Wordless Wednesday

Unidentified Insects, Phippsburg, Maine

"Tomato Crazy" A Cult Classic Starring Robin Robinson

     Recently, I was asked, "Do you have too many tomatoes?" I didn't hesitate. "No! I could never have too many tomatoes!" But, that's not totally true. In years past, when I've had big vegetable gardens, I have had too many tomatoes. I've called people and asked the same question. I think a common trait amongst vegetable gardeners is frugality. Most vegetable gardeners don't throw produce out unless it goes onto their own compost heap where it will one day give again. They freeze, can,  cook and besiege friends and co-workers with bountiful gifts of harvest. That's a nice way of saying that they unload the end results of their compulsions and guilt on other people in the form of tomatoes, zucchini, peppers, tomatillos, parsley or cucumbers (shall I go on?).
   One year, in the refrigerator, at the bottom of a plastic bag, I had one potato that had sprouted eyes like purple tentacles. I buried it in the vegetable garden for kicks and forgot about it. At the end of the season, after the first frost turned the greens to black slime, I decided to dig it up. I pushed the garden fork into the soil, pressing downward with my foot. I felt something underground - resistance. So as not to gouge the potatoes, I backed off the fork and moved out a little. I pushed again. More resistance. Moving outward, I pushed in again. I kept at this, moving further and further out each time. I was thinking, "What the hell is under there?!" It couldn't be a potato! It would have to be the size of a Volkswagen! Eventually, I dug up a lone potato that was, in fact, the size of a Volkswagen. Or, to be honest, maybe a SmartCar. I swear - it had a pulse or at least, its own zip code. It was enormous! It was so big, that I couldn't bring myself to chop it up. It was a country fair freak show vegetable, a side show. It could have been featured in a tent; to enter, only people over 18 could get a ticket. "Come one! Come all! Get a peek at the pulsing, colossus!" the hawker would chant to passers by. At the very least, it could have starred in a David Lynch cult movie. After all, there was weird asparagus in the 1977 classic, Eraserhead. I had a star on my hands! I decided to take it to work.
     At the time, I worked for Blue Cross Blue Shield, or "Blue Cross Blue Cheese," as  I liked to call it. By any name, it was a white collar cubicle hell that would have put Dilbert in a psychiatric unit. It was a staid, dull work place. And, that was before Community Supported Agriculture groups (CSAs) and before "organic" became a markettable concept. "Take A Vegetable To Work Day" had not yet been conceived, either.
     I wasn't the only one who brought produce to work. However, others generally brought things like fat and sugar laden zucchini bread, or maybe a daring jar of Bread And Butter pickles, certainly not a humungous, grotesque, single potato.  Well, there was that woman who brought the incessant dahlias. Her dahlias kept on giving until I wanted to scream. I like dahlias, but when a person insists on giving them to you over and over again because they can't stop them selves and neither can their dahlias, well that's another thing entirely. When no one would take them anymore, she showed up with mayonnaise jars full of them every day. The office looked like a dahlia funeral home. They were everywhere! The receptionist's head was not even visible when a person entered the building. When a visitor approached her desk, they talked to a big, pink or yellow or peach or white dahlia depending on the day. Sometimes it was deep red ones that looked like raw beef steak on a stick.  I can't even remember the dahlia woman's name. Dahlia? Maybe her name was actually Dahlia. Come to think of it, I can't remember her face either. I only have this image of a doughty, female form with a head like a giant, "Dinner Plate" dahlia. It's not an attractive image, either. The body is a mayonnaise jar with a voice speaking from a dahlia face. It's hideous, a nightmare to be sure. I know what you're thinking: I brought the giant potato to the same place of employment. But I only did that once.
      We had just recently been given e mail in the office. E mail was a brand new tool and it was only available in house. The Internet existed, but only the military had it. Can you imagine that? All of our information sharing was done on paper in the form of memos. There was a lot of grumbling and complaining about e mail. "What do we have to learn to do this for?" And there were people who refused to learn to do it. But, I embraced the whole idea. I was a quick study and learned to use it very quickly. One of the first things I did was tell the entire two hundred plus cubicles about my potato.
     I raffled it off. I didn't take money, much as I would have liked to. I understood the power of e mail and what I could gain from it, but I had limits. That's the only reason I wasn't the original founder of eBay. Even I realized I could lose my job by exploiting my potato and using company resources to do it. So, I had people guess the weight of the potato. The person who came closest could have the potato cooked to their specifications by me. I was a pretty decent cook, so this was an incentive. I made a whole 9x13 dish of au'gratin from that single potato which weighed...............2.8 pounds. It seemed like a anti-climactic end to the splendid spud, but after all - at it's heart it was just a potato.
     With the tomatoes bestowed upon me last week, I made cream of tomato soup. I had left over brown rice and used about a cup of lovage. I have lovage in my minuscule container garden. It was given to me by another crazed gardener, of course. Even my son the chef doesn't know what lovage is, never mind what to do with it, I asked. I used fresh thyme, basil and parsley. The cream base was fat free Greek yogurt and milk. I threw in a couple of generous glugs of white wine - the remaining quarter cup at the bottom of the bottle where the fruit flies had drowned. David loved the soup so much, he's been dreaming about it at night. He thrashes in his sleep and babbles about it during the day as if driven insane. "That tomato soup was so good! I drive around town and see everybody's tomatoes going to hell and I just want to take them. It's driving me crazy.........." he trailed off. He seemed confused, dazed, in a tomato haze. Maybe I'll ask him if he wants to star in a movie.............I'll call it "Tomato Crazy."    

This is another cooking drama from which bad dreams were born. Stay tuned.

Scenic Sunday

 

"ASSASSIN!" Red-eyed Vireo With Assassin Bug

     A few days ago, while Weeding For Dollars and  minding my own business, I was suddenly surrounded by dozens of little birds. Going for my camera, there was a flurry of five or six Tufted Titmice slamming into the screen door as if trying to get into the house. With them were Chickadees, Red-breasted Nuthatches, a Northern Parula, Yellow-rumped warblers, Cedar waxwings and this Red-eyed vireo. The shrubs and trees were rich and alive with twittering, tweeting chittering passerines. It felt like an attack!
     Passerines are birds in the order Passeriformes. Nearly half of all birds fall into this group including the perching birds and songbirds. The little tweetie birds are Passerines. During migration in either spring or fall, the trees buzz and trill with them as they pass through, gleaning insects and picking seeds as fast as they can. Especially in fall, they congregate in mixed flocks like the one that overwhelmed me.
     The Red-eyed vireo jumped from the leaves in front of me carrying this insect. I think it's an Assassin Bug. Assassin bugs are predacious. They lie in wait to ambush their prey. Then, they stab the victim with their proboscis or beak and suck out the vital juices. There are 3,000 species of 'Conenose bugs,' also called 'Kissing bugs." About 100 of them suck blood. The blood sucking members of the family are abundant in warm climates.  In South America, there is one member of the family Reduviidae that bites humans around the eye lids and lips. It crawls onto the face while the person is sleeping inflicting a painful bite. They carry a potentially deadly protozoan causing potentially fatal Chagas Disease. Chagas Disease, called "mal de Chagas", in Paraguay is similar to Sleeping Sickness which occurs in Africa.
     During my tour in the Peace Corps in Paraguay, I was bitten by one of these monsters while I slept. When I woke up, my entire left eye was swelled shut. I was tested from Chagas Disease, but the results were inconclusive. Maybe I had it; maybe I didn't. The organism can remain dormant in the body for decades. To date, I have not developed symptoms. It's been over thirty years, but I'm still waiting. Assassin bugs here aren't a threat to anyone, so I wouldn't kill one. Still, I admit to a certain glee at seeing it about to be lunch for the Vireo. "Who's the assassin now, mister?"

Sandfire, Pickles & Mouse Nipples - Salicornia Or Sarcocornia

    A few days ago, while birding on Green Point in Phippsburg, I photographed this stunning plant. The top photo is the same plant, just not as mature as the one on the bottom. It was growing on a sandbar along the shore on what would be considered tidal marsh amongst eel grasses and Sea Lavender. I just thought it was pretty, but it turns out to be a complex and useful plant. Put it this way, if you ever wind up on the moon or a desert island with me, you'll thank your lucky stars. 

      Sarcocornia is a subfamily member of the genus Salicornia, a large family of salt-tolerant succulents. The taxonomy of this family is difficult and controversial because the morphology of the plants is very similar. You've really got to be a botanist to sort it out.  Though many authors disagree, the plants are generally separated based on the flower structure and whether they are perennial or shrubby, versus annual. The botanical name has changed several times because the the separation of Sarcocornia from Salicornia was not generally accepted until after the start of the 21st century. In 2001, it was called Salicornia perennis; in 2004 it was called Arthrocnemun perenne, and in 2006 it was called Sarcocornia perennis. Next year? Who knows! I for one, can hardly stand the drama. Don't you just hate it when botanists fight? It's like that show Jersey Shore for God's sake! I only bothered to tell you because all that made looking up about this pretty, red plant very difficult. I've saved you a load of work there. See? You're already glad you are on the desert island with me; I can tell. 

      The genus names come from the Greek, 'sarco,' meaning flesh, and the Latin, 'cornia,' meaning horn, and 'sal,' which is salt. That's easy enough to remember, no? Thankfully, the common names are delightful and memorable. Called Saltwort, Glasswort,  Samphire, Sandfire, Sea Beans, Chickenclaws and Mouse Nipples, it's edible. The name "Glasswort," comes from the soda-rich ashes left after burning the plant which were used in early glass and soap making. According to some references, it's also being considered as a biofuel as the seeds are high in oils. Salicornia not only grows on salt marshes, but grows in deserts and can be irrigated with salt water. It is also used as fodder for cattle, sheep and goats and in Sri Lanka, it is used to feed donkeys. What could be more useful than that?
     They are also edible and a common food stuff in Brittany where they pickle it. The vernacular name ‘samphire’ comes from ‘sampere,’ an early English name from the French ‘herbe de St.Pierre.’ I thought 'Sandfire' came from the flaming red that the aging plant turns in the fall, but it turns out that's an English mangling of the French. Go figure. On this continent, in the Maritime provences of Canada it is steamed or sauteed, then doused with butter. It's usually served with salmon, though I did find a pairing with lamb. I haven't tried it, but it's reported to be very salty, thus, the name "Saltwort." The Acadians named it after mouse nipples because of the little, dotlike balls that cluster on the stem. "Chickenclaws" also comes from the appearance, "Sea Beans" from what it looks like cooked - little, green beans. Salicornias are harvested when the plants are young and can be eaten fresh. Inside the flesh is a stringy center. It's cooked with the roots on, then pulled through the teeth leaving behind the core.
     I hope you have stayed awake and taken all of this in. Your life could one day depend on it. The next time you are out on a salt marsh, look for this beautiful, versatile plant. If you get stranded out there or on a desert island with me, you'll be able to feed, wash, warm and save your ass with one plant.

My Friend Flicka - Northern Flicker

This Northern Flicker is female. Males have a black moustache.

     My parents had some knowledge of birds, which they imparted to us as children. Though declared with conviction, their information was frequently inaccurate. Additionally, my mother had an intense Maine accent which gave her "facts" another interesting twist. She often dropped 'Rs' and added them into words where they were not.

     Listening to what my parents said, then parroting it back to them, was a necessary skill I developed early on. I revered them and all that they said, plus, it was imperative that they be pleased. Regardless of anyone's motivations, I did develop an above average interest in birds which has carried me on an ever growing wave into adulthood. To be completely accurate, I should say my interest has continued well into middle age. Though I'm that old, I can still hear my parents in my head like it was yesterday. I can clearly hear my mother in my mind every time I see a Northern Flicker.
     On seeing a Northern Flicker, my mother would shout enthusiastically, "Look! There's a Flick'a!" I have to confess that until I was well into my thirties, I thought that bird was a "Flick'a," not a Flick-er. Confident that I knew the bird, I never actually looked it up. Had I, I would have seen the 'r' at the end. Compounding my youthful confusion was a TV show. During the late fifties through the mid sixties, there was a popular TV series, "My Friend Flicka." It was based on a novel written in 1941 by Mary O'Hara about a boy and his horse. I'm sure you remember this, whether you want to admit it or not. Look in the mirror, you too are probably at least as old as I am. The horse's name was Flicka, which in Swedish means "little girl." Of course, in my house, the horse's name was "Flick-er" The mispronouciation of the bird's name and the horse's name was a confusing jumble of information delivered to me during my formative years. Worse yet, I have terrible survivor guilt, because I have repeated all of that misinformation many times over to many people, including my own children and did so with my mother's same imperious conviction. Please forgive me, I just didn't know. I hope I didn't drive anyone to psychotherapy or ruin any one's life.

     The Flick'a is a medium-sized woodpecker that's native to most of North America, parts of Central America, Cuba and the Cayman Islands. The Caymans had a lovely postage stamp with an image of a Flick'a. Unlike most woodpeckers, Flick'as prefer to feed on the ground. Ants make up most of their diet. Their tongue extends two inches beyond the bill and has barbs for pulling ants out of their holes. They are often seen on lawns poking in the grass for insects. Flick'as are also one of the few woodpecker species that migrate. Because they migrate, there are more of them here now than all summer long. They have a loping flight, common amongst woodpeckers. When they fly, the yellow tail feathers and undersides of their wings that gives them the name "Yellow-Shafted Flicker" can be seen. The Yellow-shafted are common in the eastern U.S., but in the west, there are Red-shafted Flickers. It was once believed that the Yellow-shafted and Red -shafted were different species. They are, however, both Northern Flickers. Where their ranges overlap, they hybridize. There are over 100 common names for the Northern Flicker. Among them are: Yellowhammer, clape, gaffer woodpecker, heigh-ho, harry-wicket, wake-up, walk-up, wick-up, yarrup, and gawker bird. Many of these names are attempts at imitating some of its calls. I'll add that in Maine, we call it a Flick'a.

Food Flop - Great Blue Herons Feeding

"Ya know, Randy - you embarrass the whole birding community when you do that."

 

"Help! I've fallen and I can't get up!"

Recently, I posted about Great Blue Herons getting really touchy with each other while feeding. These are the same herons, one of them actually committing a feeding. I say 'committing,' because this looks like a crime of ungainliness, a felony of spasticity for sure. I had guessed that they were juveniles. Besides their feathering, this behavior is one of the things that made me think they were young. The one on the right, Randy was standing, then suddenly lurched forward falling on his face. Give the guy credit, at least he didn't just fall from the sky. I have never seen herons do this. They usually stand poised to strike and will remain in that fixed position for quite a while before striking the water with a deft, spearing move. There was nothing smooth about Randy's technique, he looked ridiculous! I guess everybody has to start somewhere when they are learning to do something new. Few beasts nor men are born as prodigies. Most of us have to do a thing over and over before we can dependably execute the move.
     I also have written recently, and more than a few times, about some of the not so patient nor benevolent folks in the birding world. To be honest and fair, though, I have too also say that there are some really great people in birding, too. I have had the pleasure and good fortune to meet numerous of them. And, I met them by way of the Internet. The Internet is an entity which also gets a bad rap, as if it has a soul and a face and is somehow evil. Like the birding 'community,' the Internet is what you make it, good, bad or otherwise. Had it not been for birding, the Internet and birders who use the Internet, I would not have met these very cool people, nor learned nearly as much as I have. All of these people know more about birding than I'll ever be lucky enough to forget. They are experts with a capital 'E.' They have, in fact, walked out on mudflats and mountain tops with me, to see what we could see and to teach me. They treated me with courtesy, positive regard and made me feel that I had something to bring to birding. They have been very giving and patient. In short, they've watched me thrash around like a juvenile heron learning to catch my first fish without laughing or giving up on me. Now, if only I had legs as long as a heron and would stop falling down on the birds while I work on my identifications, the world would be a just and better place.

Thank you, Mike and Paul, Mark and John, Jo and every one who has held my hand and helped me up.