August 13, 2021
We've been busy harvesting, bundling and drying herbs for our tea making endeavors. Technically though, since none of the ingredients are from an actual “tea” plant, what we make are “tisanes,” not teas. We've spent the last few years tweaking our custom blends, test driving them, and tweaking some more. I think this may be the year we send them out into the world to see how they are received, and ultimately, offer them for sale. Stay tuned!
Our oyster mushroom logs have been fruiting sporadically as we continue to learn how to, and how not to, grow them. They definitely have different personalities than our shiitakes, and I'm not entirely sure we will ever really get along.
On the other hand, it's been a fantastic year for wild chanterelles. All the rain and heat we had in July created the perfect environment for them on the forest floor. We humans aren't generally inspired by such muggy weather but the chanterelles thrive in it. As a mycorrhizal fungi, the chanterelle spends most of its life underground, living a symbiotic relationship with the host tree's roots. The fungi's mycellium exponentially increase the tree roots capacity to absorb water and nutrients, and from the trees, they receive excess carbon and sugars. When the conditions are right, the mycellium sends up a fruiting body commonly known as a mushroom. Even if the high protein chanterelles weren't delicious – there is nothing about them to not adore. With their carbon sucking ways, mychorrhizal fungi just might save the planet.
The warm days and cooler nights leave us each morning with joy inducing hostess gifts of dew on the grass, and fog on the river. The dew helps quench the thirst of our pastures, and just generally makes the world feel more hospitable. At dawn, the fog on the river in the valley below us, rises as mist and traces the river's serpentine path, as it finds its way south and then abruptly changes its mind and heads north again.
A few nights ago, a garden spider rappelled down from the copper beech on our front lawn, spinning a web from 20 feet up in the tree all the way down to our split rail fence - and back up again. The web she wove was not much bigger than average but the distance the support threads spanned to create it was 11 feet between the fence posts and 20 feet up to the tree branch above. With such a herculean span, it is, I believe, the Golden Gate Bridge of spider webs. I wish I'd been able to watch her weave it - it must have taken her all night. By the time Anne and I first saw the web, it was covered with dew and backlit by the sun coming up over the horizon. We took great care not to disturb it as we admired her creation. Even so, I could visualize her up in the tree, tired from her night's work, glowering at us from the safety of her tree branch. I've been checking it every morning to see how many mosquitos she's caught (not enough!) and to see if she's made any repairs over night. It's just a matter of time before a bird flies through and destroys it, but for now it's ours to enjoy.
That ephemeral joy, like the chanterelles, is a gift just for the gathering. The mist in the valley, the dew on the grass, and the awe inspiring magnificence of a single spider's web - they won't last very long, but the joy is there, regardless, patiently waiting to be harvested.