The tomatoes that wouldn't stop

My non-stop tomato plants, soaring eight feet high into the laurel hedge, have provided me with lots of entertainment this spring. On Friday, I got some sensible advice about how to, maybe, end up with actual tomatoes. Photo by John Denniston.

“Poor things!” Georgeann burst out when she saw my tomato plants this week. Andre stood by and laughed and laughed. Yes, I regret to say that’s how my SFU book-group friends – kind and sympathetic as they are – responded Friday when I showed them my pioneer efforts to grow tomatoes in my Dunbar back yard.

My plants – bought as seedlings way too early in a Covid gardening panic this spring– started out long and leggy. In the month I had to coddle them inside, they shot up to the top of the dining-room window. Once outside, they just kept growing higher. Within weeks, they outgrew their support frame and were hightailing it into the 10-foot-high laurel hedge behind them. At a certain point, they doubled over and began swooping out sideways. I was entranced. What would they do next? Not produce tomatoes, I suspected, given that blossoms were few and far between.

 “All the energy is going into the stems and leaves,” said Georgeann, who knows something about growing tomatoes. “You’ll have to cut these back, way back, if you’re going to get anything at all.” Andre didn’t offer any advice; he just looked and looked.

An evening with my secateurs and a vast tangle of clipped vines later, my tomato plants look bare and shaven, cut down to size. I may get some tomatoes now, but the thrill is gone; I miss the spectacle of my over-the-top greenery. Part of the excitement of pioneer efforts, after all, is just not knowing what might happen next.

From this...

... to this. So much more sensible. But alas, not nearly as entertaining. 

Of poetry. And trees

Trees like these in Pacific Spirit Park are among my favourite things on this earth.  A recent encounter with a Saltspring neighbour who can spout a poem about them off the top of his head made me think about  what has happened to poetry in the modern world. Photo by John Denniston.

In my grandfather’s time, the pioneer folk on the prairies memorized set-pieces, often selections of poetry – as their contribution to social gatherings. Before television, before the Internet, before video games and Netflix, these were gifts people gave each other for entertainment, to create community, to whittle down the loneliness.

The concept of memorizing and quoting poetry has diminished since then – too hard, too embarrassing, and whenever would you use it? Despite this, my grandfather’s love of poetry lived on through my mother, who could quote long sections of early 20^th-century verse, along with bits of doggerel aimed at sulky children: “Nobody likes me; everybody hates me, I’m out in the garden eating worms, yum-yum” was a favourite. As a child, my sister Diane, who had a good brain for such things, took it upon herself to memorize Oliver Wendell Holmes’ “The Wonderful One-Hoss Shay,” 120 lines about a solid old carriage that lasted 100 years until, “all at once and nothing first, just like bubbles when they burst,” it disintegrated into a pile of dust.

 English novelists of the Victorian era and beyond often had characters quote poetry as if it were common parlance, understood by all. Even Virginia Woolf, a revolutionary in her time, used poetry as part of her characters’ doings. In To the Lighthouse, stiff old Mr. Ramsay embarrassed himself by bursting out into Tennyson’s “Charge of the Last Brigade” when he didn’t realize guests were within hearing distance. Mid-20^th century writer John Mortimer’s popular character, barrister Horace Rumpole, regularly annoyed his clients, friends and enemies with salvos of verse by Wordsworth, Shakespeare, Keats and Shelley.

But mostly, these days, people do not memorize poetry, verse does not ring out on the public streets, nor is it part of most people’s daily lives.

Which is why I was so surprised – struck, delighted – when our new Saltspring neighbour erupted in poetry when we bumped into him recently. It was only the second time I’ve met Halim, but through John, he knows about the master’s thesis that had kept me glued to Vancouver for the past two years. Halim, an indigenous Berber from the mountains of the North African country of Morocco, places a high value on education. His parents left their land and moved to the city to ensure their children could go to university. Halim studied German, literature and philosophy in Morocco and Germany before his desire to see more of the world led him to Canada and his current job as a teacher at Saltspring’s high school. With all that behind him, his eyes shone and his congratulations were effusive when he asked about my studies and I told him I finally had my degree.

And then, standing on the street outside his house in the middle of the village in the middle of the day, he began reciting a poem by heart. Not knowing that I am a tree person with a secret fantasy of living in a tree stump, he chose Pulitzer-prize winning American poet Mary Oliver’s “When I Among the Trees”:

 “When I am among the trees,

especially the willows and the honey locust,

 equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,

 they give off such hints of gladness

I would almost say that they save me, and daily.”

He performed the poem, rather than just reciting it, giving a sense of the liveliness he must bring to the classroom – lucky students! At the lines: “The light flows from their branches,” he gestured to the high stand of trees across the road from us, and mimicked a water-like downward flow.

At the poem’s finish:

“you too have come

into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled

with light, and to shine,” he added:

“It is for you. A gift for finishing your degree.”

What a gift! That poem, spouting effortlessly out of his head in the middle of an ordinary day, was a reminder of the power of this long-diminished art – to connect, to entertain, to ease the barriers between strangers. It was something my grandfather’s generation knew, and I wondered whether future generations will ever learn it again.

American poet Mary Oliver's trees were different than the ones in B.C., but I think she would have enjoyed them just as much. Photo by John Denniston.

I've referred before to my fantasy of living, like a Beatrix Potter creature, in an old tree stump. How could I resist trying this one out for size when John and I came across it in Pacific Spirit Park this week? Photo by John Denniston. 

Just room for an easy chair in here, and the hole behind me would look great with a stained-glass window pane inside. Photo by John Denniston.

Getting out required some gymnastics. A nice rustic wooden door would work well here. Photo by John Denniston. 

When I Am Among the Trees
by Mary Oliver

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, "It's simple," they say,
"and you too have come

into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled

with light, and to shine."

No more toughy-duffies

Success at last!  I've now tweaked mom's old hot-cross bun recipe enough times to produce the kind of  panful I remember her taking out of the oven. Photo by John Denniston.

Back in May, I wrote an item about burrowing into an old cookbook of mom’s and trying to replicate her hot-cross buns, one of my long-time favourites from her kitchen. Her hand-written recipe was more like reminder notes to herself than instructions for a novice bread-maker like me, and without her standing at my shoulder to fill in the gaps, the results were predictable.

Instead of the overflowing pan of lofty, fragrant buns she used to take out of the oven, mine were small, low, separate, and … tough. As I wrote at the time, they were the kind of thing she would have called toughy-duffies.

Well, my pride was stung and the pandemic wasn’t going anywhere, so I collected further bread-making advice and tried again. Several times. Along the way, this is what I learned: The buns actually need a second rise to give them height and texture, even if mom’s recipe didn’t say so. Place them close, and they’ll rise – and cook – moistly together, producing the shoulder-to-shoulder overflowing panfuls I recall. A certain proportion of white flour is best even in a whole-wheat recipe. Knead for seven minutes, instead of guessing when the dough “feels right.” Skimp a bit on the flour – a runnier dough means a moister bun. Brown sugar instead of white; whole milk instead of skim. Old-fashioned lard to grease the pan instead of olive oil.

Well, voila! The buns I took from the oven today were lofty, moist, fragrant and tender. The pandemic has taught us many things, mostly negative, but now I have learned how to replicate a delicious part of the past. I think even mom would be impressed.

The dough in my latest version of mom's recipe doubled quickly and enthusiastically for the first rise -- a good omen.

The shoulder-to-shoulder buns that emerged looked a lot like the panfuls I remember from the past.

Nice texture and height. The bumps are raisins.

John approves! The best endorsement of all.

Return to paradise

Wild daisies have taken over whole fields in Saltspring's Duck Creek park, a phenomenon we were able to enjoy after making our first big breakout from Covid isolation in Vancouver. Photo by John Denniston.

I know deer are a pest on Saltspring Island, but they're a different kind of pest than the familiar ones in Vancouver. I'm at the point of appreciating anything different, although the neighbour whose garden this deer was happily munching will probably have another reaction. Photo by John Denniston.

A deer with tiny studs of antlers stood motionless on the road up from the beach, watching us haul bags and boxes out of the truck. Rabbits bounced across our yard, their white rumps flicking saucily at the strangers invading their turf. Quails – mom and pop and about two dozen little ones – carried on their chattering family life, rolling up the hill in their peculiar way, as if they had wheels instead of feet.

After an absence of seven months, thanks to Covid and other factors, John and I finally made it back to Saltspring last week. We weren’t as desperate as a friend who confessed to breaking into tears when she finally got into a car after months of pandemic isolation, but we were still pretty happy to see something beyond our Vancouver back yard.

Yes, we have critters in the city too, and friends and beautiful gardens and lovely places to walk. But after the same-same life many of us have been living during the pandemic, it’s near to paradise to see something different: birds on wheels; a sea-foam field of wild daisies, an up-and-down trail through banks of foxgloves, and a storybook cottage drowned in flowers.

Here are some of the scenes from our recent breakout into paradise:

A hike in Channel Ridge, a hilly area near our place in Vesuvius, gives us a look at a wild area of the island. Plus lots of cardio. Photo by John Denniston.

And these would be? We spotted them on our Channel Ridge hike, but couldn't decide if they were a plant or a mushroom. I've never seen such things in Vancouver. Photo by John Denniston.

Banks of foxgloves lined the path on Channel Ridge. It's unusual to see so many flourishing together. Photo by John Denniston. 

I kept admiring the foxgloves, so John dutifully shot them from various angles. 

Vesuvius beach just down the hill from our place is a swimming and kayaking mecca. Here, John is deciding whether the kayakers are worth shooting. 

Almost behind where John is standing is the Sand Dollar cottage, right across the road from the beach. The flowers in the window-boxes are legendary.

The front of the cottage has a story-book look, and has been featured in artists' paintings.

The beach as seen through wild sweet peas along the waterfront road in Vesuvius.

Another aspect of paradise is finding a good free book along the street. You can never have too many copies of Anthony Trollope's Barchester Towers. Photo by John Denniston.

Fresh locally grown organic strawberries for lunch! This was our first feed of the year, as the Vancouver stores we have access to haven't had many so far this season.

Our Saltspring garden is wilder than Vancouver's, but both have bird baths. Saltspring's was very neglected because of our long absence, but as soon as I cleaned it up and filled it, the birds were there.

We were delighted that a neighbour agreed to mow our lawn while we were away. It meant John didn't have to spend days trying to clear up a jungle.

John in that field of  Duck Creek daisies. It looks like he's in paradise. 

And another bow to the deer. This may have been the same one that watched  us unpack when we first arrived. Photo by John Denniston.