here, there, everywhere
Yesterday’s wild bee balm bloomed in my kitchen.
We have bees. We don’t do the beekeeping, the U of M does the beekeeping. We are one of their field research sites. We’ve been doing this with them for about 12 years or so. We get the honey, they do what they want with the hive, collect data, and keep us graciously in the loop. Their method for keeping the whole system living over our harsh northern winters involves a two hive system where queens and colonies are swapped back and forth as needed to keep everyone alive and thriving. It is only July 13, and our hives are taller than I have ever seen them in the whole time we have had bees. Each time the bees fill a box with honey, the beekeepers will add a “super” to the hive. Usually by this time in summer, the hive will be the two bases boxes, and 1-2 additional supers–so each hive is maybe 4 boxes tall. Right now, we have a hive that is 8 boxes tall! It looks like a skyscraper, and it is only JULY! And the bee balm only bloomed yesterday and the goldenrod is a whole month away. If the hive gets much taller it will become tippy, so I am guessing the U of M beekeepers will actually start taking boxes to the extraction lab soon. Three cheers for happy honey bees!
wild bee balm (wild bergamot)
one, two…then a million
Yesterday I did not notice any monarda (bee balm) on my comings and goings. Today I say it everywhere. In abundant quantities. Clearly, everyone in the bee balm organization got the memo on the same morning and went right into action. Impressive.
Wild Bergamot, aka wild bee balm (Monarda fistulosa)
a tragedy, then a gift
My friend Kristin has (had?) a robin that makers a nest every year over the light at the entryway to her house. Interestingly, my Mom has the same thing. This year, Kristin’s robin made her nest, laid this vibrant clutch of four eggs, and then went missing never to return. Today, Kristin finally took the nest down and brought me the eggs. The beauty is–once again–overwhelming to me. I am so sad these eggs didn’t get a chance to hatch, and I am so grateful to have gotten this close-up look at such perfection. I can look at a robin’s egg and imagine the infinite.
American robin eggs (Turdus migratorius)
I am in a mood for beauty
I do not know what has gotten into me, but it suddenly feels like everything I see is almost overwhelmingly beautiful. Almost painfully beautiful. I am feeling overwhelmed by the cranes and their colts (they are giving them flying lessons daily now), by the roadside flowers (did the DOT back-off on mowing roadsides lately? It it so pretty out there), by the color of the sunsets over the lake from our north facing deck. I am sure you are thinking it is probably because we are finally back in our beloved home after a 14 months in an apartment following the fire. But I feel like more than that is going on. I feel tapped into something.
By the way, I went almost entirely media free following the fire, so perhaps that is contributing. Whatever it is, I love it.
Case in point: a single over-wintered cattail leaf bent into a pleasing curve suggesting a staff. So beautiful.
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cattail leaf (dried from being over-wintered)
Still green black walnuts
This week my husband and son are making two different black walnut liqueurs: Nocino (An Italian spirit) and Vin de Noix (A French cordial). Steve has been waiting for the young, still green, walnuts of the black walnut tree to reach a specific size for harvesting and macerating. The nuts need to be formed inside the husks but still tender enough to slice through with a knife. In southern France, Jean-Luc always harvested his walnuts (English walnuts not our native black walnuts) on La fête de la Saint-Jean, the Nativity of St. John the Baptist, which is June 24. Here in our northern climate, the nuts have just reached the right maturity this first week of July. Now we macerate for a month, and then, as Jean-Luc’s wife Nicole has told us, “The older it is the better it tastes, so be patient!”
black walnut tree leaves and nuts (Juglans nigra)
It’s so pretty and such a delicious color! And how cool to be involved, in a minor way, in the U of M’s project. How much honey do you typically get each year? Sounds as if it’s gonna be a bumper crop this year. I grow the native Eastern beebalm, which looks very much the same as yours. It blooms in May and, delightfully, has taken over a corner of one garden bed. Love the seed heads, and i know you do too!
Wow! I learn something new here every day. Thank you.