These days, I fall far short of my aim of posting at fortnightly intervals and realize I have so for quite some time. But I make no apologies. Usually, I have more than enough ideas of what I could write about – but not enough time and/or am not in the state of mind (i.e. mood) to sit down and put thoughts and feelings into a publishable form. After all, this blog is not a commercial enterprise and if life gets in the way for whatever reason then I won’t write. Far better to not stress and obsess about frequency but stick with it in general, even in periods of drought, I think.
Outside, the autumn rains have come and ended, for nature at least, the long drought of the summer. Over the past weeks and months I’ve explored the surroundings of our new home a bit and kept my senses open especially to anything plant-related that would link me with the previous chapter, that would provide a sense of continuity and comfort. Like the seasons turning.
Outside, the autumn rains have come and ended, for nature at least, the long drought of the summer. Over the past weeks and months I’ve explored the surroundings of our new home a bit and kept my senses open especially to anything plant-related that would link me with the previous chapter, that would provide a sense of continuity and comfort. Like the seasons turning.
The comparatively small "thing" of the summer heat relenting and leaves changing colour as autumn took hold has been more comforting and reassuring for me than what you’d usually experience and notice when busy in the well-oiled routine of the everyday. Like Christmas, say, that – if you love the tradition – reassuringly comes again and is performed largely to the same rituals and customs every year, providing a sense of stability in a world that seems ever more unstable.
But while customs change and Christmas is not celebrated and loved by everyone, depending very much on your own memories of Christmases past (and, of course, your religion), the seasons’ turning is something that hasn’t changed in millennia and is much less fraught with associations. It is steady indeed and brings perspective to much of what is going on elsewhere. Nothing new or original about this insight, of course, but something we occasionally may need reminding of.
But while customs change and Christmas is not celebrated and loved by everyone, depending very much on your own memories of Christmases past (and, of course, your religion), the seasons’ turning is something that hasn’t changed in millennia and is much less fraught with associations. It is steady indeed and brings perspective to much of what is going on elsewhere. Nothing new or original about this insight, of course, but something we occasionally may need reminding of.
Apart from those general musings, it’s been a particular joy to observe at close quarters the huge beech tree in the yard. Though it has long been my favourite tree species, I’ve never before had such a prime position and view into its crown as I have now, curtesy of the roof terrace and half of the flat’s windows. It has been fascinating to sit there on still late-summer days and hear a constant sound of soft crackling, pop after pop after pop, of the husks cracking open as they ripened and dried.
Quite a few of the seeds, the beechnuts, fell out with a “Plop!” back then already, but most waited until a few weeks later when the first strong gusts of wind shook the branches. Then it became a shower of missiles raining down so hard you instinctively took shelter. Less so on the roof terrace, but certainly when down in the yard. The roof of the carport was a noisy shelter though, the small but solid nuts capable of a drumming far beyond what you’d expect from something that small. Also, I was surprised how loud a bird trying to crack them open could be – it positively sounded as if a person stomped atop the carport’s roof.
The beech nuts and their husks literally covered everything below the tree. I’d never seen such dense carpet before. As acorns likewise were especially abundant this year I figure it must have been what is called a Mastjahr in German – a “fattening year”, the word stemming from a time when villagers would herd their livestock, especially pigs, to the trees so they would feed on the bounty and fatten well. I briefly wondered if the nuts and husks would make a good mulch in my pots over the winter, but of course thousands of beech seedlings would appear come spring and create a problem – especially for someone who is loath to killing a healthy young plant, even if in the wrong spot.
Quite a few of the seeds, the beechnuts, fell out with a “Plop!” back then already, but most waited until a few weeks later when the first strong gusts of wind shook the branches. Then it became a shower of missiles raining down so hard you instinctively took shelter. Less so on the roof terrace, but certainly when down in the yard. The roof of the carport was a noisy shelter though, the small but solid nuts capable of a drumming far beyond what you’d expect from something that small. Also, I was surprised how loud a bird trying to crack them open could be – it positively sounded as if a person stomped atop the carport’s roof.
The beech nuts and their husks literally covered everything below the tree. I’d never seen such dense carpet before. As acorns likewise were especially abundant this year I figure it must have been what is called a Mastjahr in German – a “fattening year”, the word stemming from a time when villagers would herd their livestock, especially pigs, to the trees so they would feed on the bounty and fatten well. I briefly wondered if the nuts and husks would make a good mulch in my pots over the winter, but of course thousands of beech seedlings would appear come spring and create a problem – especially for someone who is loath to killing a healthy young plant, even if in the wrong spot.
Instead, my little one and I spent a few hours picking tubs full of beech nuts – ostensibly to feed the birds in winter, but I’m not sure the birds really will be the beneficiaries: not only are there still thousands and thousands of nuts on the ground, even after the caretaker has raked most of the leaves and husks away, more importantly, we also love eating them. While tiresome (and back-hurting) to gather and somewhat time-consuming to shell, they are delicious. They have a true nutty, slightly astringent flavour and I actually prefer them to many other nuts.
Bilberries or whortleberries (Vaccinium myrtillus), too, are tiresome to pick in the wild and yet there are so many recipes to put them to good use – why, I wondered, did I not know a single one involving beech nuts? Then I vaguely remembered reading they contain high levels of cyanide thus prohibiting consumption in quantities. A little research confirmed they do indeed contain cyanide and other toxins – although I also read these can effectively be dealt with by either roasting the beechnuts or scalding or blanching them with boiling water. Still, as an occasional snack of a few even raw beechnuts are unlikely to do harm: I think the birds won’t see many of the ones we gathered.
Speaking of birds, I observed no fewer than 9 species regularly in the tree so far: chaffinches, of course, their common German name Buchfink (beech finch) clearly indicating the birds’ preference for this species. Woodpecker, nuthatch, treecreeper and jay did not surprise me either. But I hadn’t known how keen tits – great tits, blue tits, long-tailed tits – were on the nuts. Or was it just insects they were after? No, it certainly didn’t look like that. Likewise the doves. And there I was, thinking they’d only go for soft or grain-like fodder! While not totally unexpected, it certainly is eye-opening to have such close view into a mature tree at crown level.
Bilberries or whortleberries (Vaccinium myrtillus), too, are tiresome to pick in the wild and yet there are so many recipes to put them to good use – why, I wondered, did I not know a single one involving beech nuts? Then I vaguely remembered reading they contain high levels of cyanide thus prohibiting consumption in quantities. A little research confirmed they do indeed contain cyanide and other toxins – although I also read these can effectively be dealt with by either roasting the beechnuts or scalding or blanching them with boiling water. Still, as an occasional snack of a few even raw beechnuts are unlikely to do harm: I think the birds won’t see many of the ones we gathered.
Speaking of birds, I observed no fewer than 9 species regularly in the tree so far: chaffinches, of course, their common German name Buchfink (beech finch) clearly indicating the birds’ preference for this species. Woodpecker, nuthatch, treecreeper and jay did not surprise me either. But I hadn’t known how keen tits – great tits, blue tits, long-tailed tits – were on the nuts. Or was it just insects they were after? No, it certainly didn’t look like that. Likewise the doves. And there I was, thinking they’d only go for soft or grain-like fodder! While not totally unexpected, it certainly is eye-opening to have such close view into a mature tree at crown level.
 Obviously, this is the poisonous fly agaric (Amanita muscaria)... |  … but they look so much more attractive than the ones we picked! |
Aside from the beechnuts, there were other attempts at harvesting nature’s bounty – and not the most obvious kind from orchard or veg plot. For instance, we did go foraging for fungi and found a few. They were of an inferior kind only, nothing to boast about and certainly not on a par with the basket full of big lucious ceps (Boletus edulis) a gentleman we encountered in the forest had gathered.
As every forager of fungi would be, he was evasive about the exact whereabouts of his find but polite enough to not just tell that this year, because of the extremely dry conditions, your best bet was in some lower-lying, moister areas such as the banks of ditches, brooks and ponds – this much I had figured out myself – but, as we were new to the area, to point some out. My little one, who up until this encounter had wanted to return home, was electrified and wouldn’t stop pleading until we turned 180 degree on the spot and walked back, in pursuit of those porcini. Surprise, surprise - we didn’t find any, but, as mentioned above, enough “lesser” edible fungi to make a good meal. I guess we’ll just have to explore and get to know the forest better in the years to come – something I certainly look forward to.
As every forager of fungi would be, he was evasive about the exact whereabouts of his find but polite enough to not just tell that this year, because of the extremely dry conditions, your best bet was in some lower-lying, moister areas such as the banks of ditches, brooks and ponds – this much I had figured out myself – but, as we were new to the area, to point some out. My little one, who up until this encounter had wanted to return home, was electrified and wouldn’t stop pleading until we turned 180 degree on the spot and walked back, in pursuit of those porcini. Surprise, surprise - we didn’t find any, but, as mentioned above, enough “lesser” edible fungi to make a good meal. I guess we’ll just have to explore and get to know the forest better in the years to come – something I certainly look forward to.
Less expected were the finds on the banks of the big river running through the city, just a few minutes’ walk from our flat: We encountered a great number of tomato plants, all self-seeded and romping happily among the pebbles, with many flower trusses and small green fruit. I can only guess they stem from tomatoes that originally either went overboard from the boats cruising the river or were picnic-leftovers on the banks which the waters have dispersed and then, year by year, seem to have expanded and naturalized.
Recently, with the temperatures dropping, we picked a bag full of the biggest fruit. They were still green but we didn’t want to take chances, hoping instead they’ll continue to ripen at home if put in a bag or tin with a few ripe apples. (The latter releasing the gas Ethylene, which apparently aids the ripening of fruit but is also responsible for cut flowers going over faster which is why you shouldn’t put fruit bowls in the vicinity of flowers – or so I’ve read). It's looking promising so far.
Recently, with the temperatures dropping, we picked a bag full of the biggest fruit. They were still green but we didn’t want to take chances, hoping instead they’ll continue to ripen at home if put in a bag or tin with a few ripe apples. (The latter releasing the gas Ethylene, which apparently aids the ripening of fruit but is also responsible for cut flowers going over faster which is why you shouldn’t put fruit bowls in the vicinity of flowers – or so I’ve read). It's looking promising so far.
Even more surprising was the water melon we encountered on the river banks: it’s not as if melons are common even in gardens around here. But there it was, surely self-seeded like the tomatoes, with a fruit the size of a fist or small cantaloupe. Once discovered, the little one guarded it as jealously as a hen its eggs. He took up his post next to the plant and wouldn’t budge or leave when another family settled two metres away, blissfully unaware of the treasure. My suggestion to let them in on the secret and in return request they don’t harm the plant or damage the melon was frowned upon, even though the two children sure didn’t look like wanton destroyers and our chances of a melon harvest were next to zilch anyway. For even in the unlikely case of no-one else discovering it, plant and fruit would either freeze to death before ripe or the rising water levels of the river once the rain returned would submerge it. The little one was having none of it – not that afternoon at least.
Sure enough, when we returned last week after a while away, the river had taken it. In fact, there was nothing left of the plant – only pebbles where it had grown. Though not a tidal river, the current must have been strong enough to dig it out and sweep it away. We had better luck when chancing upon the ripe fruit of Cornelian cherries (Prunus mas) – they were at their dark-red, delicious best, juicy and sweet, and only the lack of a kitchen so far (more precisely a stove) to turn the bounty into jam, jelly or anything else held us back from gathering serious amounts. Next year though…
Sure enough, when we returned last week after a while away, the river had taken it. In fact, there was nothing left of the plant – only pebbles where it had grown. Though not a tidal river, the current must have been strong enough to dig it out and sweep it away. We had better luck when chancing upon the ripe fruit of Cornelian cherries (Prunus mas) – they were at their dark-red, delicious best, juicy and sweet, and only the lack of a kitchen so far (more precisely a stove) to turn the bounty into jam, jelly or anything else held us back from gathering serious amounts. Next year though…
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