“Parts is parts,” so the fried chicken commercial went. To many, the same lack of appreciation applies to mint. But mint isn’t just mint.
Most everyone who has ever cultivated a few herbs for kitchen use has set out some mint plants. These were either peppermint or spearmint. Of the two, peppermint has a more delicate nature and requires more care in order to keep it over the winter. Spearmint, though, seems capable of not only existing but also thriving in the most inhospitable environments.
Hybridizers have created lots of new mint varieties. These come in a wide range of flavors, some of which seem inappropriate (chocolate mint comes immediately to mind). Others have a pleasing appearance, variegated peppermint, for example.
But what did people do before the introduction of European varieties of mint arrived on these shores? Simple. They went to the nearest stream, brook or wet area and harvested the abundant wild mint that offers itself so freely to our use.
Wild mint, Mentha canadensis, grows throughout Maine. It differs from cultivated mint in that it has a more powerful and I think cleaner, minty fragrance.
Each summer, I visit different trout streams (fishing and foraging go well together) and do my best to catch a few brook trout and harvest a bag of mint. Whether or not the trout bite, I usually come home with some mint. This, I dry by placing in a brown ash basket and hanging it from a beam in my kitchen. The fully dried mint then goes into a recycled spaghetti sauce jar, there to remain until winter arrives and fresh mint is no longer available.
Sometimes I crave a cup of hot, mint tea. A heaping teaspoon of crushed, wild mint leaves and a scant cup of boiling water make for a strong brew. The hot water releases the fragrant volatile oils and these immediately infuse the air with their captivating aroma.
I sip on my wild mint tea, careful to finish it while it is still hot. The relaxing effect of this simple ritual is profound. For me, wild mint tea rivals homemade chicken soup in healing and comforting power.
People employed mint for culinary and medicinal uses since Biblical times. This unassuming plant long ago found its way into classical literature. Chaucer wrote in his Roumant of the Rose:
“Then wente I forthe on my right honde,
Downe by a little path I fonde,
Of mintes full and fenell greene.”
Alluding to one of mint’s medicinal virtues, Pliny wrote: “The smell of mint doth stir up the minde and taste to a greedy desire for meat.”
For me, mint is an old and dear friend. It soothes me, settles my tummy and does more than a little to promote good health.
Were I to have only one wild herb at my disposal, I would surely choose mint.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Home Canning Pays In Dividends
Canned food rates low on the list of gourmet foods. In general, fresh is best, frozen is okay and canned…well, canned goods don’t get any respect at all.
Perhaps canned food gets its bad name from the stuff we buy in the store. These vegetables are raised with little concern for taste or flavor. Instead, commercial companies must get the highest return for their cash outlay. So lots and lots of, for instance, big but not-too-tasty green beans outweigh a smaller crop of tender and sumptuous green beans.
But some canned goods truly rate as fine food or, as Alton Brown would say, “Good Eats.” Some home-canned products fall into this category.
As a forager, much of my diet consists of wild plants that I harvest in season and then either pressure-can or freeze for later use. As with domestic vegetables, I’ve found that some plants lend themselves well to home canning and others are best frozen. A few excel as either canned or frozen foods. Let me tell you about two of my favorite home-canned products.
Taraxacum officinale
Okay, I used a fancy word…actually, the official botanical name, for the common and lowly dandelion. But dandelions are more than just a favorite of old-time country people. And they have more to them than simply their inestimable value as vitamin powerhouses. Dandelions excel as a home-canned food.
It seems to me that something happens to dandelions in the pressure-canning process, something that enhances their inherent sweetness and diminishes that bitter taste that so many people object to. While I revel in fresh dandelions each spring (also in fall, after the first few killing frosts make dandelions less bitter), I absolutely go nuts for my home-canned dandelions in winter. These are so good that I save them for special times, to go with extra-yummy cuts of lamb or perhaps, fresh fish.
I would feel totally unprepared and even slovenly were I to head into winter without my shelf filled with home-canned dandelions.
Plantago juncoides
Okay, I did it again. Plantago juncoides is the scientific name for seaside plantain, or what old-timers once called, “shore greens.” The other common name, “goosetongue,” seems most appropriate, though, since the individual leaves are shaped much like their namesake.
Without going into detail about how to find or identify goosetongue (it’s all available in my book, Wild Plants Of Maine), I will say that goosetongue rates right up there with dandelions as a superb canned food. In fact, today I had a noontime meal of shrimp Scampi. This used my own, homegrown garlic and a side dish of home-canned goosetongue sprinkled with white vinegar and some Cajun seasoning. The end result was a gustatory treat.
For me, home-canned goods are preferable to even fresh, commercially-grown vegetables. My “freezer foraging” provides many inspired and elegant meals.
By the way, my next column in the upcoming winter issue of Maine Food & Lifestyle Magazine features freezer foraging and includes some recipes.
Perhaps canned food gets its bad name from the stuff we buy in the store. These vegetables are raised with little concern for taste or flavor. Instead, commercial companies must get the highest return for their cash outlay. So lots and lots of, for instance, big but not-too-tasty green beans outweigh a smaller crop of tender and sumptuous green beans.
But some canned goods truly rate as fine food or, as Alton Brown would say, “Good Eats.” Some home-canned products fall into this category.
As a forager, much of my diet consists of wild plants that I harvest in season and then either pressure-can or freeze for later use. As with domestic vegetables, I’ve found that some plants lend themselves well to home canning and others are best frozen. A few excel as either canned or frozen foods. Let me tell you about two of my favorite home-canned products.
Taraxacum officinale
Okay, I used a fancy word…actually, the official botanical name, for the common and lowly dandelion. But dandelions are more than just a favorite of old-time country people. And they have more to them than simply their inestimable value as vitamin powerhouses. Dandelions excel as a home-canned food.
It seems to me that something happens to dandelions in the pressure-canning process, something that enhances their inherent sweetness and diminishes that bitter taste that so many people object to. While I revel in fresh dandelions each spring (also in fall, after the first few killing frosts make dandelions less bitter), I absolutely go nuts for my home-canned dandelions in winter. These are so good that I save them for special times, to go with extra-yummy cuts of lamb or perhaps, fresh fish.
I would feel totally unprepared and even slovenly were I to head into winter without my shelf filled with home-canned dandelions.
Plantago juncoides
Okay, I did it again. Plantago juncoides is the scientific name for seaside plantain, or what old-timers once called, “shore greens.” The other common name, “goosetongue,” seems most appropriate, though, since the individual leaves are shaped much like their namesake.
Without going into detail about how to find or identify goosetongue (it’s all available in my book, Wild Plants Of Maine), I will say that goosetongue rates right up there with dandelions as a superb canned food. In fact, today I had a noontime meal of shrimp Scampi. This used my own, homegrown garlic and a side dish of home-canned goosetongue sprinkled with white vinegar and some Cajun seasoning. The end result was a gustatory treat.
For me, home-canned goods are preferable to even fresh, commercially-grown vegetables. My “freezer foraging” provides many inspired and elegant meals.
By the way, my next column in the upcoming winter issue of Maine Food & Lifestyle Magazine features freezer foraging and includes some recipes.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Enjoying winter in comfort
Wild Plants And Wooly Bears
With temperatures holding in the low 20’s even in the daytime and a deep blanket of snow covering the ground, my cottage is finally warm.
Huh? Doesn’t that sound counter-intuitive? Sure it does. Let me explain.
As with so many Maine cottages, mine sits on posts rather than on a solid foundation or even a poured concrete pad. So each fall, I must apply banking to the bottom of my wee cottage. The best stuff for the job by far is felt paper, what most of us used to call “tarred paper.”
Tarred paper, being black, helps absorb heat from the sun. But far more important, it blocks the chilling effects of winter winds. And that means a lot. Even so, tarred paper alone does not fully stop the insidious incursions of creeping, arctic air. Add an insulating layer of snow, however, and tarred paper becomes a highly efficient insulator.
So this last storm, a blizzard, put me into the comfort zone by dumping perhaps 18 inches of snow around my house. This had the effect of raising the indoor temperature by approximately 5 degrees, a really big deal.
I get a charge out of this kind of thing, since it points out how closely tied I am to nature and to the vicissitudes and caprices of each changing season. Temperature, wind or lack thereof, moon phase, presence or lack of sunlight, all have a direct effect upon my life. I truly feel pity for those who are so dependent upon manmade things that they fail to notice seasonal nuances.
At the same time, I suppose someone out there feels pity for me, too, poor wretch, having to cut and carry wood just to keep warm. But it’s what I have always known and it’s my own choice.
So let the winter wind howl, the snow fall and the temperature plummet. I’ll entertain myself by sitting by the woodstove and playing my Irish bagpipes. Later, I’ll cook a meal, perhaps on the woodstove and if not, on a gas range, of food that I either grew, foraged or butchered myself. For me, it just doesn’t get much better.
With temperatures holding in the low 20’s even in the daytime and a deep blanket of snow covering the ground, my cottage is finally warm.
Huh? Doesn’t that sound counter-intuitive? Sure it does. Let me explain.
As with so many Maine cottages, mine sits on posts rather than on a solid foundation or even a poured concrete pad. So each fall, I must apply banking to the bottom of my wee cottage. The best stuff for the job by far is felt paper, what most of us used to call “tarred paper.”
Tarred paper, being black, helps absorb heat from the sun. But far more important, it blocks the chilling effects of winter winds. And that means a lot. Even so, tarred paper alone does not fully stop the insidious incursions of creeping, arctic air. Add an insulating layer of snow, however, and tarred paper becomes a highly efficient insulator.
So this last storm, a blizzard, put me into the comfort zone by dumping perhaps 18 inches of snow around my house. This had the effect of raising the indoor temperature by approximately 5 degrees, a really big deal.
I get a charge out of this kind of thing, since it points out how closely tied I am to nature and to the vicissitudes and caprices of each changing season. Temperature, wind or lack thereof, moon phase, presence or lack of sunlight, all have a direct effect upon my life. I truly feel pity for those who are so dependent upon manmade things that they fail to notice seasonal nuances.
At the same time, I suppose someone out there feels pity for me, too, poor wretch, having to cut and carry wood just to keep warm. But it’s what I have always known and it’s my own choice.
So let the winter wind howl, the snow fall and the temperature plummet. I’ll entertain myself by sitting by the woodstove and playing my Irish bagpipes. Later, I’ll cook a meal, perhaps on the woodstove and if not, on a gas range, of food that I either grew, foraged or butchered myself. For me, it just doesn’t get much better.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
The Mural
A huge mural covered an entire wall in an old-time doctor’s waiting room. It showed a stand of white pines in winter. It was early morning and filtered sunlight created a dappled effect on the snow.
The old doc has long since passed away, his home and office sold to people who probably never knew the man. But this isn’t about the doctor; it’s about the mural.
For me, that picture epitomized winter. While waiting to enter the examination room, I would often sit and stare at the thing, allowing myself to become part and parcel of it. It had a cold, yet clean and pleasing feeling about it.
That same feeling has come upon me many times over the intervening years and it always takes me back to that mural.
Every once in a while, the mural springs to life when hazy, cirrus clouds filter the morning sunlight in just the right way. Then, the white pines behind my house become the trees in that picture. Looking at them I tell myself that I have seen this before, have experienced this before. It becomes a moment in time that repeats itself every so often, an old friend with a likeable and familiar habit.
It seems improper for me to examine this thing too closely. Acknowledging and accepting it without question makes much more sense.
The old doc has long since passed away, his home and office sold to people who probably never knew the man. But this isn’t about the doctor; it’s about the mural.
For me, that picture epitomized winter. While waiting to enter the examination room, I would often sit and stare at the thing, allowing myself to become part and parcel of it. It had a cold, yet clean and pleasing feeling about it.
That same feeling has come upon me many times over the intervening years and it always takes me back to that mural.
Every once in a while, the mural springs to life when hazy, cirrus clouds filter the morning sunlight in just the right way. Then, the white pines behind my house become the trees in that picture. Looking at them I tell myself that I have seen this before, have experienced this before. It becomes a moment in time that repeats itself every so often, an old friend with a likeable and familiar habit.
It seems improper for me to examine this thing too closely. Acknowledging and accepting it without question makes much more sense.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Learning, An Ongoing Process
Wild Plants And Wooly Bears
For me the days of formal education are long past. But that doesn’t mean I can’t learn. In my case, learning happens by watching, listening, observing and reading. Just this past week, I picked up a slue of interesting facts, a few of which I’ll share here.
First, I discovered something that shocked me. I read that red squirrels eat mushrooms that are toxic to people. It always seemed to me that animals shared the same fate as people when exposed to toxins found in certain mushrooms. Normally, I would have a difficult time believing this, but the source seems quite impeccable.
Next, I read that while a single, dead leaf weighs only a couple hundredths of an ounce, the total autumn leaf fall for one acre of hardwood forest weighs upward of one-and-one-half tons. Who would have thought?
And finally, I found that it is possible to “hear” a meteor shower. While the near-full moon made it difficult to observe the recent Perseid meteor shower, anyone with an old-fashioned radio could tune in, so to speak.
The trick to this is to find an open FM frequency somewhere around 91 on the radio dial and leave it on. When an unseen meteor darts across the sky way past the horizon, its path serves to bounce radio signals down on a wide angle. These are called “blips.” In other words, someone in Waldo, Maine, could hear bits and pieces of radio shows from, say, Oklahoma, Colorado or in fact, just about anywhere.
During an intense meteor shower, the blips can be near-continuous.
Such stuff as this fascinates me. I think that as long as I continue watching, listening and reading, the learning process will help to keep me young.
For me the days of formal education are long past. But that doesn’t mean I can’t learn. In my case, learning happens by watching, listening, observing and reading. Just this past week, I picked up a slue of interesting facts, a few of which I’ll share here.
First, I discovered something that shocked me. I read that red squirrels eat mushrooms that are toxic to people. It always seemed to me that animals shared the same fate as people when exposed to toxins found in certain mushrooms. Normally, I would have a difficult time believing this, but the source seems quite impeccable.
Next, I read that while a single, dead leaf weighs only a couple hundredths of an ounce, the total autumn leaf fall for one acre of hardwood forest weighs upward of one-and-one-half tons. Who would have thought?
And finally, I found that it is possible to “hear” a meteor shower. While the near-full moon made it difficult to observe the recent Perseid meteor shower, anyone with an old-fashioned radio could tune in, so to speak.
The trick to this is to find an open FM frequency somewhere around 91 on the radio dial and leave it on. When an unseen meteor darts across the sky way past the horizon, its path serves to bounce radio signals down on a wide angle. These are called “blips.” In other words, someone in Waldo, Maine, could hear bits and pieces of radio shows from, say, Oklahoma, Colorado or in fact, just about anywhere.
During an intense meteor shower, the blips can be near-continuous.
Such stuff as this fascinates me. I think that as long as I continue watching, listening and reading, the learning process will help to keep me young.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Live, Learn, Love and Be Happy
Wild Plants And Wooly Bears
Unanticipated distractions kept me from sitting outside Saturday night and enjoying the stars. Nonetheless, before turning in, I stepped outside and took a peek at what was going on in the heavens. Of course it wasn’t my normal stargazing hour and constellations were in a different part of the sky from what I was used to.
There in the southeast was what I thought was Pisces. But being tired, I didn’t take close note and so went inside and turned in for the night.
The next morning, just as I was leaving for church, I had a thought that stopped me from leaving at my normal time. A vision of that constellation came into my consciousness. I had to know exactly what it was and instead of heading out, went back to the table and consulted star charts for that particular time and date.
It was Pisces all right, the Circlet of Pisces, to be exact. I congratulated myself on being able to recognize the thing and set off for church, nearly 10 minutes late.
Down the road about 2 miles, I got a shiver. This one stretch of unimproved (and I use the term very, very loosely) road has been the scene of at least two one-vehicle accidents in the past month, each occurring on Sunday morning. Both were young people driving way too fast. One had rolled over, the other had jumped off the road and landed on the other side of the stream. To my knowledge, nobody was injured in either accident.
But this time was different. With thoughts of wrecked vehicles on my mind, I drove slowly, looking ahead, watching for that speed-crazed person who might ram me head-on. And then I saw it.
A bloody hand waving just over the guardrails by a stream crossing. Then the whole scene came into focus. The hand belonged to a young man on the ground and behind him was a truck on its side, flush against a large poplar tree. A fuel pump lay in the road, as did a wheel, some bits of grill, glass and lots of small parts.
I pulled to the side of the road, my stomach in knots. Walking up to the bloody human lying there, I felt my gorge rise. He was covered in blood, his face was covered, his eyes almost blotted out with blood and a huge gash on his back. I imagined I saw internal organs, but I’m not sure of that.
“Call an ambulance,” he yelled. Seeing that he was conscious, and also, that his vehicle was not on fire nor leaking gas…I didn’t smell gasoline, I left him there and drove to the next house to call for help. But the woman wouldn’t answer the door. Deaf, I would imagine. She is an old woman.
The next house was full of people and they responded quickly. I told them the location and then several of them headed back with me to the accident scene.
Piecing the thing together, it looked as if the guy had wandered off the road, inattention perhaps, jumped the guardrail, leapt over a 20-foot wide stream and slammed against a tree on the far side. I tried to calculate the speed it would require to accomplish this feat, but it was beyond my ability.
When others began arriving, I decided to leave rather than stay and be in the way. At church, I managed to get my rattled nerves back together, at least somewhat. And then it hit me.
If I hadn’t listened to that small, almost inaudible voice telling me to take time and look at my star atlas, I might have been on the receiving end of that misguided missile in the form of a pickup truck.
I escaped harm and also, just happened to arrive immediately after the crash so that I could go and call for help. What might have happened if any part of this scenario had been different? I shudder to think.
Just what is such a tale doing in my Wild Plants And Wooly Bears blog? Exactly this. Before these events took place, I was happily immersed in a beautiful, sunny late-fall day. My thoughts were on nature and all the wonderful things that creation provides us in this life. It never occurred to me that in a microsecond, everything could shut off, end for good.
This tells me that we need to enjoy, appreciate and do everything in our power to soak in every day, no matter if it be sunny or cloudy. The little things that bother us, disputes with others, noisy neighbors, political beefs and so on…. they’re all meaningless.
So enjoy each day. And enjoy tomorrow. Live. Learn. Love. And be happy.
Unanticipated distractions kept me from sitting outside Saturday night and enjoying the stars. Nonetheless, before turning in, I stepped outside and took a peek at what was going on in the heavens. Of course it wasn’t my normal stargazing hour and constellations were in a different part of the sky from what I was used to.
There in the southeast was what I thought was Pisces. But being tired, I didn’t take close note and so went inside and turned in for the night.
The next morning, just as I was leaving for church, I had a thought that stopped me from leaving at my normal time. A vision of that constellation came into my consciousness. I had to know exactly what it was and instead of heading out, went back to the table and consulted star charts for that particular time and date.
It was Pisces all right, the Circlet of Pisces, to be exact. I congratulated myself on being able to recognize the thing and set off for church, nearly 10 minutes late.
Down the road about 2 miles, I got a shiver. This one stretch of unimproved (and I use the term very, very loosely) road has been the scene of at least two one-vehicle accidents in the past month, each occurring on Sunday morning. Both were young people driving way too fast. One had rolled over, the other had jumped off the road and landed on the other side of the stream. To my knowledge, nobody was injured in either accident.
But this time was different. With thoughts of wrecked vehicles on my mind, I drove slowly, looking ahead, watching for that speed-crazed person who might ram me head-on. And then I saw it.
A bloody hand waving just over the guardrails by a stream crossing. Then the whole scene came into focus. The hand belonged to a young man on the ground and behind him was a truck on its side, flush against a large poplar tree. A fuel pump lay in the road, as did a wheel, some bits of grill, glass and lots of small parts.
I pulled to the side of the road, my stomach in knots. Walking up to the bloody human lying there, I felt my gorge rise. He was covered in blood, his face was covered, his eyes almost blotted out with blood and a huge gash on his back. I imagined I saw internal organs, but I’m not sure of that.
“Call an ambulance,” he yelled. Seeing that he was conscious, and also, that his vehicle was not on fire nor leaking gas…I didn’t smell gasoline, I left him there and drove to the next house to call for help. But the woman wouldn’t answer the door. Deaf, I would imagine. She is an old woman.
The next house was full of people and they responded quickly. I told them the location and then several of them headed back with me to the accident scene.
Piecing the thing together, it looked as if the guy had wandered off the road, inattention perhaps, jumped the guardrail, leapt over a 20-foot wide stream and slammed against a tree on the far side. I tried to calculate the speed it would require to accomplish this feat, but it was beyond my ability.
When others began arriving, I decided to leave rather than stay and be in the way. At church, I managed to get my rattled nerves back together, at least somewhat. And then it hit me.
If I hadn’t listened to that small, almost inaudible voice telling me to take time and look at my star atlas, I might have been on the receiving end of that misguided missile in the form of a pickup truck.
I escaped harm and also, just happened to arrive immediately after the crash so that I could go and call for help. What might have happened if any part of this scenario had been different? I shudder to think.
Just what is such a tale doing in my Wild Plants And Wooly Bears blog? Exactly this. Before these events took place, I was happily immersed in a beautiful, sunny late-fall day. My thoughts were on nature and all the wonderful things that creation provides us in this life. It never occurred to me that in a microsecond, everything could shut off, end for good.
This tells me that we need to enjoy, appreciate and do everything in our power to soak in every day, no matter if it be sunny or cloudy. The little things that bother us, disputes with others, noisy neighbors, political beefs and so on…. they’re all meaningless.
So enjoy each day. And enjoy tomorrow. Live. Learn. Love. And be happy.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
The Need For Green Plants
Wild Plants And Wooly Bears
We humans, whether we know it or not, have a need for green plants that transcends their ability to produce oxygen and provide food. It occurs to me now, while a few leaves yet cling to hardwood trees and my lawn cries out for one more mowing, that soon the world as we know it will undergo a dramatic transformation. It will turn white and green, growing things will seem so very distant.
Which is one reason that I do my best to circumvent the change, or at the least, stave it off for as long as possible. To that end, I have dug up some mint from outside and put it in a large planter in front of my south-facing glass door. In the same planter I have added Swiss chard. Hopefully, by mid-winter, I’ll have fresh chard for the occasional side dish and mint for use in tea and on lamb.
Also, the green stuff, chard and lettuce, in my unheated greenhouse, usually persists until well into December. When even that finally gives up the ghost, I resort to sorting through the plant photos that I took the previous spring, summer and fall. And sometimes, I’ll thumb through books, usually vividly-illustrated, old volumes featuring color plates of the various wild plants.
So viewing myself and my habits as if from afar, I realize that these things are all done according to a need. And as hinted at above, we all share that same need. Some evidence this by leaving Maine in late fall and heading south for the winter. It’s not just to get away from ice and snow, either. It’s to get in touch, once again, with green, growing things.
I'm sure that someone will wonder why I don't mention houseplants. These help, of course, but since they are present year-round, they never become conspicuous by their absence. Houseplants are fixtures, a given, and not indicative of change.
Taking things one step further, I believe that the green plants, particularly the wild ones, represent life. And more. For some, they are analogous to spiritual life, something beyond what we know now.
In short, our continuing relationship with green plants is a be-all to end-all of sorts, absolutely necessary for our well-being.
We humans, whether we know it or not, have a need for green plants that transcends their ability to produce oxygen and provide food. It occurs to me now, while a few leaves yet cling to hardwood trees and my lawn cries out for one more mowing, that soon the world as we know it will undergo a dramatic transformation. It will turn white and green, growing things will seem so very distant.
Which is one reason that I do my best to circumvent the change, or at the least, stave it off for as long as possible. To that end, I have dug up some mint from outside and put it in a large planter in front of my south-facing glass door. In the same planter I have added Swiss chard. Hopefully, by mid-winter, I’ll have fresh chard for the occasional side dish and mint for use in tea and on lamb.
Also, the green stuff, chard and lettuce, in my unheated greenhouse, usually persists until well into December. When even that finally gives up the ghost, I resort to sorting through the plant photos that I took the previous spring, summer and fall. And sometimes, I’ll thumb through books, usually vividly-illustrated, old volumes featuring color plates of the various wild plants.
So viewing myself and my habits as if from afar, I realize that these things are all done according to a need. And as hinted at above, we all share that same need. Some evidence this by leaving Maine in late fall and heading south for the winter. It’s not just to get away from ice and snow, either. It’s to get in touch, once again, with green, growing things.
I'm sure that someone will wonder why I don't mention houseplants. These help, of course, but since they are present year-round, they never become conspicuous by their absence. Houseplants are fixtures, a given, and not indicative of change.
Taking things one step further, I believe that the green plants, particularly the wild ones, represent life. And more. For some, they are analogous to spiritual life, something beyond what we know now.
In short, our continuing relationship with green plants is a be-all to end-all of sorts, absolutely necessary for our well-being.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)