly. Foraging is best learned from someone experienced. Always use a good field guide and don`t take chances; never eat anything if you can`t identify it definitely and know that it`s edible.
Chanterelles turned up when we went foraging with Patrick Louch last year, but as I recall we found only a few small ones, not enough to enjoy the gastronomic effect. In the future, I`ll keep a keen eye open for this delicacy. For more information read the Fall 2014 issue of Edible Toronto magazine; my article is online, Trumpets, hedgehogs and chanterelles: tracking the elusive mushroom.
Neurologist and author Oliver Sacks died this morning at age 82. He was made famous by the movie, “Awakenings”, based on one of his books, but more importantly he popularized science of how the mind works, particularly its eccentricities, with works like “The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat”.
He has said, “My religion is nature. That’s what arouses those feelings of wonder and mysticism and gratitude in me.”
Sacks came out late in life, due in part to his powerful shyness, ending many years of celibacy in 2008 and writing about his homosexuality for the first time in a 2015 autobiography, “On the Move: A Life”. His life is an inspiration for what introverted or socially anxious people might accomplish.
An unusual, lifelong condition, prosopagnosia, impaired Sacks’ ability to recognize faces. In 2001 he lost depth perception due to treatment for an ocular melanoma. He discussed these experiences among other oddities of visual perception in “The Mind’s Eye”.
In January 2015 he learned that the original cancer had metastasized to his liver, and determined to live his last few months as fully as possible.
From Oliver Sacks: ““Every act of perception, is to some degree an act of creation, and every act of memory is to some degree an act of imagination.”
Seyyed Hossein Nasr blames environmental decline on “the divorce of our understanding of nature from the sacred and the spiritual.” The Islamic philosopher argues that Christianity in Western culture has failed to protect nature; and that Islam is a green religion. He believes God will judge individuals on their stewardship of the environment, while society as a whole will be punished for abusing nature. We must learn to live in harmony with other creatures or face suicide as a species; there is no third alternative, he says.
Tonight on the CBC Radio program Ideas, Paul Kennedy aired an interview with Dr. Nasr interspersed with parts of lecture he gave in Burnaby, British Columbia, last year. I caught part of it driving home in the rain from a meeting and found the entire episode online. When I first tuned in, I didn’t know what the program was about. At first I was disappointed to hear a cleric dismissing any effort to reconcile religion with science, which he considers a human construct.
Of course it’s a human construct, but so is religion. At least science is based on observations about what we know, while religion arises from what we fear and cannot know. What place has it, teaching us about climate change and environmental protection? – I thought. Religion has caused incalculable harm to the world we live in. Christianity today finds itself mute, divided and in denial about our pressing environmental questions.
However, I was attracted to examples Dr. Nasr gave of traditional nature poetry from the Middle East. For him, love of God can’t be separated from love of the natural world. By contrast, he says both the Catholic Church and Protestantism have failed to develop an environmental legacy. Theological conversations in North America have ostracized the most inspired thinkers about nature. Emerson was considered a heretic and Thoreau (who admired Indian spiritual writings such as the Bhagvat-Geeta) a pagan.
One frigid February day in 1998 I had an epiphany on the bank of the Eramosa River in Guelph. My relationship with religion had been disintegrating for a while. Annie Dillard‘s remarkable book about God and nature, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, had helped keep me alive and believing in something during a traumatic period of my life. I had already stopped calling myself a Christian because I could no longer identify myself with the hateful, violent and murderous things multitudes of people have done in the name of Jesus.
But that day beside the river I realized I no longer believed in the god who threatened absolute punishment for lack of allegiance to him, to a faith, an idea. This self-centred divinity represented a mirror image of human narcissism, created by men who believed in their right to control the minds of others. Claims of unconditional love failed to hold up against the record of history. Such religion had nothing true or good about it. This feeble-hearted divinity could not have created the universe. It had nothing to do with the complexity of nature.
Since that river epiphany, I haven’t looked to any god but to nature, which has nourished and protected my physical, emotional and inspirational well-being since earliest childhood memories. We don’t need sacred texts to know that nature gives life. But more recently I’ve become aware that, for some people, nature and god are practically the same thing.
During tonight’s program, I was surprised by a distinction Dr. Nasr made. He said both Islam and Christianity traditionally value beauty and love, but Christianity holds love slightly higher, while Islam does beauty.
In the years since I became an atheist, in the struggle to find meaning without a religious framework, I’ve often considered what things I value most. Love, community, integrity and creativity come to mind (all part of nature), and beauty always places high on the list.
In my past experience with religion, beauty wasn’t important: whether a flower or a face, all beautiful things were considered transient and meaningless compared to God’s grace and plan for salvation – things utterly abstract. That faith pinned its hopes utterly outside the here and now. This contributes to radicalization of religion. Its followers assert that their truth is the only one, and no one can see anything to disprove their faith.
It’s impossible to relate to nature without encountering and appreciating beauty: the profound complexity of a forest ecosystem, the mathematical perfection of cosmology, or the fragile sufficiency of our own bodies. Atheism began to fit my way of thinking as I escaped ugliness, reaching for wonder.
Tonight I’m intrigued by this idea from an Islamic teacher about placing metaphysical value on beauty. Tonight it occurred to me I don’t need to continue being an atheist. We all take a certain pride in what we believe, and this pride is useless. Certainty is subject to change in perspective. I had to stop believing in the wrong kind of god. Perhaps (and I acknowledge this only hypothetically) it was necessary to step back before I could begin imagining a better kind.
But this line of thinking stops itself, for now. God has always been and can only be something in the imagination. People imagine God because they can’t face their own solitude or the grim nothingness of death. Faith might overcome fear, but I prefer to acknowledge and live with my dread of the uncertain, making the most of my time in thoughtful integrity.
I remain unconvinced that anything supernatural exists, or that we need to believe – or invent a belief – in order to live meaningful, responsible lives. Lack of faith doesn’t destine us to depravity; rather it should drive us to cherish everything and every living moment as much as possible. We must choose to build meaning for ourselves as long as we can. I still see a hopeful, co-operative path, finding a better future than the one we’re currently bent upon.
Uncertainty about what we know is almost as scary as dying. I accept my ambivalence and remain content. It’s a good place to be.
For many creative people, the only useful impetus to work comes from within. They must become skilled in the use of their own minds, and in structuring their time.
A few years ago, in my quest to establish useful working habits as a writer, I came across the blog Daily Routines by Mason Currey. It documents the sometimes mundane, sometimes bizarre lifestyles of artists and thinkers. Recently I discovered Mason has turned the blog into an engaging book, Daily Rituals: How Artists Work, which I’ve duly and voraciously read.
I began learning about creative habits in Carol Lloyd’s admirable book, Creating a Life Worth Living. She discusses “ecstatic task,” a brief morning ritual designed to ground a creative person in their essential activity, along with many other valuable psychological and organizational tools. I first read it long ago and have revisited it many times over the years. To Lloyd, an artist’s career takes shape partly from inspiration but mostly as a series of deliberate choices.
Daily Rituals: How Artists Work illustrates how humanity’s most productive minds thrive on routine, but usually these habits are unexpected. Only a very few work long, long hours on their primary output. Even noted workaholics like Stephen King devote only a few hours. He starts his work day around 8:00 or 8:30 every single day of the year, and writes until he reaches his quota of 2,000 words, sometimes by 11:30 but more often by 1:30. In many cases like his, the rest of an artist’s time is taken up with other jobs to pay the bills, going for walks, fulfilling annoying or obsessive tasks, or (in King’s case) simple leisure: napping, walking and reading. Many successful artistic people do their best work only three or four hours a day.
Eccentricities are widespread, of course. Beethoven often spent mornings in front of the washstand, bellowing, humming, striding up and down, and repeatedly pouring pitchers of water over his hands so much he often flooded the floor and became an unpopular tenant.
In the 1920s, Carl Jung built a tower where he lived in spartan conditions more suited to the 16th Century, lit only by oil, hauling and boiling water from the lake. It reminds me of our cottage, with no electricity except for a generator to pump lake water for washing, only propane for lights and cooking, no access to internet. I love the simplicity and seclusion.
What’s stunning but not unexpected is how many great minds depend on drugs for productivity. Frequently coffee, often amphetamines furnish energy and concentration, or barbiturates for sleep. Alcoholism appears widespread, though seldom contributing to creativity. Ernest Hemingway, a noted alcoholic, would rise and begin working at first light regardless of how late he had sat up drinking; he always looked great and seemed immune to hangovers, his son noted.
This interests me, because I too use substances – in moderation – to bolster creativity.
Early last year, at the age of 50, I was diagnosed with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD). It came as a surprise because I was a good student in grade school – not so surprising considering numerous minor car accidents I had as a young man, difficulty processing stress and trauma, and trouble sticking with traditional jobs. It’s clear to me now that the endless hours I spent alone as a boy in my room writing involved over-focus associated with ADHD. However problematic it may be for me socially, writing remains my choice vocation, a skill in which I can achieve excellence.
In my early 30s trauma, severe depression and anti-depressant medication disrupted my sense of comfort in solitude, and my ability to daydream. This devastated my creative output. I couldn’t maintain focus, in fact for many years I couldn’t write fiction at all. But I needed to. I kept trying.
When I began working as a freelance journalist again in 2012, it brought back an important, lost piece of the creative puzzle. Deadlines motivated me. The process of developing a story idea, pitching it to an editor, working out the details, interviewing and researching, writing and turning in the assignment on time all provided a process that felt natural and achievable. It would take about three weeks from start to finish, the length of time I could comfortably maintain concentration before moving onto something new.
After the ADHD diagnosis I began using a small dose of Concerta most work days. It’s not an amphetamine, but another kind of nervous system stimulant. It facilitates close concentration for more hours of the day, more days of the week, helps shift focus from one task to another without loss of energy, and makes it easier to set aside problems that cause anxiety and distract me from work. Over time it has increased my confidence in being able to accept more tasks, responsibility and activities. As we all know, confidence matters a lot.
I’ve even felt some progress in the relentless effort to write fiction. It felt like I had writer’s block for a decade, reworking the same characters and plot lines, unable to move forward. But recently a positive shift began: a few grams of satisfaction that the groundwork is beginning to make sense, that I can move beyond chapter three and four. It’s a hopeful time.
Perhaps lack of concentration is normal. But distraction can defeat people who depend on an organized mind to achieve their ambitions. It’s an interesting question, whether medication might help or hinder their efforts.
For my entire adult life I’ve been wary of the abuse of alcohol. Caution is a good thing. I’ve survived some traumatic periods when the only thing I wanted was to escape the pain, but knew alcohol would only make it worse. I’ve never used it to medicate depression, and never more than an occasional drink to medicate anxiety or insomnia at the end of a day.
But there remains a connection between creativity and alcohol. When I write fiction, a glass of red wine can provide a classic release from inhibition. Ideas, dialogue and plot lines move in unexpected directions. The story takes on a life of its own. That’s the essential, spicy broth in which many writers love to stew.
My doctor, therapist and psychiatric specialist all look askance if I mention using any alcohol in combination with an anti-depressant and a nervous system stimulant. Alcohol is, after all, a depressant.
However, I subscribe to the motto, “Moderation in all things.” I only have four or five drinks a week, and never when revising or working on a paid assignment. At those times I need good judgment and attention to detail.
Time to rethink
In hindsight, many of the rituals I’ve prescribed for myself have served as a way of getting through the hard times when inspiration is scarce and productivity low. Most creative work is simply work. It doesn’t come easily, but with discipline we can keep at it and achieve satisfaction. My journalism is proof of this.
But when ideas start flowing more freely, as recently, my routines begin unraveling. I find I must work on fiction whenever I have time and feel inspired, not only in the late afternoon time slot assigned to it. I rush through (or skip) my morning ritual because I’m eager to start work. I often forget to eat lunch. Lately I’ve been reading into the early morning hours and sleeping late. I exercise, garden or bake when the whim comes over me. All these threads of chaos seem vaguely and superficially unhealthy.
In good company
Many artists in the book live nothing like this. Some are habitually driven, others slaves to extravagance.
But in a few like Umberto Eco, who claims to write erratically during interstices of time throughout the day, I find reflections of myself. René Descartes slept late, awoke to daydream, and “believed that idleness was essential to good mental work.” For years Charles Darwin led a quiet, leisurely, secluded life in the country, content in his family’s company, writing about other things, while keeping the controversial theory of evolution secret.
The book Daily Rituals: How Artists Work suggests I’m in good company. It’s light, amusing reading for anyone, but an affirmation for anyone seeking traction in the creative impulse. We can all find something to relate to in this range of obsessions and uniqueness.
It also persuades me to trust my own eccentricities. I might stop struggling to become an early riser or enforce a predictable structure on my days. Many, many artistic people, perhaps writers in particular, are insane. They have to be.
This afternoon my partner and I drove through one of the most frightening weather events I’ve experienced.
We had spent two hours working at a coffee shop in downtown Waterloo when I noticed the sky darkening outside. I looked at the forecast and there was a severe thunderstorm warning. So we decided to head for our car, which was parked several blocks way, before the rain and hail hit.
By the time we reached the car, we realized that, to get home, we would have to drive underneath one of the most dramatic shelf clouds I’ve ever seen. Bands of cloud in different shades of grey stretched overhead. I wished I had a camera with me then.
We started driving north on Albert Street, which runs from downtown Waterloo to our neighbourhood. We passed a few pedestrians who seemed blissfully unaware of the ominous sky.
At University Avenue, we had to stop behind two other cars for a red light. While we were waiting, the squall line passed overhead.
Construction on some high-rise apartment buildings has been underway there for several months. Dust whirled suddenly upward from the intersection. A group of young people trying to cross became half-enveloped in it. They began running in a panic. A giant crane almost directly overhead began turning on its tower. A man on the sidewalk to our left ran into a burst of wind carrying litter and debris. He stopped, watched the scene ahead uncertainly, turned and began walking away.
All the while, hardly any wind buffeted our car. It felt like being in a fishbowl with danger all around. I wanted to get out of the car and run for cover, but there was nowhere to go. I wanted the chaos to move, but it didn’t. The wind kept blowing everywhere except away. It seemed to get stuck in place between the tall buildings on the north side of University Avenue.
Finally, the light changed and the cars ahead of us proceeded through the intersection. I don’t remember where they went. The wind remained intense and chaotic. When we reached the corner, Albert Street ahead was dark, churning with dust. I didn’t want to go that way. I made a left turn, away from the direction the storm was moving, then turned right onto the next side street.
At first this appeared to be a mistake. It put us directly under the crane, which continued to sway. Further up the block, the strong winds continued, but I started to feel we had passed the worst. We entered a residential neighbourhood. Several people were out in the street, pulling aside large tree branches that must have come down only moments earlier. At the next corner, we jogged back to Albert Street and proceeded with a sense of relief.
Back home a few minutes later, my partner noted the sky to the east, which had just passed over, was bottle green. I took my camera to the playing field behind our house and took some photos of the back end of the storm.
Not until I was back in my office looking at the photos, did the thundershower start with loonie-sized hail.
Reading about the cloud formation we saw, I glean that such shelf clouds may form at the leading edge or squall line of a thunderstorm. In this part of the storm the wind may be too disorganized to form a tornado and yet strong enough to cause damage. But with the right conditions, tornadoes can form along squall lines.
People who see shelf clouds often believe they’ve seen a wall cloud. Wall clouds normally form behind the leading edge of the storm where rainfall may be accompanied by strong, cold downdrafts. Violent tornadoes are often associated with rotating wall clouds.
Over the years I’ve seen funnel clouds twice. One was accompanied by such torrential rain that I could only pull to the side of the highway along with transport trucks and other cars, and hope the tornado didn’t come our way. I don’t know whether the thing we saw today was a wannabe tornado, but it was one of the scariest weather I’ve come through.
More severe weather is forecast through tonight.
The first Cosmonaut Volkov tomato ripened in time for us to take to the cottage on Thursday, and we came home Saturday to a proper beefsteak onslaught. This is a superb heritage tomato for short summers.
The cherry tomatoes alongside are Tiny Tim. They’re a hybrid, firm, less juicy and less tasty, but I won’t snub an abundance of salad tomatoes starting July 1, no, not in Ontario.
I planted Cosmonaut Volkov May 9 in the square foot garden. That’s a full week earlier than our official last frost date here in Waterloo. It was the middle of a warm spell, so I hoped we were safe from frost. It turned out we had cold weather ahead, with two or three more frost nights almost to the end of May.
I moved some pots indoors on cold nights, including Tiny Tim, but trusted the warm south foundation of our house to protect the beefsteak tomatoes. It was a lucky gamble.
The first Cosmonaut Volkov ripened on July 30, 82 days after transplant. That’s 10 days longer than advertized, but considering all the cold weather it survived unscathed, I’m not complaining. The Lemon Boy tomato planted 11 days later, replacing a patch of early spinach, also calls for 72 days and doesn’t show any sign of ripening yet.
This spring I was a little discouraged at the prospect of growing tomatoes in such a small garden. I usually like to try five or six different varieties, and we simply hadn’t enough room. Forlornly surveying the selection of plants available from a local grower at Guelph Farmers’ Market, I asked the owner which was her favourite variety of beefsteak, and she recommended Cosmonaut Volkov.
Good call! These big, smooth, attractive red fruits are the best beefsteaks I’ve grown in a long time. Taste-wise they’re sweet and full of complex flavour. They might not match Brandywines or other heritage types for colourful grotesqueness, but the indeterminate vine appears to be a heavy producer, with a few clusters of large tomatoes still coming along.
The variety, originating in Ukraine, is ideal for short summers in northern climates. It was named after Vladislav Volkov, who perished in 1971 returning from his second space mission.
As a child I hated tomatoes – until one summer I grew them myself, and found that fresh off the vine they were much more delectable. To this day, I’ve become slightly less discriminating, and yet seldom eat tomatoes unless I grew them myself. My partner is even fussier: tomatoes in general inspire a gag reflex, but he does enjoy the ones from our garden. Cosmonaut Volkov makes him crave a BLT, so we must pick up some good local bacon and lettuce from St. Jacobs Farmers’ Market on Tuesday.
This is probably one of the most productive tomato vines I’ve ever grown. It’s early August and there’s still no sign of disease. It has undoubtedly benefited from growing against our hot south foundation, and I’ve been careful to irrigate it regularly through the recent hot weather. It seems likely I’ll be able to harvest several big fruit from it every week for the rest of the summer.
For a pair of ambivalent tomato-eaters like us, the harvest will be plenty. Any extras I’ll freeze whole for dropping into a soup pot come winter. With our limited space, I can’t see much use in trying to grow enough paste tomatoes to make our own sauce. However, it shouldn’t be difficult to harvest enough beefsteaks and cherries for our limited needs from three well-chosen, well-groomed plants.
Now I’m eating one of these lovelies for lunch: one tomato alone without any seasoning but a little ground sea salt. It’s delicious and satisfying. For a square in our future gardens, I’ll be hard-pressed to find a suitable variety to rival Cosmonaut Volkov.
[Edit: Apparently I grew this same variety in our garden last summer, but it was a forgettable experience. So much depends on soil, weather and other growing conditions. Certainly, I’ll have to give Black Sea Man a try here in our new location if we’re still here next spring. But it might not be worth giving a square of our limited space up to a later variety like Brandywine.]
Click the arrow to the left or right to navigate through a gallery of 24 images.
Guelph Horticultural Society held its annual garden show on the weekend. Here are some highlights of what we saw there.
Click arrows to the left or right of each image to proceed through the gallery.
Since St. Jacobs Farmers’ Market has become part of our weekly grocery run, I seldom have time to take photographs. We usually go on Thursday mornings to avoid the weekend crush. But this Saturday was our anniversary, so my partner and I went simply to buy some treats and enjoy the colourful bustle. Peruse the gallery of 12 images.
Even last Thursday was a bit crazy. One of the vendors pointed out the market is open Tuesdays throughout the summer. We might try it out.
Buffy Sainte-Marie never falls behind. Her new album Power In The Blood, released when she’s 74, appears to coincide with the conclusion of Canada’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission. In this June 2015 interview with Wendy Mesley on CBC’s The National she discusses residential schools, Idle No More and other concerns of First Nations peoples.
At her concerts she hangs a red dress to represent missing and murdered indigenous women. Here she says, “We have to find a new way to raise our sons….to demilitarize the male heart.” It’s a theme carried since her 1964 hit protest song, “Universal Soldier.”
I didn’t know who Buffy Sainte-Marie was until I was 26 when, reporting for The Hanover Post, I saw her perform live at a powwow at Saugeen First Nation. It was 1990. I’d led a life sheltered from activism and information about Canada’s aboriginal peoples, but that began to change thanks to her music.
She expresses hope that the Truth and Reconciliation Commission might make a difference by documenting abuse and the experiences of victims.
“It’s a big task to make things better in any family, including the Canadian family,” she observes.
She talks about how being blacklisted in the U.S. prevented people from hearing her message, but it never held her back. She has never reached the U.S. music charts again since the 1970s.
Coincidence And Likely Stories came out in 1992. It was her first album in 16 years, the first I bought, and probably the most political. It made the charts in Canada and the U.K. for the first time. It’s my favourite to date. Running For The Drum (2008) experimented with electronic dance rhythms.
But Power In The Blood returns soundly to a folk-rock style. The title track rages against cultural and environmental exploitation. “We Are Circling” is a sacred protest march for Mother Earth, family and unity. “Ke Sakihitin Awasis (I Love You Baby)” sounds like a poignant reworking of one of her most popular hits, “He’s An Indian Cowboy In The Rodeo,” while “Orion” harkens back to one her most beautiful songs, the tender, heart-wrenching, “Goodnight” (here’s Erasure’s admirable cover).
Overall, the album draws on her many strengths, including the ability to develop a complex canvas of emotions: outrage, affection, courage, loneliness, pride, belonging, sense of place. It’s all there.