My showy irises have made their appearance, spreading further this year.  I love the purple ones for their delicate, veiny tracework pattern of decoration, bleeding into saturated ink-stained pools at the end of each bottom petal.

The iris was named from the Greek word for rainbow, denoting the multitude of colors the flowers span. In Greek mythology, Iris was a goddess of the sea and sky, the special messenger of Hera the Queen Goddess. Rainbows were her pathway to carry messages between Heaven and earth. Another meaning for the name is ‘eye of Heaven’, and it is said that in the irises of our eyes, we always carry a piece of Heaven with us.

The cheerful Nuthatch is so fun to watch, climbing trees at a sheer incline, often upside down and backwards, while they peck at the bark to capture small insects.

Another spring favorite of mine is the Wild Geranium (Geranium maculatum). These grow along the creek banks in the woods near my house, and I’ve managed to transplant some of them into my yard where they’ve spread and flourished. It is known by a variety of colorful names, from Old Maid’s Nightcap to Spotted Cranesbill and is used as an astringent in herbal medicine. It can be mashed or made into a tea to ease toothaches and other painful ailments.

I was so happy that one of my favorite flowers, the Bleeding Heart (Lamprocapnos spectabilis), made it through the winter.

I’m always fascinated with myth and legend, folklore and fairytales. I love tracing the paths these tales take, the ways in which they transform and mutate with time and distance, the ways they’re still evolving even now. I thought I’d share with you the ancient Japanese legend of how the Bleeding Heart flower came to be. This story can be told as you delicately take apart the petals of the flower.

Once upon a time, a young man fell deeply in love with a beautiful and wealthy girl. To win her affection, he lavished her with rare and expensive gifts. First he brought her a pair of the softest, sweetest rabbits:

She accepted his kind gift, but declared she did not love him. Undaunted he searched until he found the most exquisite silk slippers for her tiny feet:

Still she rejected him, though keeping the lovely gift. His money dwindling away, the young man makes one last desperate attempt, seeking far and wide for the most gorgeous earrings he can afford:

His last gift is again met with disdain. He finally realizes he will never win the heart of this woman. Having spent all of his savings and weeping with loneliness, the young man takes his knife and pierces his own heart.

On the spot where his body fell, the first Bleeding Heart grew and flourished, a memorial of beauty and sadness to unrequited love.

Nothing makes the world feel quite as small and interconnected as gardening. Take the Weigela, for example: native to eastern Asia, named for a German scientist and imported to America by the British. It’s an international conference all in one shrub.

The sun finally came out, if only briefly. Keeping this blog has had the nice added effect of making me slow down and observe, to quiet all my thoughts and really look. Now I try to always have my camera nearby so I can capture my world for you.

This is one of my favorite trees, deserving of its own mythology. The way it grew and grew into a perfect arch before suddenly veering ramrod straight. Was it reaching longingly for its true love, until one day disaster struck- a bolt of lightning, a thoughtless axe- and its whimsical heart was shattered, vowing never to bend for love again. If I trekked across the forest would I find a fallen tree with an opposite matching curve, tears of sap long since wept and dried?

This weekend was pretty terrible. I hosted a birthday party on Saturday and then a mushroom fry and cookout on Sunday. Too much time with people who will never be a family, no matter how much I try to Martha Stewart them into submission. I might write about it later, if I can find a way to make it more amusing than painful.

There were bright spots, though. Heaps and heaps of delicious fried mushrooms. Bright table cloths and sparkling spring sunlight. Playing hide-and-seek with the two year old, who can now count to five, who gives the best hugs and always a kiss on EACH cheek followed by rubbing noses. A rescued baby woodpecker who flew in from the back deck and stunned himself trying to fly through the front glass door. He sat dazed and blinking, clinging to my finger as I checked out each wing and claw, until finally his eyes brightened and he fluttered happily away.

Spring in the woodlands of Ohio brings a rare treat: Fried Morel Mushrooms! The pioneer spirit lurking in the back of my brain, the one that wants to live self-sufficiently off the land, deeply connected with nature and the rhythms of our planet– that part of me rejoices at the thought of being able to spend a gorgeous spring day hiking through the forest surrounding my house, hunting for these treasures. When the conditions are just right- cool nights followed by rainy mornings and sun-soaked afternoons, and when luck and experience are on your side, you can easily come back laden with more wild mushrooms than any one person could eat.

Before you go traipsing off through the woods all willy-nilly, it’s important to note that you should NEVER eat any wild mushroom unless you are absolutely certain of your identifications skills. There are plenty of guides that can help you hone this skill, but I’ve found that taking an experienced mushroom hunter with you the first time is the best way to learn. Plus they’re more likely to know the best areas for finding mushrooms.

The main mushroom you might confuse with a morel is the poisonous false morel. While similar, there are several signs that make it easily distinguishable. A true morel has a honeycombed cap that attaches to the stem at the bottom of the cap, while a false morel has a larger, darker cap that attaches only at the top. False morels also contain a cotton-ball-like substance in the stems while true morel stems are hollow.

One of my favorite aspects of the morel is how little it takes to prepare them to make them truly shine. This is the same reason I love fresh garden vegetables and fruits. Simplicity, to me, is often the key to true flavor and sophistication. You can use them in fancy, complicated dishes; however, I’ve found that a little salt, flour and oil are all that’s needed to bring out the most delectable flavor.

To prepare freshly found morels, you must first clean them thoroughly. They’re probably still attached to some of the dirt or moss they were growing in, and tiny bugs may be making a home inside of them.  I like to clean them in the sink under running water. Rinse off any visible dirt on the outside, then slice them in half longways with a small sharp knife. Clean out the inside, slice off any parts that look bad or decayed and place them in a colander as you work. When all of the mushrooms are sliced and cleaned, it’s best to soak them overnight in a bowl of salt water in the refrigerator. This will draw out and kill any bugs that you missed or couldn’t see with the naked eye.

Do not leave morels to soak longer than this or they will become mushy and lose their flavor. When you’re ready to cook them, drain them thoroughly in a colander. They should still be slightly damp to help the flour adhere. Prepare a bowl full of flour and a large skillet full of oil (cast iron is best). Dip the mushrooms one at a time into the flour, shaking off excess, and place them carefully into the hot oil. You can use tongs to help prevent burnt fingers. The mushrooms will shrivel and darken as they fry. They are perfectly done when the stem is crispy and the cap is crispy on the outside yet still chewy on the inside. As you remove them from the pan, place them on paper-towel-lined plates to drain off the excess oil. Salt to taste and serve immediately.

The finished products may look a little strange, but trust me! Sometimes the most delicious treats come in humble packages. Even if you think you don’t like mushrooms, one taste of these and you will be dreaming of mushroom hunting season all year long.

I ventured out in the rain to capture some pictures of my Pink Crab-apple trees and tulips. Something about the water droplets and the diffuse light makes nature seem even more magical to me.

Many prefer the flashier male of the species, and I admit those bold red feathers are hard to ignore. However, I think the ladies have a subtler, more refined beauty in their paler, dusky cloaks.

While the human voicebox can produce only one sound at a time, a bird’s syrinx is a paired structure that allows birds to sing complex, fast-paced songs. Located where the bronchial tubes from each lung come together, both sides are equally capable of producing sound. They can be used in concert to sing two different notes simultaneously and to complete broad sweeps in pitch quickly.