Marmalade and mustard on toasted rye bread was a recent garden inspiration. Gardens are astonishing for what they suggest!
The m’n’m delicacy did not come about directly – of course not. Gardens are subtle, almost a parable in their discourse. I did not suddenly see something vaguely similar to toast spread with such an unusual combination and delight in an “Aha”. No…at least…
Hmmm, a side path of thought presents; let’s explore… Not that rye toast with mustard and marmalade isn’t a definite visual possibility-nudge in a garden at this time of year. Last year’s bracken is certainly rye toast colour. And some calendula are mustard hued, Dijon style, others glossed with shades of oranges seville.
But what comes to mind without the need to pull together and stack different images is a huge hump of rhubarb in my backyard. (Oh I love this first year in an acquired garden with the intrigue of the unknown.) The rhubarb base (a huge mound of many generations!) is so toasty it warms the tongue. Now, I do admit, the new generation tips emerging from that mound are not mustard and marmalade but rather strawberry jam – the freezer kind that retains its delicate pink – and kiwi jelly. Hmmm…
What was I saying before this errant amble – oh yes, how the garden can astound with images not necessarily direct. The rye toast and mustard and marmalade adventure erupted after watching a sparrow tugging doggedly at dried grass. “Nesting? Already? Are you sure?” I inquired with a quiet chuckle at logic versus instinct and then an even wider grin at the memory of once seeing a robin do a backward tumble when the worm from whom it was ‘not-taking-no-for-an-answer’ suddenly let go its hold on the earth.
This is a welcoming neighbourhood where I have ‘chanced’ to perch. The human element, certainly. I must share that my love and search for meaning, prompted by history, has definite fulfillment here. The lady who lived in this very house when it was built sixty years ago still lives on the block a few doors down! She tells me that the house next door was once the barn (with horses!) for the original orchard farmhouse. My studio was once her dining room. The chimney in the middle of the house was built for a wood and coal stove. Vegetables were in the back garden, flowers in the front. She and her husband and the rest of the neighbours went with wheelbarrows to salvage what they could of building and garden materials when the line of houses behind here were torn down and a block of apartments built. Such knowledge of the past gives vision to a view, depth to an awareness, a shine to the present.
And nature, not exactly human, has been equally welcoming, not having even to consider the ceremony of polite introduction.
The local squirrel is a bit of a clown and his name seems to be Seymour. Each squirrel I have known across many years has a distinct personality and this one is proving to be quite a character. The climb up a leg to see ‘if a lap has a peanut or two along with that book’ is done with an endearing panache and the leap away, the first time – absorbed in the book I was not prepared for his ascent and had jumped in fright – was so exaggerated that it was comic. Particularly since it resulted in a bounce off the railing, a mad clamour for balance, a tottery fall onto my arm before the final scuttle to a thoughtful distance. I was laughing when I offered the peanut and he seemed to like the sound and gave a pert bow. Which made me feel like an audience with more performances in the offing.
A tame rat appeared yesterday under one of the bird feeders and was eating seeds. He’s a lovely two-toned colour and was coming to some sort of truce with the kitten next door. I don’t like to think of a tamed creature having to struggle for survival so if he allows capture I will inquire around as to his domesticated home.
Karen Skowron enjoys daily drama at her home and garden in Victoria BC. (And marvels that rye toast with marmalade and mustard deserves a try!)
S