Tom: Despite the occasional raccoon grunting past in the dark, I sleep better out there in the fresh air, with the sound of our pond and waterfall gurgling nearby. I usually stay up much later than Lyanda and Claire, and I love that moment when, instead of heading upstairs to bed, I head out the back door, into the cool night air, and walk through the garden under the moonlight, with the sunflowers towering over my head and the the occasional spiderweb already spun across my path.

Claire: Well, first of all, it’s really cozy in there. Plus I sleep really well on the ground. It’s also  fun when it rains because it’s about 5 times as loud in the tent. Quite meditative. But the real fun part is you can hear all the raccoons, opossums, etc., and boy they are LOUD!!! My dad is an expert sleeper, but when he hears the raccoons shaking the wind chimes above the tent, he goes crazy! It’s really funny.  The tent is just awesome!!!!!!

Lyanda: I love crawling outside at midnight (OK, because I have to pee in the grass…) and finding myself in the night world–sky, moon, stars, the rustling of night creatures, real and imagined.  It always feels new and surprising.  And, being something of an insomniac, I love that I sleep so much better out there, tucked in a big flannel sleeping bag, cool air on my face and the stars overhead.

That same day, I heard adult Bushtits chirping in our yard, and followed them to the lilac tree and our own little cluster of newly emerged Bushtits.  I love how they huddle, all smooshed together in a little group.  When I mentioned this to Kathryn, she said, “Yes, just like they must have been in their nest.”  True, and wonderful to imagine, as Bushtits lay their eggs and grow their young in the loveliest hanging-basket nests, delicately woven of mosses, lichen, and spider webs. The inner chamber, where the eggs are laid, is lined with the softest possible things–animal fur and feathers–and the whole nest sways gently in the wind, like a cradle.

As nests go, they are relatively easy to spot:  hanging instead of tucked into the fork of a branch; often quite low in the tree; and built in open woodlands, at forest edges, in suburbs, parks, and urban neighborhoods, where we regularly wander.

Even though they are so common here in the western states, Bushtits are sometimes tricky to identify.  We are taught to notice the “field marks” on a bird–the colors, wing bars, eye stripes, tail shape, etc., that are clues to distinguishing it from other species.  But of all the birds in the entire North American field guide, Bushtits are perhaps the most “field markless.”  They are pretty much all brown, often described as “drab,” with no stripes or bars of any kind, just a vaguely lighter-brown breast and a longish tail.  There is one interesting field ID trick with which you can amaze your friends:  the adult female’s eye is light, the male’s is dark.

Bushtits are tiny, tiny, tiny, with a fabulous social structure.  Excepting spring, when the birds pair up for nesting, you never see just one or two Bushtits.  If you do see one in a shrub, look around–there will be a dozen, or three dozen, or more, all traveling as a little Bushtit organism, and if you spend some time watching them in action–their feeding acrobatics and constant movement as they glean small insects–you could never call them drab.

I’ve written before about how I prefer feeding birds with plants, rather than maintaining feeders.  For Bushtits, I allow a few of the invasive fennels that flourish in our herb garden to grow to maturity, even though none of us like fennel.  When the plants go to seed in the late autumn, they are covered with Bushtits and chickadees.  Bushtits weigh almost nothing, and though the fennel fronds are thin and delicate, they don’t bend in the slightest when the Bushtits land on them. We bring dried fennel branches onto the deck, so we can watch the birds feed at close range through the kitchen window.

Y’all know I never miss an opportunity to deliver my favorite sermon, and the season is ripe for it:  If you find a baby bird that has fallen to the ground, but can’t fly, please just pick it up and put it near its nest if you can find it, or on a nearby branch out of harm’s way.  Settle the bird on the branch by covering its eyes lightly with your hand until it is calm.  Softly remove your hand, and then leave.  The adult birds will continue to care for their young.  They cannot “smell human” on the little bird, and even if they could, birds are fabulous parents, and would not abandon their chick!  Let’s work to dispel this myth…

Meanwhile, enjoy this season of wonderful bird behavior, where naive young are learning their way in the world, and protective adult birds are so bold and busy.

The nest and fledgling photos in this post are by Kathryn True, an incredible naturalist, educator, writer, and dear friend.  Visit her website to see some of her work.

Thanks to Flickr users Rick Leche and judy h for adult Bushtit images.

I plant bush peas, and though they don't officially require a trellis, I make a low stick trellis to provide a little structure. The inner row of peas leans against the trellis, and the outer row of peas leans against the inner row to keep them all from flowing into the path.

In the midst of all this, I will confess to you, dear readers, that mid-February through mid-April were, for me, a difficult, melancholic couple of months.  Thinking of my spring garden, which usually brings me joy, just completely overwhelmed me.  “Take a break,” another writer-gardener told me.  “If it’s not sustaining to you, then it’s not right.”  This made sense for a moment, but I realized that if I didn’t get the peas in the ground, I’d regret it later.  So Claire and I trotted out into a cold March day and planted a long bed of Oregon snow peas, and our favorite Cascadia snap peas.  I had a little fantasy that the planting of peas would “cure” me, and though that didn’t happen, as the weather warmed and I returned little by little to the garden, the process did, over time, help to lift me back into the light.  And I was reminded yet again that the seasons have their own wisdom–our spring was up and down, but the sun is returning,  the garden is growing, the spring greens are feeding us, the beautiful vegetables of summer are beginning to show themselves, and our spirits are rising–all in good, right time.

Claire has her own little garden bed.  In addition to sunflowers, carrots, and strawberries, she’s planted three peppers–the bamboo arches hold up the black garbage bag she covers them with overnight.  Seattle peppers need coddling…

The pole beans are just coming up.  Yesterday I could hardly see them, today they look like this:

If your family doesn’t like the red-veined kale, try this–the Italian, curly-leafed heirloom kale.  Much sweeter. 

I hope your gardens–big, small, patio, windowsill, urban, rural, inner, outer–are flourishing.

Miner’s lettuce  was named for the gold miners of the 1850s, who wisely ate it.  It’s an annual in the purslane family, and grows in various places around the country. In Seattle, we have five different varieties, the most common being Siberian miner’s lettuce.  There are two things I love about miner’s lettuce.  One is its habit of growing in moist, lush places–”fairyish” places, as Claire likes to say.  Whenever you are gathering miner’s lettuce, you are somewhere pretty.  The other thing I love is that it’s perfectly delicious.  Sweet, juicy, succulent, tastes a lot like a cucumber with an edge of wild complexity–a sort of nuttiness.  My favorite way to eat it is in nibbles along the trail, but it’s always nice to bring some home and toss it in a salad–either on its own, or mixed with garden greens.  The sweetness balances nicely with peppery arugula.  Some people cook it, but I never do. For optimal flavor, gather the leaves when they are small, and before the plants flower.

Nettles, which grow well in disturbed areas, are an urban forager’s staple.  Recently, they have become perceived as a weed to avoid, what with their habit of stinging us with their formic acid-laden prickles.  But historically they have been used for food, medicine, and fiber.  The stems can be combed apart, and spun like flax–I am hoping to learn to do that this year.

When wilted, the stinging properties are rendered harmless, but be sure to wilt them completely–when lightly steamed, our tongues can still detect the possibility of stinging, and become worried.  No one wants to worry while they eat.  That said, you can eat the leaves raw, and they are quite tasty.  Roll the edges of the leaves inward, top-side out, making a little nettle-leaf burrito.  Place it between your back teeth so it won’t unroll.  Claire loves to do this as a party trick, but she always makes me do the rolling–I should get Mama Danger Pay, but I love that she’s game for it.  Nettles are perfectly delicious–use them the way you would use any other wilted green:  braised with a bit of lemon dressing, over farro with some crumbled bleu cheese and toasted walnuts (yum), on pizza with goat cheese and foraged mushrooms, in soups, quiche, frittata…Nettles are best gathered when young, and there are still lots of smaller plants out there–bright green, and under a foot high.  They can also be steamed and frozen for winter cooking.  Make sure that you wear gloves and long sleeves when gathering and preparing!

My daughter is salad averse.  She will eat spinach cooked into a quiche or something, but prefers not to.  Still, she loves both purslane and nettles.  Part of it might be the fun of gathering these things, but she seems to really prefer the flavors.  In all foraging, there is this wonderful element of wildness, of something more complicated and interesting and delightful and nourishing than  everyday domesticated fare.  When we walk in wilder places, we nibble whatever we can along the way.  Not just the delicious stuff–huckleberries, salmonberries, thimble berries, miner’s lettuce.  But also the not-so-yummy but still-edible:  snow berries, Indian plum, just for the reminder that these foods are available if needed.  I want my daughter to feel always at-home, sustained, and nourished by wild places.

And tonight, a simple spring meal:  nettle fritatta, local asparagus, and a salad of mixed greens with miner’s lettuce.  Delish.

Here’s a nice little frittata recipe, but fritattas are a highly malleable form.  Improvise freely.

Tangled Nest Nettle Frittata

Wash about half a pound of nettles, with their stems removed.  Shake them gently, but leave some water on the leaves, stuff them into a skillet, cover, and steam over medium heat until wilted.  Turn the wilted spinach into a strainer, and press out any liquid with the back of a wooden spoon.  Set aside to cool.

In the same skillet, heat a little olive oil over medium heat, and fry one or two thinly sliced boiling potatoes.  Make sure you cook it until golden brown and tender, otherwise your frittata will be too crunchy.  Stir in a finely sliced shallot (or scallion), and cook another minute or two.  Turn onto a plate to cool.

Beat four eggs in a bowl.  Stir in about 1/2 cup feta cheese (or smoked gouda, or whatever sounds good), a pinch of salt, freshly ground pepper to taste, potatoes, and nettles.

Wipe the skillet clean, then melt a teaspoon of butter over medium heat and swirl it around to coat the sides.  Pour the egg mixture into the prepared skillet, and let it cook until the edges begin to set.  Meanwhile, heat the broiler. As the frittata continues to cook, occasionally loosen the sides with a rubber spatula, and tilt the pan so the uncooked liquid from the center moves to the sides.  Continue until the frittata is about 80% cooked, 15 minutes or so, then pop it under the broiler until the top is set, and turning golden.  So pretty!  Let it cool a bit before serving.  Enjoy.

For much much more on foraging, check out my friend Langdon Cook’s amazing blog, Fat of the Land, (starting with his recent post on miner’s lettuce), as well as his book of the same name.

When we gathered our eggs to dye this Easter, we paused to gape at them.  Our little hens lay eggs in the most beautiful colors.  How could we possibly improve on these shades of mauve, cocoa, and sepia?  Still, this is a season of wonder.  Brown eggs take a little longer to dye, but the result is so lovely–more subtle, more earthy, muted jewel tones. Happy Spring, everyone.

While perusing my trusty Maritime Northwest Garden Guide by Seattle Tilth, I found pod and snap peas listed in the “Sow Outdoors” list for July.  Planting peas in July?  I’d never heard of such a thing.  I called my various gardeny friends, including one of the editors of the Maritime Guide, and no one had ever tried it.  I had a few of my favorite Cascadia snap pea seeds left from the usual late-winter planting, so decided to give it a whirl.  The only space I had free in the garden was a narrow, and shaded in the afternoon, but I conjectured that since peas thrive in cool temperatures, that might work out.  By the end of August and through early September we had a beautiful little pea harvest.  It almost felt like cheating to be snapping crisp, luscious peas in the heat of late summer.

So this year I’m setting aside more seeds for a late-summer harvest–many garden shops and even catalogs quit offering peas much past May, so to do this we need to plan ahead. The common wisdom suggests planting peas in small trenches, and covering them as they grow.  I have never done this, and just plant them as I would a bean, about an inch down.  But last year I did finally start believing all the experts who said you should plant peas just one inch apart and not thin them.  That seems very close, and I always went for 2 inches, which seemed sensible, but the inch-apart pea planting brought forth the most lush, vibrant pea patch I’d ever had.

Happy Pea Season!

Soule Mama's Favorite Knit Hat 3 ways: aubergine alpaca for me, rose for Claire, and multi-colored leftovers knitted into stripes with a tassel.

For inspiration, I want to share my favorite knitted hat pattern.  It’s everything a knitted hat should be:  quick, easy, and super-cute. The pattern was created by Amanda Blake, and is shared on her Soule Mama blog. It can be whipped up in a day or two, or a very leisurely three, and makes a perfect winter gift for knit-worthy friends and loved ones.

If you know how to knit and purl, you can make this hat.  Knitting is the most peaceful, grounding, and practical of pastimes, and if you don’t know how to knit, I hope you’ll consider learning this winter.  There are lots of good books and online tutorials, but the best way to learn to knit is from a friend, or uncle, or sister, or mother, or neighbor.  Most local knitting shops have circles where people gather to knit and share knowledge.  You will never, ever feel like a nuisance–everyone LOVES to help a beginning knitter.

A note on Amanda’s pattern:  It is knitted on short circular needles (double pointed work fine, too), in a multiple of six stitches.  She has you start with 67 stitches, assuming you will lose one when you join the round.  If, like me, you don’t lose a stitch when you join, then start with 66 stitches.  Enjoy.

In the world of eco-hip, we are expected to eschew Christmas hype, and I am as cynical about corporate, commercial, factory-made holidays as the next person.  But I love to celebrate the turning of the seasons, and believe deeply in reclaiming the light, richness, and beauty of  Solstice/Christmas time.  I know that it’s also become eco-fashionable to “give experiences” as gifts instead of stuff.  A great idea,  so I guess I have to fess up to being somewhat materialistic when I say  I don’t want a zoo pass.  I want you to make me something.  A poem, a drawing, a leaf-rubbing, a jar of your famous plum jam, a badly knitted hat, a beautifully knitted hat.  I want something I can behold and love and kiss.  And that’s what I like to give.

For hundreds of years before Christmas was on the calendar, Europeans celebrated the return of light at the Solstice by sharing gifts, a dip into the beautifully human realization that simple gifts freely given can lift the spirit, and that in the long dark of winter, a little spirit-lifting is essential.

Still.  I have been up late on too many Christmas Eves, tearful over unfinished knitting projects.  Handmade holidays do not restore our souls if they make us feel obligated, stressed, or rushed.  But I think I’m getting the hang of it.  In the next few weeks I’ll be sharing ideas and instructions for simple handmade gifts that are easy, practical, beautiful, relatively quick, inexpensive, and can be made few-by-few as the season progresses.  I hope they bring joy.

In that spirit, the “sanctity of giving” image above is from a holiday card series by local artist Dan Cautrell, whose beautiful lino-cuts grace my new book, Crow Planet (see a sample here).  All the Crow Planet prints, as well as Dan’s other prints and cards are available through his website (when we’re not making our own gifts we can support local artists who make things for us!).

In autumn, we make a “Falling Leaves” chandelier. In winter, of course there are glittered snowflakes; in spring, hanging homemade paper flowers; in summer, little lanterns…Fun.

The Spring chandelier

To make a Falling Leaves chandelier, collect leaves of different sizes, and dry them for a couple of days between newspapers with heavy books on top.  If you want the leaves to stay nice and flat all season, you’ll have to dry them longer, changing the paper frequently–about two weeks.  But I am not that patient.  Leaves dried just a couple of days will curl up eventually, but not as much as if you hadn’t dried them first.  Hang leaves from string, ribbon, or invisible nylon thread.  Tie a bead or two to the bottom to give a little weight.  This year I added curling twigs from a willow pruning, tucking them around the light before adding the leaves.  I love weaving indoors and outdoors, especially at the table–another reminder of the continuum between our home and the natural world that occurs in the sharing of meals.