Orangina

In a truly-summer thematic effort, here are only pictures of orange things from the garden. It is harvest season, and while we are not producing as much as I hoped, I have learned a lot from experimenting with lunar planting, building beds, etc.

The nasturtium has volunteered itself back in a big way, this being the third flower harvest, and all through spring I have been mixing the clover-like leaves into stir fries that can hold up to the bitterness of the greens.

Recipe for Nasturtium Pesto:

In a food processor, mix:

clean, de-stemmed nasturtium flowers (2 C ideally)

1/2 C sauteed garlic

1/2 C olive oil

I love when volunteers appear - little orange flower unfurling from mysterious spotted leaves. More pictures of the garden and other summer happenings on my flickr, here. 

Happy Summer Solstice! In pagan tradition, a community would make a huge bon fire, testing their leaping skills by crossing the center. Couples would hold hands and leaping across the fire without letting go is a sign of longevity for their relationship. Single women wear floral garlands in their hair and traipse into the woods in search of the elusive flowered fern (biologically unproven to exist). 

Summer of Love, 2009

I wrote this three years ago after returning from an epic journey which changed my outlook, inspired new passions, and taught me to harvest and dance in an unplotted acre.

I was gone a long time, but it felt like longer. Honesty milled together with five gallon buckets of rye flour, a walk-in refrigerator reeking of peppers and Earth balance, dodging two inch long armored hornets, and spotting hummingbirds dipping their beaks in the purple, drooping sunflowers. Gingerly walking to my room because there is a creaky floorboard on the second floor and my roommate is asleep in her loft, I smell like tobacco and my fingers are stained yellow from smokes and nutritional yeast. I wrote letters home, drove across and across again the Mason-Dixon, and came back for another week of home away from home. Dreamed of cleaning carrots and clipping alliums, sat on good feelings until I fell asleep only to wake up to more.

A wicked week back and my thoughts drift elsewhere, to a higher altitude. Time to learn when to quit while I'm ahead, when to end on a good note, and when to chill the fuck out and appreciate singular experiences. Sandy beaches reminds me that life always flows, the river never stops, and all the water in the planet circulates itself whole again every day. You piss everyday, unless you got bad stones, and the same water that swirls down the toilet into the great unknown seas moistens our skins on humid Florida days. Piss out, piss in. And it is for this reason we should remain fluid and always moving with the currents, never getting stuck in a retention pond and never clogging the shitter.