Blackberry Jamming

It's blackberry picking time. Life as I know it comes to a grinding halt when the sweet summer perfume of ripe blackberries permeates the salty island air. It's time to face "the monster." That's what I call the massive tangle of prickly wild Himalayan blackberry canes that we have attempted to cultivate and tame along our driveway. Many folks call them a nuisance, or a noxious weed. I love them. I covet them. I've used the ones on our driveway for over nine years now, making more and more jam and pies each successive year. 

I can lose myself while picking berries. I forget who I am, and just focus on each perfectly plump black-bursting-with-juicy-tangy-sweetness-bauble of beauty. I practically squeal with delight when I find a cluster of "berries on steroids"- some that seem larger than possible- full of so many globules of goodness that they are almost a cartoon of what a berry looks like. And the taste- well, I eat very few while picking, but when I pop one in my mouth and it explodes - sweet, tart and with a hint of the concord grape juice of my youth, I know summer is real... and I know I have to preserve it for the rest of the year when it's cold, dark, wet and gray. 

I have been canning and making jam for over fourteen years now. I used to ride my bicycle around Seattle and pick blackberries in parking lots and in the overgrown sidewalk areas in my neighborhood. The jam was good, but once I found my island home and discovered berries that had never been doused in car fumes and city emissions, I never looked back. Berries on the island are pristine, and the ones that grow on our neighborhood beach even have a touch of the sea in their sweetness. I know the berries are getting ripe when the bird poop on our deck turns a lovely shade of lavender. 

This past weekend we picked 28 cups of berries. I made 13 pints of jam and one pie from that picking. If I am lucky I will get two or three more rounds of jamming over the next weekends. I'm hoping to put up 36 pints of jam. Now you may be wondering how on earth we can eat all that jam. We don't eat it all. Most of it will be my annual holiday gift to my friends and family. They have come to expect it at this point, and some of them start getting cranky when they run out. 

For those of you who think making jam and canning sounds like too much work, let me just say that nothing, absolutely nothing in the supermarket tastes like homemade jam. Give up one day and you'll get a year's worth of pleasure. I have also turned the berries into fruit leather, and I've made blackberry-applesauce and canned that, too. 

There are wonderful canning books out there. I have used "Clearly Delicious" for many recipes. (I have an older edition.) But I have created my own Blackberry Jam recipe from reading many things in different articles and books, and from my own experience. 

Since this isn't a food blog, I'm not going to go into detail on the whole jam/canning process, but my "recipe for success" is:

The Right Ratio: 4 cups of berries to 3 cups of white cane sugar.

Mash the berries with a potato masher for a few minutes in a large heavy-bottomed stainless stockpot.

Warm the sugar in the oven while the berries cook over medium heat until their juices run, then bring to a boil and simmer for 15 minutes while stirring often.

Then add the warm sugar and combine well, then turn the heat on high and cook, stirring occasionally until the mixture reaches exactly 220ºf on a digital thermometer. 

Now you are ready to ladle the jam into hot, sterilized jars (I use the sanitize setting on my dishwasher) and seal. You don't need a water bath on blackberry jam, nor do you need to add fruit pectin.

My ideal ratio for my large All-Clad stockpot is: 12 cups of berries to 9 cups of sugar. This amount should not overflow. This will make about 7 pints of jam.

Now go find some berries. But don't pick ours. Ever since our neighbors, The Willows Inn became famous for their "foraged locally" world's best food- we've been watching their sous-chefs picking things all over our neighborhood. They even pulled into our driveway the other day. 

So I had to make this sign:

We love our neighbors. We really do. We just don't want them to cut into our personal supply. If they are compliant, maybe I'll give them some jam at Christmas.

I hope you are "preserving" your summer memories.

With Love,
Nina

Seal Day Afternoon

It started with a dogfish. I should have sensed that this was not an ordinary Friday walk on the beach. The dogfish had washed ashore, dead, and was being turned into sashimi by a seagull. I considered taking it home and using it as crab bait. Crabs love dogfish, but dogfish excrete through their skin and I thought better of picking it up bare-handed. 

I ran into Claudia, who was walking her elderly dog, Moie, who eats seaweed. I showed them the dogfish, and we decided to let the seagulls have it. Claudia went home to pack- she's moving a half-mile down the beach, and I kept walking.

There was no one else on the beach- just me, lost in my thoughts, writing in my head, looking for agates. I was in such a meditative state that I almost tripped on her.

The work whistle at the Cherry Point refinery had just chimed "noon," and I found myself staring at a small seal pup. The pup was quite alive, but very thin. I've found dead ones before and I've seen eagles eating them. I also knew that their mothers can sometimes hunt for fish for long periods and then return for their babies to feed them, so I decided to keep vigil and watch this little one to make sure no one touched it.

I pulled out my iPhone and called my husband to let him know what I was doing, and then remembered that my phone could shoot video, so I shot this:

Then I sat and watched from a short distance. Friend and librarian Kathleen came and joined me. We kept Willows guests away, but let them take pictures. The little seal kept moving away from the incoming tide. It didn't want to get wet. This was a bad sign. Our water is cold- 50ºf at best, and a malnourished seal pup knew it couldn't keep warm in that water. The signs were pointing to abandonment. Seal moms don't normally leave their pups on populated beaches either. 

I told Kathleen to keep watching the pup and I walked up to Claudia's house hoping she was home. I caught Claudia loading her car, but she agreed to check out the seal and get the ball rolling. Claudia is a member of the Marine Mammal Stranding Network. This volunteer network is made of folks who are trained to investigate and respond to stranded or dead marine mammals. Claudia called our Lummi Island network, and soon thereafter, my friend Cindy Dahlstrom arrived with orange cones and signs to keep people away from the seal while it tried to doze in the sun. Cindy and Claudia both agreed that it was malnourished and way too thin. There was a strong possibility that the mother was killed. 

It is a sad and known fact that some fisherman will kill seals because they compete for the same fish. I do not understand this. There are enough fish in the sea for all of us. Seals are beautiful creatures and share this world with us. One look at that pup's face and I knew I would do anything I could to help.

I'm not going to write a novel here, so I'll spare all of the details, but know that so far this story has a happy ending. Cindy and two other island network folks: Dave and Mary joined the team on the beach. Cindy called the Wolf Hollow Wildlife Rehabilitation Center and found out that they had a "place" for the seal in their hospital. She called and got permission from the head of the stranding network to move the seal. The next problem was how to transport the pup from our beach on Lummi Island to Friday Harbor on San Juan Island. It was already 5:30pm. Many of us have boats. Old, slow boats. Our boat is currently leaking gas. Earlier in the day, I had taken a chance and called our neighbors, the Larsons, who have the fastest boat on the island, and told them about the seal. They had other plans, but to my shock and delight, they called me back, and agreed to make the trip to save the pup.

Cindy and the pup- placed in Cindy's large dog crate, joined the Larsons on the Wavelength and blasted off for Friday Harbor where a Wolf Hollow rescuer met them and they returned to our beach just as the sun set. I cried when I saw them leave from my deck, and I cheered when I saw the boat come home.

Cindy reported that Wolf Hollow named the pup Eliza. She is very young- maybe a few weeks old. She is dehydrated, too thin, has 18 rocks in her bowels, which they hope she will pass, (I watched her eat the rocks and didn't know how to stop her.) and she has a deep puncture wound in her left flipper. But she is improving and they are feeding her formula. Hopefully she will get big and strong, and they will release her into the wild again.

An amazing group of friends and neighbors came together to help Eliza. It was a beautiful and moving experience in so many ways. My husband, my brother-in-law (who was visiting) and I gave the Larsons some gas money to help defray the huge cost of fuel, and I donated to Wolf Hollow. But the best part of the whole experience has been feeling hopeful that one little life can be saved. Like the ripples of one pebble tossed into the sea, we can all make a difference. We touch our world through our actions and our words. I hope I can keep the ripples going, and the seals swimming. I hope you will do the same- if not for seals, for whoever crosses your path in a time of need.

With Love, 

Nina

Thirty Second Owl

Sometimes you have no time. Sometimes you have no passion. Sometimes life just keeps you away from your core beliefs and your souls' desires.

Don't stress. 

Just draw yourself a 30 second owl. 

It's really easy and you'll feel so much better. 

Start by drawing two eyes.

Add a triangular beak and scribble a little shading on it.

Draw a slightly curved line for the top of the head and add some pointy ear feathers- like on a Great Horned Owl. Or go earless.

Add a round body and some wing lines. I like my owls fat.

Scribble some shading, and then add the rounded talons with some scribbles where the knuckles are. (Do owls have knuckles?)

Add a little branch so the owl has something to sit on.

Voila! You're done. Don't you feel better now? I do.

I think the doctor orders a 30 second owl a day... or a 30 second dog, or cat, or - whatever your heart desires.

With Love,

Nina

Making Friends with Anemones

I spent hours on the beach yesterday on a low tide beach walk. It was rejuvenating and magical. It rained and it sunned. I met strange creatures and friends. I wholeheartedly believe in Dr. John Medina's 12th Brain Rule: we are powerful and natural explorers. 

Most people see the beach and see this. A beach. Some gravel. Okay, lots of gravel. Some slimy green stuff. Cold-ass water. This is a minus 2 tide on a cool July day on Sunset Beach on Lummi Island in the San Juan's. I've lived here for over nine years now and every day, every tide is completely different. 

Our beach is pristine and natural. It used to be empty almost all the time, but that is changing. We share our beach with The Willows Inn. I have always loved the place. They do an amazing job, and finally they are getting their due, being touted in the New York Times multiple times- all because of him. He is chef Blaine Wetzel. He is 25 years old. He uses only local ingredients including the wild mustard that grows on the lot next to us, Nootka rose petals on the road, and the wild beach peas on our beach. But this is not about Blaine. I've been harvesting stuff on the island for years.

That emerald green seaweed is sea lettuce. It's delicious in a stir fry. The olive green growth that looks like puffy fingers is fucus; otherwise known as pop weed, bladder wrack, and even fucus mucus. It can be made into "sea cheetos." (I never acquired a taste for it.) I've made bull kelp pickle rings, and wrapped a salmon in kelp fronds to steam while it grills.

This purple seaweed is Turkish towel. This is an older piece. I prefer mine absolutely fresh. If you boil it in water and then remove the Turkish towel after about twenty minutes, you'll have the gelatin for making chocolate pudding. Just add cocoa, sugar and milk; stir and cool. This is a source of carrageenan. All of this comes from the beach, but I learned how to identify these edibles years ago when I took a fabulous class called "Feasting on Flotsam" taught by the talented and wondrous writer/kayaker/artist Jennifer Hahn.

Not everyone pays as close attention to the details, the minutia, though. The guests from The Willows, who seem to be foodies from around the world, ask me what I'm looking for. Sometimes I say "agates and minerals." Sometimes I say "enlightenment, serenity, grounding, beauty." It just depends on my mood. 

I do find that. And more. A half-eaten flounder that an eagle left on the beach. Blaine wouldn't cook it, but I was fascinated by the skull and the texture of its skin. I've found thousands of agates, petrified wood, jade, seal's teeth. Bird bones and feathers. 

But what I mostly find is that my feet are happiest on the beach. However I would like to warn the new Willows guests that this is not a beach where you can go barefoot. I saw a couple the other day who were trying to jump from sand patch to sand patch. There is very little sand here unless we get a westerly, which pulls the gravel into the strait. The wife was gallantly laying piles of dried eel grass so the husband, who had very tender feet, could navigate the mineral-rich gravel. I advised them to climb off the beach and walk on the grassy roadside back to the inn.

Or wear sandals. It will be good for your soles.

And your soul, too.

Happy exploring- and I hope you find whatever it is you are looking for.

With Love,

Nina

Putting the Frame Before the Art

Sometimes it is confusing to think both visually and verbally. Sometimes you create the perfect marriage and you give birth to a picture book... or a narrative painting... or a story that paints a picture in the readers' mind so clearly that any illustration would do it a disservice.

Sometimes all you can do is find the frame.

Or the journal.

Or the cup.

You have no idea what to put in it, but you know, you sense, you intuit that someday it will hold something worthy.

Do you stare at it impatiently, angry that you can't put words on the page, paint on the surface, elixir in the vessel?

Or do you smile and feel lucky that you have a piece, a notion, a feeling that there is a possibility there for something masterful?

It's like coming up with a title and not knowing where it will take you.
Or an image that haunts your dreams.
Or that expensive gift bottle of wine that you are afraid of opening because you don't think this is the time or place to drink it.

You can keep staring- or you can start from the end and work your way to the beginning.

Open the wine.
Fill the cup.
Frame the text and paint the story.

Change the way you work and maybe it will change you.
Sometimes we have to put the frame before the art.
Here's to finding a great frame.

With Love,
Nina

Decomposing

My friend Teresa has this notebook. She got it from Elliot Bay Book Company in case you want one just like it. I found myself amused by the name, "Decomposition Book," and not just because it was 100% recycled, but because it made me think about decomposition. 

I am fascinated by decomposition. The first day I was at my father's house to begin the arduous task of packing his things, my husband and I wandered into the woods on his property, and found this completely decomposed deer just off his driveway. The poor thing must have been hit by a car and this is where it rejoined the elements, becoming one with the forest in body, if not in spirit. It left behind a boneprint. I supposed you could call it a skeleton, but I see it as so much more than that. I see it as art, structure and story.

Once upon a time, when I first got published, my editor at Chronicle Books, Victoria Rock told me that the basic structure of a picture book was: the words are the bones and the pictures are the flesh.

I completely agree. The bones are the story. They have to be strong and complete. You can't hang pretty pictures on a bad skeleton and create a good book. Once that structure is good and sound, then you can give them the right skin- to make that story appealing; to add to its' solid structure with layers of texture and nuance. But make sure the leg bone is connected to the thigh bone is connected to the hip bone, etc... otherwise that story won't be moving forward.

That deer was a story, and perhaps can still tell a story with the help of a ghost writer, but for now it is a forensic mystery. Maybe someday it will be a fossil relic. That's decomposition for you. As time goes by, if you did your homework and left your imprint in the right elements- perhaps some silica or Egyptian sand, your particular story may live on forever. Or at least the book won't go out of print.

There is another thing that I like about decomposition: it feeds other flora and fauna. I found this moss-covered decomposing log that was a necropolis-terrarium to a fabulous flora/fungi outcropping of oyster mushrooms. I was the fauna (along with my husband and sisters-in-law) who feasted on those beauties on top of fresh grilled Alaskan troll caught king salmon.

The mushrooms are symbolic to me. They symbolize how one situation, for example: the decay and decomposition I witnessed at my father's house, can grow things- say: ideas for stories- anew. So maybe it's not really "ashes to ashes" and "dust to dust." Maybe it's "mildew to memories," and "trash to treasure." You just have to stir things up, look under rocks, and be patient. Sometimes things have to process. Those oyster mushroom spores lay dormant for a year. They were there, however, all along, waiting for the perfect temperature and the right rains until they fruited. The key was that we found them just at the optimum moment. 

And that said, you need to make sure you have your Decomposition Book handy at all times. 

I hope your ideas and stories will be cropping up like mushrooms after the rain.

With Love,

Nina

Missing: One Voice

I lost my voice. Not my head. Thank God for that.

Last week I flew to the Hudson River Valley of New York to move my 79 year old father out of his falling-apart house with the upside-down mortgage, rotting porch, toxic air... Unfit for human habitation... and it took not only my breath away, but my voice, too.

Maybe it fell through the floor in the decrepit barn, full of my father's artwork that he left to the elements, crafted with love, entombed by depression, sentenced to death and decomposition.

Perhaps it is hidden in the stacks of LP's that are full of voices, sounds, symphony, and melody that are encrusted with dust and silenced forever; part of the piles that may bring the house down in the eventual applause of thunderous bulldozers.

It was reciprocated by a mute cat who came to visit while I packed. A silent echo in black and white who never made a peep but showed genuine affection and was the brightest, cleanest spot in the middle of the malodorous misery. We began a quiet friendship that needed no words.

There is a good chance I packed it away. The whole experience truly left me speechless most of the time.  If I'm lucky it will show up in Seattle when the moving container arrives in a couple of weeks. My voice may be back stronger than ever. Full of stories to tell. 

In the meantime, I'm drinking a lot of hot tea, sounding like a frog, and listening. Mostly listening. The voices in my head are speaking. They are telling me stories. They are taking in and processing all the sadness and neglect that they witnessed and they are trying to comprehend what happens when you give up in all senses of the word.

Yet even in all that filth and desolation there was still love. It was represented by a dirty rug on the nasty floor where I had to sleep on an air mattress. It was also the reason I was there. The house wasn't loved and it showed for it. My father needed love and he was going to go the way of the house, unfortunately faster. 

Now we are both in Seattle healing. I sure wish I could find my voice, though. By tomorrow. I'm speaking in a writer's conference. Maybe I'll find it there.

With Love, 

Nina