Lycogala Log

Day 231: Lycogala epidendrum ("Wolf's-milk") is a slime mold, despite its resemblance to a fungus. What is the difference? Well, a fungus is a single life-form. What we see and call a "mushroom" is its fruiting body. The main part of its structure is in the soil or other substrate, i.e., the mycelium, and that "body" may extend for a surprising distance. On the other hand, a slime mold is a group of single-celled organisms which have come together to feed and breed in response to chemical signals transmitted by others of their kind. Unlike the mushrooms in your collection basket, slime molds are capable of movement. They are also capable of communication in the form of those chemical signals I just mentioned, and they are capable of cooperation. This places them in a unique position cladistically, having at some point branched off from the Archaea to follow their own evolutionary path as the bacteria went the other way. Although the terms Protist and Protoctista are now considered obsolete, slime molds can be referred to as "protists" because their cellular structure is unlike that of plants, animals or fungi. Many of them spend most of their lives within their chosen substrate, as does the Ceratiomyxa of yesterday's post. I suspect that Lycogala behaves in a similar fashion because I find it in the same locations year after year. It emerges only during its breeding time. A "spent" colony can be seen as a black mass above the fresh pink "fruit" in this photo.

Ceratiomyxa Fruticulosa Var. Poroides

Day 230: Yesterday was a pretty exciting day. Not only did I find two nice colonies of the common slime mold Lycogala epidendrum (tomorrow's post), but I found one totally unfamiliar to me: Ceratiomyxa fruticulosa var. poroides. I have a slime mold expert to thank for the identification, a bit to my embarrassment because when I posted an earlier photo to a slime-mold identification group and identified it as Lycogala, I was referring to the single orange blob in a sea of white, dismissing the second larger organism as a phase of Lycogala. He "corrected" me, later admitting that he hadn't even noticed the orange blob. In any event, we got it sorted out and I am happy to present Ceratiomyxa fruticulosa var. poroides in all its beautiful glory. Had I not been prowling in a trailless section of forest at this specific point in time, i.e., had I come a day earlier or later, I could not have witnesses this plasmodial phase which lasts roughly 24 hours.

Sourgrass, Sheep Sorrel, Rumex Acetosella

Day 229: Okay, who remembers eating Sourgrass when they were a kid? I certainly did, and even today, I will pick the occasional leaf to chew while I'm pulling great handfuls of it from my garden and yard. The tangy flavour is quite refreshing, and although the plant contains oxalic acid, it does not occur in sufficient quantities that you should be concerned for your kidneys. You'd burn out on Sourgrass salads before that occurred. Known scientifically as Rumex, acetosella, Sourgrass is related to buckwheat and is sometimes called Sheep Sorrel. Unfortunately, it is an aggressive weed when it gets a toehold, and flourishes in the acidic soils common to western Washington. It propagates via an extensive system of rhizomes which, from personal experience, I can attest may extend ten feet or more from the parent plant. In fact, when I'm weeding, I sometimes see how far I can follow the network without breaking the rhizomatous threads. I'm usually defeated when sunken flower pots, fence posts or the sidewalk bring the experiment to an untimely end.

Re-cycling

 

Day 228: My bicycle hasn't seen much use over the last couple of years, largely because there's only one of me, and other forms of exercise have taken precedence. In a normal year, nice weather would find me hiking or kayaking if I had no other pressing obligations, so the bike has pretty much stayed in the garage. However, voluntary isolation has made me rethink my routine. Walking the same stretch of road and the same short wooded trails near home was beginning to get old, and I was feeling the need to change it up, broaden my range, so out came my trusty cheapo Schwinn and off I went on a patrol for Scotch broom infestations. I think walking almost every day has helped keep my legs in shape, but even so, a different set of muscles comes into play when you're pedalling. I made seven miles the first day, ten the next. Both still qualify as "short" trips in my estimation, although the inclines seem steeper than I recall. Couldn't possibly have anything to do with age. Nope. Suffice to say that even being firmly beyond seven decades of existence doesn't keep me from imagining myself to be half that old when the wind is whistling past my ears and the wheels keep going 'round and 'round.

False Lily-of-the-Valley, Maianthemum Dilatatum

Day 226: At first glance, you might mistake Maianthemum dilatatum for the Lily-of-the-Valley you thought was a good idea at the time (as the saying goes), later experiencing some degree of regret as your flower beds began sprouting it in profusion. Known as False Lily-of-the-Valley for its obvious visual similarity to the persistent garden plant, this Maianthemum is also capable of filling in shady nooks with alacrity, but perhaps not with quite the same vigour as its namesake. It is kin to much larger False Solomon's Seal and also Star-Flowered Solomon's Seal, both of which are frequently referred to in short form as "Solomon's Seal" here in the Pacific Northwest. Unlike true Lily-of-the-Valley, its flowers are not bell-shaped, but somewhat upturned to welcome a wide range of insect pollinators including bees, flies and beetles. It is only lightly fragrant. It is known to associate with several common PNW plants including Swordfern, Oxalis, Spring Beauty and Stream Violet and flourishes in the same moist soils and partial shade which these plants prefer.

Pathfinder, Adenocaulon Bicolor

Day 225: Pathfinder is a plant familiar to hikers in the Pacific Northwest even if they don't know what it's called or why it earned that name. Also known as Trail Plant, Adenocaulon bicolor's leaves are green on the upper surface, but silvery-grey on the underside. The stems are quite resilient and flexible, and when something (human or animal) passes through a group of the plants, it is easy to see the route they took from the turned-over leaves. This much is common knowledge, but a larger question arises: what evolutionary advantage does this give the plant? I like to ask the hard questions, so I turned to Arnie first, and then went prowling in the depths of obscure research papers to see if I could find the answer. In so doing, I learned that Pathfinder is a "sun-fleck" species (a fact I had not known previously, and should have observed). It lives where illumination comes as brief packets of light which only penetrate the upper canopy sporadically throughout the day, the plant returned to shadow as the sun passes through its arc above the trees. The silvery underside is due to certain types of crystalline structures within the cells. These serve to back-scatter the light into the plant's internal cell layers, increasing its ability to photosynthesize. I was unable to locate information regarding what type of crystals these might be, although in some other silvery-blotched plants, the colouration is due to calcium oxalate, but nothing I read referred to it as being contained in Adenocaulon.

During my reading, Arnie had answered my email, and his response prompted me to share what I had discovered. He said, "The truthful answer is, 'I don’t know.'  I thought about making up a good story, but inspiration is letting me down this morning." I probably would have bought it, too. I mean, he is the expert.

Twill Weave

Day 225: The red-white-and-blue (and a little green) theme of this image was unintentional, if appropriate to Memorial Day. The real story is that there are a lot of things going on in the weaving room these days. Some projects are top-secret because they're destined to be gifts, but they have one thing in common: they are all designed around using up my copious stash of yarns and threads in preference to buying more. In this, lockdown and social distancing have driven me to do something I should have done long ago; the sheer mass of fiber in my crafts room was fast approaching critical mass. I'm being compelled to be creative in finding combinations which work well together, both for weight and colour, and this often means breaking out the pocket calculator and the gram scale in order to maximize usage. Last night I lay awake figuring in my head, "If the piece is 24" wide and weaves up at 12 throws per inch, and there are 830 yards in that solitary skein of slubby black-and-white cotton, how many inches can I weave if I use a different fiber for the warp?" The answer was roughly 2.5 yards, but it wasn't easy to reach in the wee hours of the morning when any person of normal habits would have been sleeping. More to the point then, the photo above shows two possibilities for colour pattern using the same threading. It is a simple 2/2 twill, meaning that the weft thread passes over two threads and under two, progressing on a diagonal as the sequence is treadled. The plaid repeats 16 blue, two white, two green, two white in both warp and weft, and the houndstooth is four by four, alternating white and red. Both pieces are standard knitting worsted.

Currant Potential

Day 224: My red currants are putting on their first crop of fruit this year, and although I probably won't have enough for even a small batch of jam, I should have enough to combine as a tangy addition with another type of fruit for the base (raspberries, maybe?). The variety is Red Lake, and I have reason to believe that my stock was cultivated in California because they brought with them a notorious pest of California vineyards, Blue-Green Sharpshooters. So much for interstate quarantine of plants! In any event, I am winning the Sharpshooter War by diligent application of a pesticide. It was not my first choice of defense, but I soon discovered that for soapy water to be effective, I'd have to sit in the garden to apply it every half hour, and even then, it would just relocate the Sharpshooters to other plants. So, that said, I broke out some heavier artillery and set to work eliminating Sharpshooters from my garden. Now a note on currant cultivation: most cultivated currants fruit on second-year canes. As you can see behind the fruits in this picture, the second-year cane develops a woody bark, making it fairly easy to identify when it comes time to prune them out. Although the older canes may still bear fruit for a couple of years, amounts will be reduced. At most, canes should be kept no more than three years, one as a non-fruiting stem and two to bear. Then they should be cut out to establish a rotation between new canes and old in which both bearing canes and non-bearing canes exist side-by-side. I'll be marking mine with different colours of flagging tape so I can easily tell which is which.

Not An Egg

Day 223: It's the time of the year when birdies are nesting, and predators (squirrels and larger birds) looking for an easy lunch know it. It was not surprising, therefore, when I saw what I thought was an egg on the ground, bits of its broken shell right beside it. I knelt down for a closer look, planning to make note of any distinguishing feature so I could look it up in one of my favourite references, "A Field Guide to Nests, Eggs and Nestlings of North American Birds," and that was when I noticed that the shell was abnormally thick. It took a second or two for my mind to change gears from birds to mushrooms (kinda like shifting from second to fourth) as I realized I'd been fooled by Mother Nature. The "egg," slightly larger than that of a robin, was leathery and somewhat brittle: a cup fungus, one of the Pezizas. Without a microscope and tissue stains, that's the best I'll manage. Peziza is a large genus, and most members are nondescript, occurring in various shades of translucent brown or tan. Most are considered "inedible," which is to say they're not poisonous, but neither are they particularly desirable.

The Inside Story

Day 222: Outside, my flower beds are blooming lavishly, but my houseplants are telling an inside story. Huernia zebrina (Lifesaver Plant, center) is putting on a stellar show, one star already gone nova and several hovering at the event horizon of a botanical Big Bang. The ... for the moment, let's just call them "Easter cacti," shall we? ... have a profusion of buds and flowers in various stages of development. This brings us now to the rabbit hole of taxonomy, and down we go.

Once upon a time, there was a genus called Schlumbergera. It belonged to the tribe of Rhipsalideae, and its extended numbers included a wide variety of leaf and flower forms. All members of the tribe were more or less epiphytic, which is to say that they liked to grow on trees or rocks, rather than having their roots directly in soil. During the late 1800s, the differences in form led to the creation of a second genus (Zygocactus), into which many of the Schlumbergeras were reassigned. Those which bloomed at Christmas were called Zygocactus; those blooming at Easter remained Schlumbergera. In the mid-1950s, the two genera were recombined, but the name Zygocactus had come into popular use and remains a common name for the Christmas-flowering species to this day (emphasis: I said "common name"). Now enter Hatiora, and another subject of much debate. According to some botanists, Hatiora deserves a unique genus. Others protest that it should remain among the Rhipsalideae.

If I were to make a list of taxonomic synonyms for Christmas/Easter/Hatiora cacti, it would probably achieve critical mass and cause a meltdown. Suffice to say that the different flower forms of the winter vs. spring bloomers supplies me with visual justification for calling Christmas cacti by their common name Zygocactus or scientific name Schlumbergera (not shown), Easter cacti by either Schlumbergera or Rhipsalidopsis as the mood suits me ("Scorpius" shown left), and delicate Hatiora rosea (right, optionally Rhipsalidopsis) by "Hattie," just because she's cute.

Large-Leaved Avens, Geum Macrophyllum

Day 221: I am mortally ashamed. For all these many years, I have falsely accused Geum macrophyllum (Large-Leaved Avens) of being a weed, putting it in a mental pigeonhole alongside the buttercups which its flowers resemble. I failed to notice that it did not spread with intentions of world domination. No, I simply dismissed it as a taller version of my nemesis. It wasn't until a friend posted a photo of it on his own blog that I said, "You mean it's a real wildflower?" using an odd choice of non-botanical terminology in my surprise. Yes, indeed, native to the state, and more to my chagrin, not even a member of the Ranunculaceae. Avens is a member of the Rosaceae, closer kin to your prize Peace or wild Nootkas than to that nasty rhizomatous plague infesting my flower beds and lawn. In fact, I didn't even look at it closely, and therein lay the problem. They say that familiarity breeds contempt. Growing up in the Pacific Northwest, this Avens was almost always somewhere in my field of view. If not as common as dandelions or Scotch broom, it was at least on a par with Foxglove in the damp woodlands of my childhood and, by dint of its abundance, I assumed it had to be a weed, dismissing it from mind accordingly. By the time I reached adulthood and my interest in botany had manifested in all its glory, poor Avens had become background noise, not worthy of any more attention than I'd give to Buckhorn (Plantago lanceolata), Pineappleweed/Chamomile (Matricaria discoidea) or Sourgrass/Sheep Sorrel (Rumex acetosella). As my readers know, I seek to learn something new every day. In this case, I had to return to the classroom for a lesson in basic fractions even though I'd been doing differential calculus for fifty years.

Star-Flowered Solomon's Seal, Maianthemum Stellatum

Day 220: It zigs, it zags, the stalk changing direction at each axil, and doesn't stop until it comes to the terminal bud on its flowering stalk (raceme). Star-Flowered Solomon's Seal (Maianthemum stellatum) looks as if it can't make up its mind which direction to grow. The USDA database describes it as occurring in moist sites which support a wide range of overstory plants including poplars and pines, oaks and aspens, but here in the Pacific Northwest, it's found most frequently in mixed forests of Douglas-fir and spruce. Moving downward, it makes its home where willows, Shadbush and Ninebark grow. In the lower tier, it often associates with its relative, False Solomon's Seal (Maianthemum racemosum) and the bedstraws (Galium), both of which provide the ground cover necessary to preserve soil moisture. Its fruit is a round, red berry, and is a valuable food source for Ruffed Grouse. Elk eat the leaves. It thrives in shallow soils and, although the upper portion of the plant may be destroyed, its rhizomes are resistant to fire-kill, both conditions which permit it to reestablish within a few years after a fire.

Heart-Leaved Twayblade, Neottia Cordata

Day 219: I was apparently absent from class the day they changed Listera to Neottia, so when I went to verify the scientific name via the Burke Herbarium's webpage, I couldn't find it under L and had to dig a little deeper to find out how the taxonomy had changed. However, phylogenetic studies revealed that the Twayblades were related to another Neottia known from northern Europe and Russia, and thus it was reassigned. While having to remember new names annoys me, it does help me understand the complex relationships in plant species around the globe.

That said, like many other Orchidaceae, the Twayblades (Neottia, Crow...Neottia) are facultative mycoheterotrophs, i.e., they contain some chlorophyll and therefore do not rely entirely on their mycorrhizal partner to extract nutrients from soil and decaying plant matter. Multiple mycorrhizal associations have been documented, including with certain jelly fungi in the Pacific Northwest, and the plants are pollinated almost exclusively by fungus gnats of various sorts. Neottia cordata is widespread in the northwestern portion of the United States, in the Great Lakes region and in Canada.

Life-List Plant - Barbarea Orthoceras

Day 218: Being in voluntary lockdown has provided me with a good reason to explore the area around my home more thoroughly than ever before. Even so, the last thing I expected was to find a "new" plant in my own extended "back yard." This morning, I went for a somewhat longer ramble to follow a little-known and little-used social trail down to the river. As I turned to come back up the hill, a little yellow flower caught my eye. "And who are you, little guy?" I said. "You have funny long siliques and an odd little flower, and those leaves...you're not a mustard and you're not a Rorippa. Who the heck are you, anyway?" I suspected the poor thing of being a weed, if the truth be told, but after referring to several different sources, I confirmed its identity as a native species, Barbarea orthoceras, aka American wintercress rocket. It's remotely related to the mustards, being a member of the Brassicaceae which also includes such things as turnips, collards and kale as well as Cardamine, Alyssum and the drabas. Collectively known as crucifers, all Brassicas exhibit four-petalled flowers. That was the main clue which put me on the path toward identification of the plant as Barbarea. As a sidebar, Washington has been having a flurry of small earthquakes this last week, but the last one you felt might have been me jumping up and down shouting, "I got a new plant! I got a new plant!"

Vanilla-Leaf, Achlys Triphylla

Day 217: "Vanilla-leaf" might seem to be something of a misnomer for Achlys triphylla upon encountering it green and fresh in our Pacific Northwest forests. It is not until the leaf dries out in the autumn that the scent for which it is named becomes apparent. It is also sometimes called "Sweet-After-Death," another reference to the aroma of the dried foliage. The root is also purported to smell of vanilla, but I enjoy the plants too much to investigate. In the spring, a flower stalk arises from the center of its three leaflets, creamy white in colour and attractive to a number of tiny pollinators, although most pollination occurs by wind dispersal. It is relatively easy to cultivate for the shade garden and in fact, is offered for sale by many nurseries. It prefers moist soil, rich in organic matter, and if happy in its environment, will spread readily to form a lush carpet of green.

Mycoheterotroph Fix

Day 216: For me, the most painful part of voluntary isolation is not being able to go into the woods as much as I'd like, especially as the spring plants are emerging. However, I have been getting my botany fix during my morning walk, and on occasion, it has borne fruit which in turn led to some interesting email conversations with Arnie. One centered around the presence of Corallorhiza maculata at an unusual site: How did it get there? How is it managing to survive? As you may recall from previous posts, the Corallorhizas are mycoheterotrophs. More specifically, C. maculata (Spotted Coralroot) is an obligate mycoheterotroph. Unlike C. trifida, it lacks any trace of chlorophyll, and therefore depends entirely on soil mycorrhizae to break down nutrients into a form it can utilize. One would hardly expect it to pop up in a developed area only a few feet from pavement, and yet that's where I found eight or nine stems. Three or four others can be found in the surrounding forest, but that handful on the parking strip bother me, presenting a botanical puzzle I will never solve. Arnie and I have spent hours in discussion of the relationship between the rarer mycoheterotrophs and specific soil types which exist only in isolated pockets, and while C. maculata is not particularly rare, it does have fairly specific requirements for both soil and mycorrhizal partner. Further, the mycorrhizal components have requirements of their own. Some only grow where certain plant species are present. We refer to this as a species' "plant associations," and as good botanists, we use this knowledge as a tool to help us pinpoint where rare species may potentially occur. How, then, did dear little maculata pop up in a parking space which at some previous point had been scraped flat by a bulldozer? Yes, I'm getting my botany fix even on the short walks I take every morning, always the observer, always open to the questions the forest poses.

Garden Rainbow

Day 215: The images in this collage were all taken on Wednesday afternoon in my garden, but please don't get the idea that my yard is a showpiece. The truth is that it is anything but. The "lawn" is a mass of moss, cat's-ear, dandelions and tough-stemmed grasses, and the shrubs are let go wild, branching however they wish except when they occlude some other plant from sunlight. Better Homes & Gardens would never take photos here, but what my yard lacks in aesthetics, it makes up for in habitat. The birds love it, and so do I.

That said, I'd like to introduce you to some of my floral friends. Not all of them are represented here because some come later, summer folk such as delphiniums and hardy fuchsias. They'll have their day when the spring flush fades.

Top row: blueberry flowers (I should get a ton of berries this year if the pollinators do their job), Asian Bleeding-heart, Lithodora, Kerria japonica, alpine strawberries
Second row: pink heather, English bluebells (can't get rid of them!), peony, hellebore, Centaurea
Third row: assorted columbines
Fourth row: Sitka Mountain Ash (the birds love the berries), red dogwood, Lily-of-the-Valley, lilac, azalea
Bottom row (for groundcover, of course): Heucheras in three shades

Cross This Way

Day 214: It's been five years since I planted two Akebia vines at the corner of my garage in the knowledge that it "takes two to tango" in the Akebia's mating dance. Akebia is not self-fertile. It requires a second plant for successful pollination. Having said that, repeated experiments with the resultant fruit have not resulted in anything particularly appetizing, but the vines have provided me with a unique opportunity to play Gregor Mendel in this documentary of the Akebia's life cycle. Once again, you may find me in the garden, camel-hair paintbrush in hand, the third partner in an exhibition of Akebia porn. (At this point, you might want to send your children into the other room.) My task is simple: stimulate the eager, productive males until they are ready to release their pollen, and then introduce them to the moist, receptive females.

The female Akebia flower is substantially larger than the males which hang around her like groups of oversexed teenage boys. Her multiple pistils exude a sticky substance when she is ready to accept pollen from the males' stamens, but she is selective. She will not accept the offers made to her by the males of her own vine, only those from a second vine. However, the males of my purple Akebia are infertile and in fact, produce very little pollen. This means that I cannot cross from purple to white. The white males are vigorous (fortunately, they don't have the option to wear MAGA hats....just sayin'), and the purple females are more than willing to partner with them. White to white, no; purple to purple, no; purple to white, no; white to purple, BINGO! and then this fall, I'll have another crop of inedible, oddly (if perhaps understandably) phallic Akebia fruit full of huge black seeds which seem to be non-viable. So that said, why do I repeat this experiment every year? Maybe it's because it makes my non-scientific neighbours wonder what I'm doing, or maybe it's just because I can. Either way, it's fun.

Update 5/29/20: Well, this is an interesting turn-up. I seem to have successfully pollinated the white Akebia with its own pollen. I have one cluster (so far) of developing fruit. The species is generally regarded as not being self-fertile, but some sources say that it is partially so. Looks like I proved it!

Bleeding-Hearts, Wild And Tame

Day 213: Sigh. I hadn't planned this post to be another essay on taxonomy (and I'll keep this portion brief), but Bleeding-Hearts, wild and tame, have been a subject of some debate for some time. The waters seem to have reached their own levels at this point, or at least I hope so. Our wild Pacific Bleeding-Heart (left) is still classified as Dicentra formosa, but the Asian Bleeding-Heart (right), coveted for the colour it adds to the shade garden, has been renamed Lamprocapnos spectabilis, although it is still marketed as Dicentra in many places. The native plant bears significantly smaller flowers in a single panicle, as opposed to the horizontal racemes of Lamprocapnos, many of which branch from the main stem and justify the "spectabilis" portion of the scientific name quite admirably. Both have brittle root systems, and thus should not be moved once they are established. Hummingbirds are attracted to the pink flowers and may assist pollination, but the chief pollinators of either type of plant are long-tongued butterflies and bees. Abundant in the forests of my childhood, Pacific Bleeding-Heart is not seen as frequently now, and I feel a slight sense of guilt for all the "hearts" I popped in my youth. If only we had had bubble-wrap in those days!

Prosartes Hookeri And Friend

Day 212: Let's see...I haven't grumbled about taxonomists for what? About a week? Well, they got me again, and I've had to pen another name change into my field guides. While this helps me learn the new names, it plays hob with the indexing. For example, if I have re-educated myself to refer to Hooker's Fairybells as Prosartes hookeri, I also have to remember to look the plant up under Disporum if I want to read the species description. Having "Prosartes" penned in on the photo page doesn't alphabetize it as such in the index, and there's only so much space in the margins to make notes-to-self. This particular specimen threw me for a loop because its stems bore up to five flowers at each tip. I'm lazy. I grab the lighter-weight field guides first, and the first one I pulled out described hookeri as having only two flowers per tip. Assuming that information to be correct, I couldn't make the specimen key out. I finally resorted to the weightier, lap-sized Hitchcock where the plant was correctly described as bearing up to five flowers. That meant pulling out the pen again to annotate the field guides which did not include the information (or stated it incorrectly). Cross-referencing is a valuable tool and should be used whenever possible. Prosartes hookeri (formerly Disporum) can be found in the cool, moist forests of western Washington, and it should be noted that the flowers (up to 5 per tip!) flare and expose the stamens. Now, can you spot the Cranefly?

Stamen Count - Shadbush, Amelanchier Alnifolia

Day 211: Shadbush, Serviceberry, Sarviceberry, Saskatoon...whatever you choose to call it, Amelanchier alnifolia and dwarf A. alnifolia var. pumila are both known to occur in western Washington. The extent of the toothed portion of the leaf margin may be helpful in separating the two, but the real telling point is the number of stamens. Having taken photos of several different specimens during my morning walk, thinking only of getting an acceptable exposure in the pre-dawn light, I found myself faced with a dilemma. I had three different leaf forms, and several references described them as "highly variable." The following morning, I left home with a hand lens hung around my neck and returned to each and every Shadbush I'd photographed the previous day to conduct a stamen count. As it turned out, I didn't need the magnifier. One, two, three...hey, they're kinda in little groups of five! Yup, 20 in every case: Western Serviceberry. The fruits of both types are edible and reminiscent of blueberries, and are great in muffins or waffles if you can get them before the birds do.

Let's Talk Picotee

Day 210: What do certain flowers have in common with crocheting and tatting? Roots. Taken in the semantic sense as opposed to the botanical, we discover that the edges of both forms of needlework are often finished with picots, i.e., little loops of thread or stitches. When a flower is rimmed by a different colour, it is referred to as "picotee." The word has its origins in Middle French, "picot" meaning a point or peak. Google Translate will tell you "picoter" means "tingling," referring to another Middle French definition, "to prick," as in the pins-and-needles sensation experienced by a person whose hand or foot has gone to sleep. Perhaps there's a touch of synesthesia in the etymology demonstrated here, although personally, I find it stretching a point to relate my lovely little African Violet's flowers to the thought of my foot waking up after I've sat on it for an hour while crocheting picots along the border of a tablecloth.

Brown-Headed Cowbird Male

Day 209: Another of my "backyard birds," Brown-Headed Cowbirds exhibit sexual dimorphism, i.e., the males (shown above) are coloured differently than the females. The female is a nondescript brownish-grey, identifiable as a Cowbird most easily when she strikes the pose typical of the species: beak pointed at the sky, the spine in an almost perfectly straight line from the back of the head to the tail. For want of better terms, it makes them look pin-headed and silly, but Cowbirds are not as brainless as they may look. Cowbirds are brood-parasites, which is to say that they do not build their own nests but lay their eggs in the nests of other bird species. Because their eggs (sometimes as many as three dozen in a season!) develop more rapidly than those of their unwitting hosts, the young frequently outcompete the less-developed offspring of the nest-building species. The good news is that some hosts recognize Cowbird eggs when they see them, and may start a new nest on top of the Cowbird eggs, puncture them, or pitch them out of the nest altogether. So how do young Cowbirds know that in fact they are Cowbirds, and not, say, Warblers? Studies have suggested that they recognize both the call and the appearance of adult Cowbirds in just a few weeks from hatching, and may even examine themselves for comparison to adults, as was demonstrated when both young Cowbirds and adults were artifically marked. The young birds, seeing a distinctive marking on themselves, were drawn to similarly marked adults. That said, Brown-Headed Cowbirds are gifted vocal mimics as well. I spent some time trying to figure out how a whinnying horse had gotten fifty feet up an old Doug-fir at my previous home.

The Better Bagel

Day 208: Without question, a bagel should have character. Whether you spread it with cream cheese or butter, the unique taste of the bread should carry through to your palate. Even with lox (a potent flavour indeed!), the bagel should provide a strong base to support its accompaniment. Having not made bagels in probably 30 years, it shouldn't have surprised me that I couldn't find my recipe. I searched all my cookbooks, leafed through all the cards in my file box to be sure I hadn't misplaced it, but I could not find the recipe I knew I'd used. I recalled that it used potato water. That was always a sticking point when I wanted to bake bagels: whether or not I had a spud on hand. The recipes in my assorted books were all milk-based. Milk? In a bagel? Unthinkable! Still, desperate times call for desperate measures, so I used the recipe in the Jones' "Book of Bread" which was almost identical to the one in "Joy of Cooking." That was Wednesday. The result was insipid, bland, flavourless, flat and hardly worthy of the butter I spread on them when I sampled them. I sent out an all-points bulletin to friends, and two responded with a recipe I had also seen on Kosher.com. Halved, it appeared to be close to my tried-and-true (and mislaid) version. I made bagels again on Thursday, real bagels, good bagels, bagels with crunchy crusts and tender, light middles. Alas for having no cream cheese, butter sufficed quite nicely, thank you, and I reproduce the Crow-adapted recipe here as a public service.

Bagels - Makes 12 - Oven temp 425 degrees - Cooking time 23-25 minutes

First, boil a large potato in enough water to yield 1 1/4 cups when drained. Do something else with the potato. It's the water you want. Cool it to lukewarm, or if you're reheating it, reheat it to lukewarm.

Dissolve a scant Tbsp. of dry yeast in 1/4 cup of the potato water. While it's softening, sift 3 1/4 to 3 1/2 cups of flour. In another bowl, thoroughly combine 1/8 cup vegetable oil, 2 tsps. salt, 2 eggs and the remaining potato water. Add 1/2 cup of flour, then add the dissolved yeast. Now stir in enough additional flour to make a soft dough. Turn the dough out onto a floured board and knead for 10 minutes, adding more flour as required (repeat caution here: NEVER force dough to take more flour than it wants!). Place the dough ball in a greased bowl and turn it once to grease both sides. Let raise in a warm place for 1 to 1 1/2 hours (until doubled). Divide the dough into 12 pieces. Form each one into a rope about 6" long and join the ends by dampening them with water and pinching or rolling them together to form circles. Place each shaped bagel on a lightly floured board to prevent sticking. If the holes want to swell shut, stretch them gently apart with floured fingers. Let the shaped bagels rest for 15 minutes while you bring 3 quarts of water plus 2 Tbsp. sugar to a boil. Now comes the fun part! Drop each bagel into the boiling water, no more than three to a pan. They will sink to the bottom. When they float free and the water begins boiling again, time them to boil 1 minute, then flip them over and boil for another minute. Lift them out with a slotted spoon and place on a parchment-lined baking sheet, leaving plenty of space between them. Whip a whole egg and brush on the tops to make a nice glaze. If you're of a mind to do so, you can press poppy/sesame seeds or onion bits onto the glaze. I prefer mine plain. Bake at 425 degrees for 23-25 minutes, depending on how crisp you like the crusts. Enjoy your bagels hot or cooled!

Bergenia, Pigsqueak

Day 207: Yes, it's pink. So why do I keep it around? Let's back up to the point when I first moved into my current home a little over thirty years ago. The flower beds had been let go and were entirely grassed over, and there was very little evidence that they had ever held "tame" plants. A few struggled through the matted grass: columbine, an Oriental poppy, a peony, and something I felt certain was delphinium. Between the house and garage was another area which I dubbed the "Barren Wasteland," occupied primarily by the pit in which the captive-air tank for my well resides. The soil surrounding it was too poor even to support grass. However, there was one exception: a plant with large leathery leaves which made a squeaky noise if rubbed together, as I discovered when I tried to dig them up to move to a better site. They also had roots anchored on the opposite side of the globe, so the relocation project was abandoned almost before it was begun, and the squeaky-leaved plant was allowed to remain, happy as Larry among the rocks and gritty earth. Eventually, from amid the leaves, a flower stalk arose, bearing a panicle of pink...ugh!...flared bells. Having already had the experience of trying to dig it out, I decided to let it remain. I don't see the Barren Wasteland unless I go out to the garage, and at least it provided some colour. It was some time later that I finally identified it as Bergenia, a semi-succulent perennial which also goes by the common name Pigsqueak. Ah, the squeaky leaves! Suddenly, this persistent pink plant had shown a charm to redeem itself, if only that it allows me to say "Pigsqueak!" in a silly voice as I walk past.

Blue-Green Sharpshooter, Hordnia Atropunctata

Day 206: Bug War! Introduced into my garden as an unwanted "bonus" on commercially-grown Red Currant stock, the Blue-Green Sharpshooter infestation stripped my plants of leaves last year despite my best efforts with a detergent-based, environmentally safe insect spray. They're back, and I'm just peeved enough to break out something stronger in order to control them if the need arises. Formerly known as Graphocephala atropunctata or by the alternate common name of Blue-Green Leafhopper, Hordnia is related to Cicadas. The significance of their name becomes very apparent if you happen to disturb them, at which point they will spring from infested plants with an audible click and may strike your skin with a crisp impact similar to that of being peppered with small hail. Hordnia is known to carry a pathogenic bacteria which affects grape vines, attacking the xylem and killing the plant. Not on my watch. This ends here.

Golden-Crowned Puzzle

Day 205: "Tsee-see, soo-soo! Tsee-see, soo-soo!" The pitch was the same as that of the Varied Thrush, but two sets of two syllables instead of one with the notes widely separated, and without the burriness of the Thrush's call. I hear the bird every spring and, to the best of my knowledge, had never laid eyes on it, or at least not to see it issuing the call. "Tsee-see, soo-soo!" was driving me nuts. I listened to every recording of bird calls I have in the house, including the full eight hours of "Birding By Ear," tried different internet sources for recordings and/or mnemonic guides, but nothing fit with the song I was hearing. It had to be a fairly common bird, so I sat out on my back porch, listening. Ten minutes into my vigil, I heard it at a distance. I tried whistling the call, knowing that I can do a passin' fair Varied Thrush owing to the fact that I don't whistle well; in fact, my whistle is thready and weak, somewhat doubled by a crooked front tooth. Sure enough, "Tsee-see, soo-soo!" echoed back to me from a nearby shrub. I whistled again. The response was immediate. Back and forth we went, talking to each other, until finally the bird moved into visual range. I whistled again, and the Golden-Crowned Sparrow perched on the end of the raspberry cage opened its beak and issued his reply. Satisfied that I had solved a mystery of some years' standing, I double-checked with Cornell Labs' "All About Birds" recordings. Yup, Golden-Crowned Sparrow, Zonotrichia atricapilla. "Tsee-see, soo-soo!" to you too, sir!

Black-Headed Grosbeak, Pheucticus Melanocephalus

Day 204: A few days ago, my botany partner wrote to say that the Black-Headed Grosbeaks had arrived at his house and was wondering if I had seen any yet. I had not. However, yesterday morning when I threw back the curtains, I startled half a dozen who were searching the feeders for any leftovers. I immediately put out black-oil sunflower seed, and for the next half hour or so, stood out on the back porch despite rain and wind, watching one of my favourite birds dine at leisure at Cafe Crow. That said, it seems that every time Kevin calls to see if I need groceries, the list I give him begins with some sort of bird seed. Gotta keep my clients happy!

As a point of interest, Black-Headed Grosbeaks are one of very few species of birds who are able to eat Monarch butterflies. Their systems can process the toxins contained in milkweed, the Monarch caterpillar's sole source of food. Particularly in Mexico where Monarchs winter, Black-Headed Grosbeaks consume large numbers of the butterfly. They also consume the toxic berries of both mistletoe and poison oak. Other foods include seeds, insects, arachnids and even small snails. The food chain is a complex web, connected on levels that we barely understand, but the bottom line is this: everybody has to eat, whether it's Black-Headed Grosbeaks consuming Monarch butterflies, crows gobbling robin eggs, or hawks taking songbirds on the wing. There is a balance to be struck, and we should not interfere.

Adenium Plum Beauty

Day 203: Last fall, I purchased a couple of new Adeniums for my indoor windowsill, on sale because it was the end of the season. I potted them up when they arrived, and almost immediately, they began dropping their leaves. Now Adeniums are spindly things anyway, generally a tall stalk topped by a few leaves on the newest growth, so I wasn't overly concerned until Plum Beauty had lost every leaf, every single one. I called the company I'd bought them from, and their advice was to flush the potting soil thoroughly because the genus is sensitive to elevated levels of fertilizer salts. Since I'd put them in enhanced soil when I'd potted them, it was possible that they were responding to being over-fertilized. I did as I was instructed, fully expecting to lose the one, but as you can see from this photo, it responded quite well to the treatment. Since this photo was taken, it's put on two more enormous blossoms and the first is still holding on. That's the reward for living with almost bare stems during the non-flowering months. When Adenium "does its thing," it makes it a major production number.

Creeping Charlie, Glechoma Hederacea

Day 202: Cheerful though he may be, Creeping Charlie (Glechoma hederacea) has plans to take over your lawn and garden. It has a long list of regional common names: ground-ivy, field balm, gill-over-the-ground and my favourite, run-away-robin. It is a member of the Lamiaceae family, and is related to mint. Now those of you who have ever grown mint will have a better picture of what I mean when I say it is "persistent." You're still digging out bits of that peppermint you planted twenty years ago, aren't you? Creeping Charlie takes "persistent" to a whole new level, one which makes your peppermint seem tame by comparison. It is almost impossible to eliminate without resorting to herbicides due to its vining nature and an extensive root system. Even tiny fragments of root are capable of generating new plants, so hand-weeding it is pretty much out of the question unless you have nothing better to do with your time. The only environmentally responsible course of action is to resign yourself to keeping it out of flower beds and letting it have the run of your yard. The good news is that it can be easily cut with the dullest lawn mower blade.

The Loud McLeod

Day 201: I finished twisting the fringe on the loud McLeod shawl yesterday morning, completing what was one of the fastest weaving projects I've ever done. As I was nearing the end of the work at the loom, a friend said, "Whoa! Slow down!" so I took a day off to pull weeds in the garden and catch up on a few other outdoor tasks. Even so, it was only five days from measuring warp to ready-to-wear, and then I found myself again looking at a naked loom. My stock of fibers is by no means low, but not necessarily in colours or quantities which work together. Dithering over a new project, I went for a walk to clear my head and by the time I'd covered a mile, I'd solved the problem. Now exactly what the new project is, I can't say because it's destined to be gifted come Christmas. That said, the table loom is also empty. I think I need to take another "planning" walk, but not in my McLeod shawl. It'd hold up traffic for sure!