Use good sense, not fear, with alligators

Feeding alligators causes them to lose their natural fear and act aggressively toward people

Simply Living

August 9, 2010

"Are there alligators in that lake?"

People who visit our lakeside property and bamboo nursery have asked me that question countless times.

I always answer: "Yes."

At  all times, in any Florida lake — man-made or spring-fed — at least one  gator is likely to be present. Alligators are aquatic animals. Although  they nest in marshy areas and travel over dry land, these descendants of  prehistoric predators spend most of their time in or around water. I  find that fascinating. Many people find it frightening.

"You don't swim in the water, do you?" is the usual follow-up question.

I most definitely do, and so does Ralph, our children and now our year-old grandson, Atom.

Swimming  in a clean, clear, silky-smooth lake is one of life's simple pleasures.  The fact that at least one alligator may be in the lake, too, doesn't  stop me from enjoying the water. It just makes me more aware.

I'm  not a particularly brave, brazen or foolish person. I'm just someone who  has always liked swimming in lakes,  strives to understand her  surroundings and  appreciates and respects the critters that share her  world. Awareness and education are essential when confronting any of  life's many dangers.

The more you learn about potential problems, the easier it is to avoid them. Alligators  are large, scary-looking animals with a mouthful of sharp teeth, a  powerful tail and the ability to stay under water for long periods.  Although their potential to inflict great harm is undeniable, most of  their energy is directed toward the fish, turtles and small mammals that  make up their diet.

Fatal alligator attacks on people are rare.  The Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission has documented 22  alligator-related deaths in Florida since 1948. Figures from the  National Weather Service show that more people in Florida were killed by  lightning in the past four years than by alligator bites in the past 62  years.

I find such statistics reassuring — especially when I'm  floating in the middle of the lake or taking an evening dip to cool off  after working in the garden.

Alligators were a part of Florida  long before people. Their ancestors swam in lakes like the one in my  backyard 80 million years ago. An animal that has remained relatively  unchanged for such a long time must be doing something right. People may  not like alligators because they are so large and potentially  dangerous, but it's hard not to admire an animal that has so  successfully survived and adapted to an ever-changing world.

Although  I have no desire to have a one-on-one encounter, I respect alligators  and enjoy seeing them in the wild. Anyone who can get past the fear  factor will find these  armored creatures captivating to watch. But  watching them is all that should be done. Under no circumstances should  anyone ever feed a wild alligator. Not only is feeding these  large-bodied, small-brained animals illegal, it's what causes them to  lose their natural fear and act aggressively toward people.

Three  times in the past 19 years, we've had to have aggressive alligators  removed from our lake. When we were swimming, these rogue gators swam  toward us rather than away. When we tried to scare them off, they  ignored us. Behavior like that is not normal and indicates potential  problems. Fortunately, the fish and wildlife commission is there to  help. (The commission's Nuisance Alligator Hotline is 1-866-FWC-GATOR,  or 1-866-392-4286.)

The commission considers an alligator a  nuisance if it is at least 4 feet long and poses a threat to people or  pets. The agency sends out a licensed trapper to remove the animal. If only it were as easy to remove nuisance people...

When it comes to  alligators, our imagination gets us in trouble. Allowing fear to replace  common sense may be easy to do, but it's not particularly helpful.

If  we spent half as much energy evaluating facts as we spend concocting  scary scenarios, we'd be safer, saner and more in tune with nature. We'd  also enjoy swimming in clean, clear, silky-smooth lake water without  unnecessary worry and fear.

Sights, sounds of twilight a sensory delight

Colorful cloud formations are one of many twilight pleasures

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 2, 2010)

In summer, 8:30 p.m. is neither day nor night. It's in-between time when the sun has already set but darkness has not yet settled in. Although twilight lasts but a moment, it's a magical moment. At a time when people are usually winding down, nocturnal animals are gearing up. It's one of the only chances we daylight dwellers have to peek into the world of night.

I like to be there when the night show begins so I try to go outside at dusk. If I'm tired, I may only step out the door, look up at the sky and listen, but if I'm feeling energetic I might jump on the trampoline, go for a swim or row in the lake. When I'm doing any of those things, my body is busy but my eyes are free to observe my surroundings. There's so much to see if I take the time to look.

On a recent night I was bouncing. I'm always amazed how much wildlife I see while jumping up and down on a taut webbed surface. As I jumped, one, two and then three bats appeared out of nowhere. They circled overhead in their swerving, irregular flight. I watched as they swooped and dove and dove again in their dizzying dance for dinner. I imagined all the mosquitoes they were catching and it made me smile. A single bat can eat up to 3,000 insects a night and I was watching three bats dine on the pesky bugs. It's no wonder mosquitoes have never been a bother even though we live next to a lake. I gave the bats a silent "thank you" and bounced a bit higher.

A few moments later — much to my surprise — an owl flew by. I have no idea what kind of owl it was, where it came from or where it went. The owl flew low and passed right in front of me but it swept by so fast, it was all I could do to take in its distinctive shape.

Other birds soared past more slowly. A pair of sandhill cranes — diurnal animals, active during daylight hours — crossed overhead toward their evening roost. Another daytime bird, a white heron, flew solo toward its nighttime perch. Off to the east, several nighthawks appeared whooshing their way up and down over the lake — more bug hunters relishing the smorgasbord of insect delights. Frogs also became active. As I rhythmically jumped up and down, small and medium size frogs hopped across the lawn and into the garden beds.

I didn't see any large mammals on this night but sometimes I do. Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of armadillos shuffling along in search of grubs, or raccoons hoping to score an easy meal in the compost pile. Although big animals tend to avoid people in their nocturnal wanderings, raccoons and armadillos seem less concerned with human encounters than with where their next meal is located.

As I continued bouncing, wildlife wasn't all I observed. I had an entire sky-show to behold. The shifting cloud formations, the darkening tones, the fading hues of blue and red added up to a sensory delight. To top things off, the moon rose slowly over the lake — a full moon, big and round, reflecting moonlight on the still water.

By the time I finished bouncing, less than 15 minutes after I'd begun, the sky was almost completely dark. Whichever insects managed to avoid capture by nighthawks, bats or frogs filled the air with chirps and buzzes. I went into the lake for a quick dip and by the time I returned to the house, the air was reverberating with the sounds of insects and frogs.

I'm not a night person. Being outside at dusk is about as much nighttime exposure as I'm likely to have. That doesn't stop me from enjoying it to the fullest. From bats to bullfrogs, owls to nighthawks, sunset to moonrise, there's magic in the moment too special to miss.

August arrives with grape expectations

A peacock parades past a row of scuppernong grapes at Tommy Free's Lake Apshawa you-pick grape farm in Clermont.  August is harvest month for grapes.

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 26, 2010)

On my office wall is a chart I made in 1998. It's an "at a glance" list, showing which month I can expect to harvest local fruits. On countless occasions I've looked up from writing projects to gaze wistfully at the chart, anticipating this or that delicacy in the weeks ahead.

A quick look the other day reminded me that August is harvest month for grapes. It's almost time to take a break from work and drive over to Tommy Free's farm on the shores of Lake Apshawa in Clermont to gather a couple bucketfuls of his wonderful scuppernong grapes.

As the crow flies, Tommy's vineyard is less than two miles from my home. By roads it's a little farther, but I don't mind the drive. Getting there is almost as much fun as picking and eating the sweet grapes themselves. It's an excuse to travel over a series of scenic, two-lane byways. On the way there, I'm bound to see cattle grazing in grassy fields and horses roaming in fenced pastures.

Wildlife abounds in Tommy's still-rural neighborhood. When I'm driving down West Apshawa Road, I often see sandhill cranes or ospreys flying overhead. One time when I was picking grapes, I even had some fancy feathered company. A pair of colorful peacocks paraded up and down the row next to mine!

The grapes Tommy grows are so special that I can understand why peacocks, opossums, foxes and other animals are attracted to his farm. What I can't quite understand is why more people aren't also enjoying the pleasure of fresh-picked, locally grown fruit.

Grapes are one of the easiest crops to harvest. Unlike blackberries, they don't have thorns. They're not low-growing like strawberries, so there's no bending over. And you don't have to struggle to reach high, as is often the case with peaches or oranges. The grapes at Tommy's vineyard grow at eye level along wires stretched between poles. To harvest fruit, all you have to do is walk down a row, lift a few leaves and pluck the grapes off the vine. Before you know it, your bucket is full.

Scuppernongs are a large, round seeded variety of muscadine grapes that are either dark purple or amber-gold. I'm partial to the amber-skin varieties. When I go to Tommy's, I fill my bucket almost exclusively with those.

Scuppernong grapes make delicious jelly, a flavorful juice and wonderful wine, but I'm too lazy to spend time creating such concoctions. I'm perfectly content eating the fresh fruit by the bowlful, one grape at a time, until my belly rebels.

"You did it again" is Ralph's usual response when I complain that I might have eaten a few grapes too many. "Won't you ever learn not to eat so much at once?"

Probably not. There are worse things in life than being a grape glutton.

Tommy's opens to the public Saturday, and I plan to be there filling a pail. When I leave, there's no doubt I'll be popping grapes into my mouth as I drive home along lazy back roads. There's also no doubt that I'll continue enjoying them when I'm back at the house, and I probably won't stop until, once again, my stomach insists that I step away from the fruit bowl.

Some people get excited about soccer, the latest blockbuster movie, new shoes or shopping excursions. Me, I get goofy over locally grown fruit. Scuppernong season is almost here and for that, I will always be grapeful.

Tommy Free's you-pick grape farm is at 18030 W. Apshawa Road, Clermont.  For picking times and prices call 352-394-3313.

Rain in Florida never loses its power to surprise

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 19, 2010)

I like to watch rain. I like to sit on the porch, look out at the lake and watch raindrops make circles in the still water. I like listening to the tattoo of rain on a metal roof, and I'm especially fond of the way showers appear out of nowhere, only to disappear just as quickly.

The other day I experienced one of those sudden downpours in a most unusual way.

Ralph and I were taking a late-afternoon swim to cool off and relax. We were more than halfway across the lake, chatting amiably about the day's events and doing lazy breaststrokes through the still water. Ralph was midsentence when I interrupted him.

"Do you hear that?" I asked, somewhat anxiously. "I think it's about to rain on us."

No more than two minutes after Ralph turned his head to look where I was pointing, a wave of coolness swept over us. As the temperature dipped, the sky darkened and a noise not unlike the sound of oncoming traffic grew louder.

"It's either rain or a train heading our way," he replied.

Instinctively, we turned around and began swimming back home. The shore in front of our house seemed farther away than usual. As we increased the speed of our strokes, raindrops began to dot the water just south of where we were swimming.

"Here it comes," I said, pointing to the curtain of droplets quickly closing in on us.

Moments later, percussive pellets of water landed on our heads. The downpour had caught up with us.

"Good thing we're already wet," I said. "Otherwise, we'd be soaked."

Ralph smiled and looked my way. I could see that his glasses had begun to fog up. On the shore our towels were waiting, but by the time we reached the beach, I knew they'd be too wet to do us much good. We stopped talking and swam on. The noise of the falling rain would have made conversation impossible anyway.

Eventually we touched bottom, stood up and stepped out of the warm lake. Despite the rain, we'd been comfortable while swimming. But exposed to the air, our bodies felt chilled. We grabbed our wet towels and ran to the house.

Since I've been living in Florida, I've seen it rain on one side of a street and not on the other. I've watched dark walls of precipitation fall from distant clouds and rainbows appear after showers. I've driven through thunderstorms so intense that I had to pull over because my windshield wipers couldn't keep up. I've seen the dry soil soak up water like a sponge and large puddles evaporate in the summer sun. I've played in the rain with my children and bounced on the trampoline while rain splashed around us. But until recently, I had never experienced a rainstorm while swimming.

"I'm glad it was just a shower and not a thunderstorm," Ralph said, once we were back on land and toweled dry.

I couldn't have agreed more.

After a few growing pains, fig trees are fruitful

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 11, 2010)

My husband is happy. Every day he walks out to check the fig trees and returns home with a bowlful of fruit. Like a child with a new toy, he likes to show off his treasure.

"Look how many figs I got today," he says after tracking me down to the laundry room, where I'm sorting through clean clothes and folding towels. "We're going to have a great harvest this year."

I'm happy for my husband. I like figs, but Ralph loves them. His passion for this member of the mulberry family of plants isn't new. He has been growing figs for more than 30 years, though his early attempts were not especially … fruitful.

In the 1970s and early '80s, we lived on Cape Cod, where fig trees grew but were susceptible to cold. To protect the plants in winter, he would partially uproot the trees and tip them over before blanketing them with a thick layer of mulch.

The theory behind all this effort was that the mulch would provide sufficient warmth to prevent the cold from damaging the plant.

In spring, when the weather warmed, he reversed the process. He removed the mulch, righted the plants and tamped down the earth. It worked, to an extent. The trees survived, but they never thrived. Despite all his pampering, I can't recall a single harvest.

Nonetheless, he continued trying.

When we moved to Florida, land of mild winters, Ralph went a little crazy. He bought several varieties of fig trees and planted them around the property. Unfortunately, Florida soil is susceptible to infestations of nematodes, microscopic roundworms that live in the soil and attack the roots of certain plants. Nematodes are a fig tree's nemesis.

Although nematodes didn't kill the trees, they severely limited fig production. Nematode-infested plants produce figs that drop off the tree before they're mature.

Unwilling to give up, Ralph sought out nematode-resistant cultivars. Somewhere along the line he chanced upon the LSU purple fig, a nematode-resistant variety developed by Ed O'Rourke, professor of horticulture at Louisiana State University. O'Rourke released the LSU purple fig in 1991. Ralph purchased some trees shortly after they came on the market, and he has been growing them ever since.

The LSU purple fig resembles the black mission fig in size and shape. It is a vigorous grower and prolific producer of sweet, medium-size fruit. Ralph has more than a dozen mature trees planted not far from the house. He can walk outside with a large plate or bowl and within minutes return to the kitchen with more fresh figs than any one person can possibly eat.

"Sixty figs," he announced last night. "That's how many I just picked."

"We're going to have to start drying them," I said as I surveyed the kitchen counter where plates full of ripening figs covered most available surfaces.

Last year, Ralph froze our extra figs. It turned out that figs freeze remarkably well. When thawed, they lose very little taste or quality of texture. This year, however, fresh-picked blueberries fill our freezer.

Unless I start making several pies each day (highly unlikely), there won't be room for too many bags of figs. We haven't experimented much with drying figs, but I expect we will soon begin.

Then again, our oldest son is due to arrive home in a few days and, like my husband, he has a passion for figs. Timmy has an uncanny ability to make food disappear, which might turn the "problem" of excess figs into a non-issue.

If you're going to have a problem, having too much of a good thing is a great problem to have.

Pesto: Top-notch topping for summertime meals

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 5, 2010)

About twice a week I snip half a dozen leafy basil stems off our garden plants and whip up a batch of pesto. Pesto has become a regular part of our summertime menu. Although it's used primarily with noodles, we also add the basil-based topping to roasted vegetables, stir-fries and omelets.

Pesto is an uncooked condiment made from crushed basil leaves, olive oil, nuts and garlic. Most recipes also call for salt and parmesan cheese, but I leave both out. Ralph and I add parmesan or Romano cheese at the table so that we can use only as much as we each like. But the salt shaker stays in the cupboard.

For decades, I've excluded salt from just about every recipe. Salt is a vastly overused seasoning with a great potential to cause harm. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, we need less than 500 milligrams a day of sodium to keep our bodies working properly, but the average daily sodium intake for Americans ages 2 and older is 3,436 milligrams.

Sodium intake directly affects blood pressure, and high blood pressure leads to two of the top three causes of death — heart disease and stroke. Omitting salt from recipes is an easy and painless first step toward improving eating habits and overall health.

Traditional pesto recipes call for fresh basil leaves crushed by hand with a mortar and pestle, but I use a mini-blender, a kitchen tool I found at Walmart for less than $10. Instead of using pignoli nuts, another traditional ingredient, I usually prepare my pesto with walnuts. They're a less expensive and easier-to-find substitute for pignolis, which are also called pine nuts.

I put about a quarter-cup of walnuts into the mini-blender, press the "blend" button and let the machine chop the nuts into tiny pieces. I then add a half cup of extra virgin olive oil, two or three cloves of fresh pressed garlic and as many clean basil leaves as can be stuffed into the plastic mini-blender container.

I push the button and presto — I have pesto!

A batch of pesto will keep in the fridge for about a week, but if you don't use it all, don't worry. Leftover pesto is easy to freeze. The simplest thing to do is to put spoonfuls of pesto into ice-cube trays, freeze the trays and then store the frozen cubes in plastic bags or glass jars. The nice thing about freezing ice-cube-size portions is that one cube is usually the right amount to season a bowl of noodles or flavor a stir-fry.

Until this year, we always planted basil in the ground, but a few months ago we experimented with container plantings. Ralph sowed basil seeds into 15-gallon nursery pots filled with a rich mix of peat, compost, manure and wood chips for aeration. Within a couple of weeks, basil seedlings emerged.

As the seedlings grew, Ralph thinned them out, leaving one to three sprouts per container. The result is lush canopies of fragrant basil leaves that overflow the pots. Basil does best when its top growth is regularly snipped back, which works for me because those snipped leaves are the ones I use for pesto.

Basil is a warm-weather crop, so there's still plenty of time to sow some seeds or transplant a young, store-bought plant into a larger container or directly into the ground. You don't need a lot of land to grow a kitchen garden. A few potted plants on a balcony or porch or outside the front door are sufficient to fulfill most families' needs for fresh herbs.

Basil originated in Asia, India and Africa thousands of years ago. The ancient Greeks considered it a noble and sacred herb and gave it its name, derived from basilikohn, which means "royal." In India, basil was considered an icon of hospitality, while in Italy it represented love.

I find basil easy to love. I also find it easy to enjoy in the form of pesto, a delicious addition to many a summertime meal.

Shoo, fly — especially those painful yellow ones

Egrets eat flies which bother cattle...and people

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 27, 2010)

Yellow flies are nasty little buggers.

I was showing a customer around the bamboo nursery on a hot weekday morning when it became obvious that something was biting us. We politely tried to ignore the bites at first, but our sense of propriety was short-lived. With arms, legs and necks suddenly punctured by painful pecks, we stopped talking and started swatting.

The yellow fly, Diachlorus ferrugatus, belongs to the Tabanidae family of insects, which includes the equally annoying horse and deer flies. Although adult flies are present in Florida from March through November, tabanids are most active from April through June, especially in the early morning and late afternoon.

Renowned for their relentlessness, these yellow-winged fliers provide no audible warning. When they are ready to attack, they do so silently.

Females — the only ones who bite — wait for their warmblooded prey in the shade. When a mammal unwittingly ambles along, the female uses sight, smell and an awareness of carbon dioxide emissions to sense its presence. Once her target is located, she abandons her shady retreat in pursuit of her intended meal: fresh blood. Although adult flies of both sexes survive on a diet of nectar and pollen, females need blood for the development of eggs.

I have a generous nature when it comes to wildlife, but I draw the line at offering my own vital fluids for insect sustenance. Unfortunately, my preferences were not honored. By the time the yellow flies found us, it was already too late. Enough blood had been withdrawn to assure the continuation of the species.

Unlike mosquitoes, yellow flies don't inject an anesthetic when they bite. That explains why their bites are so painful. They puncture the skin by making a serrated cut before sucking blood through their tubelike mouthparts.

Until that day in the nursery, I rarely gave yellow flies a thought. That wasn't the case 30 years ago when we lived on Cape Cod. On the Cape, flies were a seasonal nuisance. Along the Massachusetts coast, we were bothered by another member of the Tabanidae family, Tabanus nigrovittatus, better known as the salt-marsh greenhead.

These equally aggressive pests appeared in late July, making it impossible to spend any time outside without suffering multiple bites. They pestered us mercilessly for two weeks until the first high tide of August, and then they disappeared. I miss many things about Cape Cod, but greenheads are not among them.

Since we've been in Florida, I can't recall a time when yellow flies were a nuisance. We have plenty of killdeer and cattle egrets on our property, and both birds consume tabanids, so perhaps the birds have helped control the fly population. At least they may have helped until now.

"Expect the unexpected" is one of my mottoes, and although most of my discoveries are joyful, every now and then I have a less-than-pleasant encounter. The yellow-fly incident was a reminder that life is not all sunshine and smiles and that some things in nature just plain hurt.

Rowboat ride leads to bouquet of discoveries

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 20, 2010)

I came in from rowing carrying a bouquet of flowers.

"I thought you were out in the boat," Ralph said, as he watched me arrange a vase of blooms.

I admitted that I was.

"Then how'd you pick flowers?" he asked.

I told him: "From the boat."

Rowing provides many pleasures, not the least of which is the ability to see things from water that I'm unable to see from land. Certain plants — those with a tolerance for fluctuating water levels and perpetually damp soil — are often unnoticed from the house or yard.

However, as I drift along the shoreline, those same plants pop out and catch my attention. When I'm on the lake in my old aluminum rowboat, I'm looking back at land instead of seeing things the other way around. I'm on the lookout for discoveries.

Buttonbush was one such discovery.

Cephalanthus occidentalis is a woody shrub that likes having wet feet. Growing 3 to 10 feet tall, it usually roots in damp shorelines, surviving even when rising water submerges the lower limbs and leaves.

I've often thought that buttonbush was misnamed. Its white flowers aren't flat like buttons. They're round, like pingpong balls, with what looks like dozens of short, yellow-tipped needles sticking out of them. It's a most unusual and striking flower. I paddled up close to the plant and snapped off a few bloom-laden branches.

A bit farther along, I saw an expansive spread of peelbark St. John's wort. Hypericum fasciculatum is a yellow-flowered perennial herb that grows about 3 feet tall. The cheerful blossoms of this evergreen shrub are small but plentiful. Unlike other varieties of St. John's wort that prefer dry, sandy soil, peelbark does best when its rhizomes can spread through ground that's perpetually damp.

In our lake, a large stand has rooted on what used to be an exposed island of peat. With the rainy season here, the peat island is submerged, but the peelbark remains. As I rowed around through the shallows, great masses of yellow blooms grew out of the water, and I picked off a few to add to my collection.

The final flower to catch my eye was marsh-pink, also known as Sabatia stellaris pursh. As its name implies, marsh pink is a pink-flowered plant with a preference for soggy settings. The five-petal bloom grows at the end of a tall, slender stem with small leaves. At first glance, marsh-pink resembles a rose-colored coreopsis. Both flowers have similar faces — bright, open blooms a little more than an inch wide. Individual plants tend to cluster, but without the density exhibited by peelbark. Marsh pink brightens the landscape by adding a splash of color to surrounding greenery. I picked several blooms, making sure to clip them with plenty of stem intact.

When I got home, I arranged the flowers in a vase and set it on a ledge next to the kitchen window. Now, when I stand at the sink doing dishes or preparing food, not only can I see the lake, I can look at the bouquet and think of my row.

Being on the water provides a different perspective, a different way of seeing the familiar and discovering the hidden. Picking flowers is a treat for the senses as well as a way to connect with nature. Put the two together and you have ingredients for Memory Stew, a mental meal that's healthy, hearty and good for the soul.

A stinging reminder that summer has arrived

 Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 14, 2010)

Every summer I manage to get myself stung by a wasp.  This summer is no exception. 

On a recent Sunday, I was sitting in the porch reading.  On the other side of the porch is a garden bed in which a rambling rosemary bush had sprawled over the walkway and grown about four feet tall.  For months – okay, maybe it’s been over a year - I have been meaning to trim back the fragrant herb but I kept putting it off.  I told myself I would prune it when I was ready to propagate the cuttings.  Rosemary sprigs propagate easily and the idea of wasting potential plants bothered me.  The problem was I had no idea where to put all those potential plants.  Without a plan, I opted for inaction allowing the plant to expand exponentially.

Although I was in the porch reading, I kept putting down my book to look at the lake.  However, every time my gaze swept outward the overgrown rosemary bush obstructed the view.  Impulsively, I decided to trim it back. 

Impulsivity was my undoing.  Had I stopped to think, I would have at least put on some gloves and spent a few minutes scanning the shrub carefully before making any cuts.  I knew wasps nested in the dense cover provided by the untrimmed branches.  Paper wasps have lived in that rosemary bush for years.  I’ve even been stung on previous occasions when trimming it back.

People often learn from their mistakes.  Not this time.  With a burst of energy, I grabbed the hedge trimmers, opened the screen door and enthusiastically began to hack back overly tall top and side stems. 

I was making impressive progress.  The wasps must have thought so too.  I snipped.  They swarmed.  I screamed and ran for cover.

One snap of the blades exposed the wasps’ previously hidden home.  Paper wasps build open-cell structures out of wood fiber mixed with saliva.  These normally non-aggressive insects often construct their honeycomb-like nests under roof eaves or in the center of protective bushes.  A queen wasp is the core of wasp community, which also includes fertile male drones that don’t have stingers and a contingency of infertile females called worker wasps.  The workers do have stingers.  It is their job to tend and defend the eggs whenever they perceive a threat.    

I was that threat.

Although many wasps fly out of the nest, only one wasp managed to make contact.  It stung my left pointer finger.  A wasp’s stinger connects to a venom sac inside its body.  Chemicals in the venom cause pain and irritation.  Unlike bees that die after stinging a victim, paper wasps can sting repeatedly.  I don’t know how many times my attacker pumped chemicals into my flesh but I know its venom was effective.  Despite liberal applications of witch hazel, vinegar and Benadryl, my finger swelled up immediately.  By the next day, my left forearm resembled an overinflated balloon.

The way I see it, one sting was a small price to pay for my lapse of judgment.  Paper wasps are not evil animals out to get people.  They are actually beneficial insects that consume many of the pests – caterpillars, flies and beetle larvae – that damage garden plants.  The secret to avoiding painful interactions with paper wasps is to be aware of them and to exercise reasonable caution when working around areas where they may be living.

Impulsive behavior can be charming or, as I so recently experienced, it can also be alarming.   Next time an urge to control untidy plants strikes, I’ll try to control myself first. 

Cross-country by tandem bike: Dreaming, then doing

Jenny and Brett pose in front of the Rans Screamer recumbent tandem bicycle they are riding across country

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 7, 2010)

My daughter and son-in-law left today on a three-month cross-country trip. If you're wondering why it will take Jenny and Brett so long to cover the 3,000 miles from their central Massachusetts home to the California coast, it's because they're not traveling by car, train or plane. My daring daughter and her adventurous spouse are pedaling their way across the nation on a tandem recumbent bicycle.

If you've never seen or even heard of a tandem recumbent bike, you're not alone. Jenny and Brett's preferred mode of transportation is not your ordinary two-wheeler. Their 46-pound, 27-gear riding machine is a Rans Screamer, considered by bike enthusiasts to be one of the highest-performing, best-climbing and most stable recumbent tandems.

As a parent with a propensity to dwell on potential problems (my son Toby has nicknamed me Queen Hysteria), the Screamer's stability is a comforting feature. I also find it reassuring that Jenny and Brett have anticipated many of the questions and concerns that run — or should I say cycle — through my mind.

On their blog (www.playalways.blogspot.com), a post is devoted to answering questions such as: How will you carry all your stuff? Where will you spend the nights? Can you pedal at different speeds on your tandem? What about the Rocky Mountains? What will you eat? How will you get home?

Their answers are both amusing and informative. After reading another entry about their pedaling preparations, I found myself awed and inspired by Jenny and Brett's initiative, focus, determination and ability.

Although this trip will be their first long-distance excursion on the tandem, is not their first cycling adventure. On their honeymoon in May 2009, they explored Cape Cod on two wheels, and last summer they joined another couple for a five-day pedal up and down the Maine coastline.

Brett has more long-distance cycling experience. Several years ago he bicycled alone from Massachusetts to North Carolina to join our family at a juggling convention we all attended. Even Brett's work – at one of his three jobs – involves daily cycling excursions. He's a part-time employee of Pedal People, a worker-owned, human-powered delivery and hauling service for the Northampton, Mass., area.

It's an odd feeling to see your children grow up and undertake unexpected adventures. Our son Timmy was the first of our four children to surprise us. When he was 18, he spent four months hiking the entire 2,175-mile Appalachian Trail by himself. Now it's Jenny's turn to amaze and inspire.

As I sit here in my office just a few feet away from a well-stocked refrigerator, gas stove, electric teapot and fruit-filled pantry, it's hard to believe my daughter and her husband are carrying everything they need to complete such a long journey in four blue "panniers," each about the size of a large backpack.

I was happy to see that in addition to tools, spare parts, clothing, toiletries, food and utensils, the gear list included a cell phone, solar charger and netbook computer. Thanks to technology, friends and family will be able to track the cyclists' route and stay in touch while they're traversing the nation's scenic byways.

I'm excited for Jenny and Brett as they head out on what will undoubtedly be an amazing adventure. I'm proud of them for many things, but I am especially pleased with their ability to make play a priority and turn dreams into reality.

We all have the opportunity to follow dreams, but so few of us actually do. For several years, one of Jenny and Brett's goals has been to pedal across the country. As of today — Day 1 of their 80-plus-day journey — they are on their way to making that dream come true.

Passionflower is useful as well as beautiful

Sprawling plant provides fruit and juice while attracting wildlife

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 31, 2010)

May has been a warm, wet month — perfect weather for one of Florida's most versatile plants, Passiflora incarnate.

Commonly called passionflower, maypop or apricot vine, this Florida native is completely edible – leaves, roots, flowers and egg-shaped fruit. The plant has a number of medicinal properties and herbal qualities, including calming nerves and acting as a natural sedative. The Food and Drug Administration includes passionflower on its GRAS (Generally Recognized As Safe) list, and in Germany it has been officially approved to combat "nervous unrest" since 1985.

But that's not why I like the passionflower. I like this plant because it's pretty and attracts wildlife.

Passionflowers provide nectar to bees, hummingbirds, hummingbird moths and quite a few butterflies. It also acts as a larva host to the Gulf fritillary, variegated fritillary and zebra longwing butterflies. The most common passionflower — and the one growing wild where I live — is light purple with a yellow-green center.

This low-growing, sprawling plant has an extensive root system. In sandy, dry woods and fields, passionflowers tend to behave themselves. Occasionally they will stretch up a tree trunk or climb through shrubby branches, but most of the time the flowering vine creeps along the forest floor, dotting the pine needle and leaf litter with its fancy, round blossoms. On our property, hundreds of individual plants emerged in May when rain came down and temperatures rose.

Wild passionflowers become more wayward when introduced to the home landscape. When I lived in Kissimmee, I intentionally transplanted a single wild passionflower vine into an irrigated garden bed filled with enriched soil. My hope was that the pretty, purple-flowered vine would climb a trellis set against the house to provide a colorful display.

Reminder to self: Be careful what you wish for. The vine climbed the trellis, then proceeded to twirl its tenacious tendrils around the exterior siding as it crept up the wall, over windows and onto the roof.

I no longer attempt to domesticate Passiflora incarnate, enjoying it instead in its natural state as an undergrowth plant in forests and open fields. The face of a passionflower bloom is intricate and lovely. The round, flat flower resembles an eye. Blossoms are about 3 inches wide, with a thin, wavy layer of fringe atop broader, two-tone purple petals. In the center, showy yellow stamens surround a pale green pistil. Although blooms last only a day, new flowers appear daily.

Because individual blossoms have such a short life, these pretty wildflowers aren't the best choice for bouquets. They are, however, functional plants worthy of admiration. Native Americans made a poultice of passionflower roots to relieve inflammations, earaches, boils and cuts, while in Central America, the Incas brewed leaves for tonic and applied crushed leaves to bruises.

In the United States today, the most commonly used part of the passionflower plant is not its leaves or roots but its fruit. The size and shape of a duck egg, the green fruit turns yellow as it matures. Break open a ripe passion fruit and inside are gooey sacks of sweet-tartness. Much to Ralph's amazement and, dare I say, disgust (he doesn't like the taste at all), I like to suck the syrup out of passionfruit while we're taking walks around the lake.

These days, passion fruit juice is all the rage. Welch's is one of many companies that have tapped into consumer demand for this rich, flavorful source of potassium and vitamins A and C. Those same nutrients also make it an important component in cosmetic products such as shampoo, lotions and creams.

I'm always glad when wildflowers receive the attention they deserve. The passionflower may be a lowly plant, but this determined vine has crept its way out of the fields and woods and into our everyday lives.

Plentiful harvest is tasty and peachy keen

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 24, 2010)

My kitchen pantry looks peachy, and I mean that in the most literal way. I recently rearranged items on the pantry shelves to provide ripening room for our first substantial crop of nectarines and peaches.

This year's abundant harvest is the result of my oldest son's efforts. Three years ago, Timmy planted a small orchard on our property, but he moved out of state before the trees became productive. Although he is not here to sample them, his father and I have been enjoying the fruits of his labor. Thanks to our son, we've been picking fuzzy-skinned peaches and smooth red nectarines by the bucketful — and what a delightful treat they've been.

Last year was the first that the trees produced fruit. Because the initial crop was small, we picked only a few, thinking it would be better to let the rest ripen a bit more before we collected them. That was a mistake. Unbeknown to us, other residents of the property — those of the four-legged, furry-skinned variety — were also keeping an eye on the fruit trees.

The day after our small first harvest, we discovered the entire orchard picked clean. All the peaches and nectarines — ripe or not — had vanished. Whoever the culprits were — raccoons, possums, squirrels or some other hungry critter — they made fast work of our fruit.

Determined not to make the same mistake twice, Ralph and I began gathering this year's crop just before the fruit approached maturity. We walked to the orchard with empty buckets and returned home with containers overflowing. I couldn't believe how much we gathered.

Citrus is the first thing that comes to mind when people think of Central Florida, but stone fruits such as peaches, nectarines and plums are among the many other edibles that flourish in the Florida sun. The University of Georgia, University of Florida and Louisiana State University have all developed varieties specifically for a Southern climate. I don't know which varieties my son planted, but whichever they were, they've managed to thrive despite minimal care.

Before Timmy planted anything, he first dug large holes, removed all the sandy soil and replaced it with a rich mixture of composted manure and peat. That was a smart move because peaches, plums and nectarines prefer a rich, well-drained soil. These relatively small trees — they top out around 15 feet — don't need irrigation or pesticides, but their roots like to spread into nutrient-rich soil.

I'd like to say that Ralph and I did a good job maintaining Timmy's trees, but the reality is we ignored them. It wasn't until they began to bloom — lovely, fragrant pink blossoms emerged toward the end of March — that I paid them any notice.

There are many reasons to plant fruit trees. Homegrown fruit — although it may not be as large or picture- perfect as store-bought fruit — is almost always more flavorful. It is definitely fresher, fun to grow and educational. Perhaps most important, when you grow food yourself, you know exactly what you're eating. That's seldom the case with produce purchased at groceries.

In 2008, the U.S. Department of Agriculture tested imported peaches en route to American stores. The tests showed that more than 50 pesticide compounds appeared on the peaches, including five that exceeded Environmental Protection Agency limits and six banned in the United States.

Analysts at the non-profit Environmental Working Group came to a similar conclusion. They studied 43 fruits and vegetables and found peaches to have the highest amount of pesticide residue. Nectarines ranked fifth. The organization based its rankings on 43,000 tests conducted by the Agriculture Department over a four-year period.

Information of this sort can be so upsetting that it might make you want to stop eating peaches entirely or, at the very least, wash produce thoroughly before it is eaten. Alternatively, you can switch to organic produce or — better yet — set aside a little space in your yard to grow your own.

As parents, we consider it our responsibility to feed our children and provide them with long-lasting sustenance. How lovely it is when a child returns the favor. The orchard our son planted on our property three years ago is a gift we'll enjoy for years. Timmy may have moved away, but with each juicy bite, he's right here in my thoughts.

A new look at an ancient food

 Vats of fresh bean curd can still be found in ethnic food stores

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 17, 2010)

When I say "tofu," what comes to mind?

If your answer is "a strange-looking, foreign-sounding food," then chances are you probably don't have packages of bean curd stacked in your fridge.

Although it has been an essential part of Asian diets for more than 2,000 years, tofu wasn't commercially available in Western markets until the mid-1960s. Since then, this highly versatile, nutritious food has risen slowly but steadily in popularity.

Tofu has eased its way into mainstream American culture over the past five decades, thanks in large part to books such as Frances Moore Lappé's Diet for a Small Planet, first published in 1971, and The Book of Tofu by William Shurtleff and Akiko Aoyagi, which appeared in 1975.

Ralph and I owned a natural-food store in Wellfleet, Mass., when these authors were encouraging a generation of young adults to explore more healthful ways of eating. At that time, anyone who wanted to try tofu had two choices: They could buy it at a natural food store or make it themselves.

Packed away in our attic is a wooden tofu-making kit. Made by Larry Needleman in 1976 and based on designs from The Book of Tofu, the soybean press was a popular item during that burgeoning period of do-it-yourself food preparation. Although we owned the kit, we seldom used it, relying instead on the fresh tofu we sold in our store.

Our store was on Cape Cod, and to supply our customers (and our own family) with the tofu we wanted to eat, Ralph and I traveled to Boston. We took a four-hour round trip at least once a week in our station wagon to buy several five-gallon containers of freshly made bean curd from a tofu maker in that city's Chinatown. We brought the containers back to Wellfleet and sold the cubes, still floating in the watery brine, by the piece to eager customers.

Stepping into that tofu shop was like walking into another world. Steam rose over vats of boiling soybeans as an aged tofu maker stirred the mixture with a long wooden paddle. The floor was wet, English was barely spoken, receipts were scratched on soggy pieces of paper, and the tofu was incredibly fresh and flavorful.

Anyone who has ever tasted tofu knows it is not notable for its remarkable flavor. Tofu is a bland food that picks up and absorbs the essence of other, more distinctive-tasting seasonings and spices. However, the tofu from that old Chinese tofu maker had a taste sensation all its own. Ralph has fond memories of driving home from Boston while devouring one fresh cake of tofu after another. I can't say that I did the same, but I have always enjoyed incorporating tofu into our family's diet.

In our house, we usually eat tofu at least once a day. As I sit in my office writing this column, our dinner of roasted vegetables and tofu is cooking in the oven. When tofu is not being roasted together with onions, garlic, zucchini, carrots, broccoli and whatever other vegetables are handy, I often sauté thick slices of it in a cast-iron pan that has been lightly coated with olive oil and seasoned with freshly squeezed garlic. Sometimes I make lasagna, using an entire cube of crumbled tofu in place of cheese.

The use of tofu is not limited to main-course menus. One of my favorite ways to enjoy tofu is as a dessert we call tofu cream. To make it, I put into a blender about a cup of liquid — sometimes I use fruit juice and sometimes soy milk — add a banana broken into pieces, an entire cake of tofu crumbled up and about a quarter-cup of honey or agave. If stevia is used instead of honey or agave, one teaspoon of powdered stevia is enough to sweeten the mixture. When blended together, tofu cream has the consistency and taste of pudding.

Tofu is a heart-friendly food. It is an excellent source of protein, high in iron and calcium and low in calories, and it contains no cholesterol.

If you haven't tried it, don't be scared by its foreign-sounding name. Pick up a cake at your local grocery and experiment with one of the many recipes available online for this versatile, nutritious and historically important food.

A mother's love is universal

 Cardinal nest in Angel Mist bamboo

I love finding bird nests, and this week I found two — a cardinal nest and one built by a pair of wood thrushes.

The thrushes built their nest about 4 feet off the ground in a thick, branchy clump of Sunburst bamboo. The green-striped, yellow-caned bamboo is growing close to a wooden post that the thrushes use as a combination landing strip and lookout post.

Whenever the birds return with food to feed their hungry nestlings (and they do that all day long!), they always stop first at the post, pausing just long enough to look around and assess the safety of the situation before flying into the bamboo thicket and providing their offspring with a tasty meal.

That's how I discovered their nest. I was in the nursery and spotted the wood thrush standing on the post with a beak full of something. Watching from a distance, I saw the bird leave the post and fly into the bamboo. He (or she — both parents help feed their offspring) stayed awhile before flying off again in search of more food.

A little later, I walked over to the clump of Sunburst and discovered three down-covered babies sitting quietly in their tucked-away home. I was careful not to get too close because I didn't want my human presence to limit their chances of survival.

The cardinals also have chosen a clump of bamboo in which to build their nest. Unlike thrushes, which prefer a low-lying location, the bright red male and his less flashy mate have anchored their bowl-shaped structure quite high in the branches of Angel Mist bamboo.

Either I had been particularly unobservant or the cardinals' building skills were especially efficient, but it seemed that the nest appeared out of nowhere. I spend considerable time in the bamboo nursery taking customers on tours, and my route always passes the bamboo where the cardinals built their nest. But until now I had no idea it was there.

Like the wood thrush, the female cardinal builds the nest while her partner stays nearby to watch for danger. Once the nest is completed — and that takes three to nine days — the female will begin to lay eggs and will stay on her clutch of two to five eggs until they hatch a little less than two weeks later. Because of the location — suspended from branches about 12 feet in the air — I was unable to tell how many eggs there are or whether they have hatched. Once a nest is used, neither cardinal nor wood thrush returns to raise another clutch.

Finding bird nests always brings me joy. There's magic in the way a small animal without hands can fashion a beautiful, secure home out of twigs, pine needles, mud and bits of leaves. Using only their beaks to carry building material and their bodies to shape the structure, birds manage to create habitats that are not just functional but architecturally beautiful.

While the Mother's Day tributes of the past weekend are still fresh in our minds, we shouldn't forget that human beings are not the only ones to benefit from maternal love. The baby birds that hatched from eggs laid in a carefully built nest, the tiny bunnies that snuggle in a fur-lined hole, the armadillos born in a burrow are all here because they had mothers who cared enough to find secure places to raise their progeny.

Making sacrifices is what mothers do. It doesn't matter if you're a human being who gives up sleep to tend to the needs of a crying newborn or a mama cardinal that won't leave her nest — not even for food — until all her eggs have hatched. Being a mother means being willing to give of yourself to help your children. How lucky we all are to be the result of a mother's love.

All you need is love...unconditional love

 Amber, Sherry, Jenny in 2008

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 3, 2010)
 

This year will be my 30th Mother's Day. It will be the first for my oldest daughter, whose son was born last July. Unfortunately, 2010 is the first year my husband will be without his mother, who died in February at age 93.

Mother's Day has always been a bittersweet holiday for me. My own mother is still alive, but she suffers from Alzheimer's and lives in a nursing home in South Florida. Even when she was well, our relationship was rocky because our expectations about life were always so different.

When parent and child do not share the concept of unconditional love, conflicts are bound to arise. I did my best over the years to stay close. I tried to be the daughter my parents expected me to be while staying true to myself. That proved to be a difficult – if not impossible – path to follow.

The good thing about bad relationships is that they can teach us how not to be. When I began to have children, I was determined not to be like my mother. I wasn't naïve enough to think I wouldn't make mistakes — I just didn't want to make the same mistakes my mother made with me.

I wanted my children to grow up feeling loved no matter how they looked, what work they did, how many times they changed jobs or with whom they chose to share their life. It was important to me that my children feel not only accepted but also treasured, respected and appreciated for their individuality.

For the most part, I've succeeded. My four children have put my parenting philosophy to the test on multiple occasions, but we've all managed to survive those challenges with our relationships intact. Our clashes have not resulted in prolonged silences or seething rage, throbbing aches or irreparable damage. I like my children, and it appears they like me back.

Liking one another is such a simple concept, it should be a given. Unfortunately, it's not. Parent and child may love each other — that's automatic — but liking each other is another matter. Liking someone takes work, respect and a willingness to relinquish responsibilities and relax roles.

This year I'm reaping the dividends of my parenting efforts. Not only am I watching my oldest child, Amber, turn into a loving, kind and patient mother, I recently received an essay written by my daughter Jenny in which she put into words her own feelings about our mother-child relationship.

Jenny wrote:

"I feel a lot like my mother these days. It hits me the most when the phone rings — as it does so frequently — and I am quick to answer it with that professional, upbeat tone in my voice: 'Hello, this is Jenny.' It's just the way my mother answers the phone. Actually, it would be difficult to tell us apart, with the exception of the name, of course.

"Each day I put on one hat and take off another. This happens many times throughout the day. Ever since I was young, my mother proclaimed herself to be 'a wearer of many hats.' When I was little, I always thought this meant that she liked hats and that she had many different kinds that she wore. Though she did have an awful lot of hats, now that I'm grown up I know what she really meant.

"It's 8:30 in the morning, and I am on the phone answering questions about an apartment we have for rent. Next, I am talking to a cleaning client who wants to reschedule an appointment. As the day continues, I switch hats to become a nanny. I have a paper due in the morning that I haven't written yet, and when I get home, there is dinner to make and laundry to take in and fold. It's getting dark, and I'm finally home and so is my husband. A quick kiss as we push open the door and set our bags down. My phone rings. 'Yes, I'd be glad to give you more information about the apartment.'

"I feel a lot like my mother these days. I wonder as I'm falling asleep if we really do eventually all turn into our parents.

"I think it wouldn't be so bad if I did. My mother has the prettiest smile and is one of the nicest people I know. But, just to make sure I stay a little different, sometimes I let the phone ring without answering it. Whoever it is can leave a message. I'll call them back later."

I've always admired women who stayed close to their adult children. Years ago, when I became a mother, I hoped that over time my children and I would grow together rather than apart. My wish has come true, and I couldn't be more grateful. People can buy any number of Mother's Day presents, but the best gift of all is unconditional love.