A sweet addiction

Black mulberries go through several color transformations before they are completely ripe and ready to eat.

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 27, 2011)

I'm having a hard time controlling myself. Mulberries are ripe, and I can't stop eating them.

This year's crop is the biggest ever, and for some reason the birds — cedar waxwings, in particular — have not arrived to eat them. That leaves more berries for me to devour, and devour them I have. I can't seem to keep my mulberry consumption under control.

Pick a bowlful. Eat a bowlful. That has been my pattern. A couple of hours later, I'm at it again. By the end of the day, I'm wishing I had exercised some restraint.

"I don't feel so good," I told my husband the other night. "I think I may have overdone it a bit with the mulberries."

"You think?" he responded rhetorically, while directing his gaze toward my purple-stained fingers. "How many did you have today?"

"More than I'd like to admit," I admitted. "You know how I am with berries. I have no self-control."

Confession time: I am a berry addict. Put me in front of ripe fruit and you'll have a hard time prying my greedy little fingers away. That's especially true when the fruit is growing not on shrubby bushes or prickly vines but on huge trees.

My friend Pat recently moved to Florida from New York. He had never seen a mulberry tree, so I invited him to see and sample ours.

"Isn't it a bush, like in the nursery rhyme?" he asked.

"Not even close," I said, as we approached a grove of mulberry trees laden with ripening fruit.

Despite what "Pop Goes The Weasel" suggests ("Round and round the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel"), the mulberry is not a small plant. It's a large, deciduous tree. Several of ours are more than 30 feet tall and equally as broad.

The fruit develops on new growth and hangs from bendable limbs accessible by both adults and children. There are no thorns to contend with on this powerhouse of productivity, and it is one of the first plants to bear edible goodies in spring.

On our property, we grow three kinds of mulberries — white flesh fruit, black flesh fruit and red mulberries. The latter are native to America, but both white and black mulberries originated in China and were imported to this country in the 1700s.

Silkworms feed exclusively on the leaves of white mulberries. In Asia, the trees are an integral part of the silk-making industry. In the United States, the primary use of mulberry trees is to provide shade and attract wildlife.

Dozens of birds feed on the early season fruit. People — especially children — also find the abundant berries a welcome addition to their pre-summer diet. Unfortunately, the sticky purple morsels aren't as popular with parents, who have to clean up messes made by stained hands and juice-splattered feet. The mulberry's messiness has caused many a tree to meet an untimely demise.

On our property, we don't mind the mess. Sure, throughout the growing season, our fingernails are purple, and we have to remember to remove shoes before entering the house. But that's a small price to pay for such an easy source of tasty treats. We especially prize white mulberries because they provide all the goodness of the dark-skinned fruit without nearly as much mess.

My only problem with mulberries is my lack of self-control. How much goodness is too much? Is it possible for something to be too sweet? I'll get back to you on that. Right now, a mulberry tree outside is calling my name. I have berries to pick.

Well...well...well...

Getting wet is all in a day's work for the crew of All-Water Services

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 20, 2011)

One of the things I cherish about living in the country is our pure, sweet well water.

The well we drink from is 80 feet deep. The well driller who installed it 20 years ago said he tapped into an underground river. In digging, he unearthed fossilized shells and shark teeth that I keep on a shelf in my office. Every time I look at them, I'm filled with awe for not only the remarkable history they contain but also the deep, reliable source of drinking water they represent.

We are dependent on our water, so I knew we were in trouble one recent night when I turned on the bathroom spigot while getting ready for bed to find a mere trickle of water.

"The pump's out," I called to Ralph, who had already gotten under the covers.

It was 11 p.m. and pouring outside, but he reluctantly got up. We rounded up the needed equipment — umbrella, flashlight and hammer — donned some warm clothes and headed up the hill to see if we could fix the problem.

Anyone who depends on a well for household water and irrigation learns to identify and (hopefully) fix some common well and pump problems.

A few taps with a hammer on the pressure switch will occasionally bring a stalled motor back to life. Ants that get into a pressure switch can short it out. Remove the ants and, if you're lucky, the problem goes away. Pressing the reset button on the control box will sometimes save an expensive visit by repairmen.

The other night we tried all the above, to no avail. The pump wouldn't start no matter what we did. The remaining option was to install a new control box, a fix that had helped in similar situations before. If that didn't work, we'd have to call in the well driller.

We went back to bed and slept restlessly, thinking of ways to avoid the expense of a new pump.

Early the next morning, we hit the Internet and phones. We located a control box and our helper, James, drove into town to get it, then came back to replace the old one with the new. When he was done, we had thrown $250 into a hole that still didn't pump water.

By then it was midmorning, and the inconvenience of living without running water was beginning to show. In the kitchen, dishes covered with the sticky remains of oatmeal and blueberry pie filled the sink. We were using buckets of lake water to flush toilets and brushing our teeth with the stale supply from our emergency stash — bottles we'd put aside months ago.

Ralph dialed well drillers to see who was available on short notice. Several calls later, he contacted the crew at All-Water Services Inc. in Groveland. Derrick Brigmond, the youngest member of the family-owned business, said he could come by in the afternoon.

Around 1 p.m., the workers arrived. By then my kitchen looked like a disaster area. With my youngest son home for spring break and my daughter and grandson expected for dinner, I could feel my mood sinking into a hole about as deep as the well that wouldn't work.

About two hours and $2,850 later, a new pump and motor were in place.

"The motor was fried," said Darren Brigmond, as he and his son packed their equipment. "It could have been hit by lightning or it could just have been age. It's hard to tell."

It is hard to tell when the problem you're dealing with is 80 feet underground in a secret river. Fortunately for us, that river is still flowing with enough pressure to supply us and our plants with the high-quality water we've come to treasure.

Good, clean water is one of life's most basic needs. It is so essential that we take it for granted until something happens and the water is gone. The next morning, when I turned on the tap to brush my teeth, I did so with renewed appreciation for one of life's most precious commodities.

An old adage says, "If you spend money like water, you'll always be broke." But as I recently learned, if your well is broken, spending money may be the only way to make sweet water flow.

Three blooms...three memories

Purple wisteria

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 13, 2011)
I've done a bit of traveling lately, but I haven't left home. The fragrance of newly bloomed plants has taken me back in time and across the miles to remind me of places and people I love. 

Sweet alyssum was the first flower to trigger a memory.

I was visiting my daughter at her Winter Garden home, where she has planted her first entirely-on-her-own garden. I hadn't been to Amber's house for several weeks, and although I'd heard about all the vegetables and flowers she was growing, I'd yet to take a tour.

We were chatting as I stepped outside, but a strong whiff of a familiar scent stopped me midsentence.

"Is that alyssum?" I asked, looking around. Just outside the door, a cluster of fragrant white blooms hugged the ground. "It is alyssum! It smells just like Grandma's yard in Seattle."

Suddenly, instead of standing in Amber's backyard, I was 3,000 miles away. I was in front of my mother-in-law's home on N.E. 147th Street, where blankets of white and purple alyssum poked through the concrete next to the garage. Whenever we visited, the sweet aroma of alyssum flowers was there to greet us.

I have always loved that smell and the memories it triggered. Grandma Boas died last year, and the next-door neighbors bought her house. Our days of sitting in Grandma's flower-bedecked living room overlooking Lake Washington are gone, but as long as I can smell alyssum, I can be there in my mind.

When I returned home from visiting Amber, I ordered a packet of "honey-scented alyssum" seeds called "Summer Romance" from Renee's Garden.

My second journey began in my own backyard.

I was taking out the trash on the last day of February when I noticed a rush of color against the clay wall. I put the bags in the trash can and went over to where a stand of mature wisteria vines covers a section of carved-out hill. The day before the vines were bare, but overnight it had rained. The wisteria responded by producing masses of purple and white blossoms. I lifted a pendulous cluster of blooms to my nose.

One whiff and I was back on Cape Cod.

On Cape Cod, wisteria signaled the end of winter. After several months of cold, gray, wet and snowy weather, it was a sign we were eager to receive. In April, vines that ambled over stone walls and climbed sagging trellises burst into bloom. The air was heavy with their aroma. I'd go outside with clippers and return home with a basket full of blooms. Vases of wisteria brought springtime indoors.

It has been years since I lived on the Cape, but one sniff was all it took to transport me to back in time. I was a young mother in our hand-built house in the woods. The kids were little. They were busily drawing pictures on a long roll of brown paper spread across the pine floor. I stood in the kitchen listening to their chatter as I cleaned up after the midday meal. On the windowsill behind the sink sat a huge bouquet of wisteria flowers. With each dish I scrubbed, I inhaled the sweet promise: "Winter is over! Spring is here!"

My third olfactory journey was closer to home. In fact, it was right here at home. Ralph and I were on our way to the junk pile in search of some paving stones to use in the garden when I smelled perfume in the air. Our junk pile is a few steps beyond a grove of citrus trees. We have only a few trees, but even one orange tree blooming will fill the air with an intense perfume.

The smell of orange blossoms is the aroma of home. It speaks of Florida and sunshine and family time together. When I first moved to Groveland, groves of citrus trees still covered the hills. There are far fewer now than there were in the 1980s, but the trees that remain still stop me in my tracks. Their heady fragrance proves the past is not over — at least not completely.

As long as scent can trigger emotions, a bit of yesterday will always be here. People who say time travel is impossible must never have taken a flight of fancy. That's too bad, because it can be quite a trip.

I'm hiding...come find me!

Small phone + large stack of papers = a frustrating search

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 6, 2011)

"Have you seen the phone?"

I ask that question several times a day. So does my husband.

It's usually followed by one of us saying, with (I'm embarrassed to admit) more than a hint of self-righteousness: "Where'd you leave it?"

The second question is followed by a frantic search that escalates in proportion to a series of accompanying queries. On the surface, the questions seem helpful. In reality, they're anything but.

"Where'd you have it last?" "Did you leave it in the car?" "How about your pocket?" "Did you check your purse?"

The answers are (in order):

• "If I knew where I had it last, I wouldn't be traipsing around the house picking up pillows and looking under papers muttering expletives."
• "No."
• "I already checked."
• "It's not in my purse, and why do you always think it's in my purse, anyway? How about in your shorts? Maybe you had it last, not me."

After a while, one of us lights upon the brilliant idea of calling the missing phone from our land line. Of course, we could have done that initially had we thought of it, but we didn't.

We weren't thinking. That's the problem.

So, we make the call and somewhere in the distance a familiar tune beckons.

"It's in the bedroom!" or "It's coming from the porch!" or "It's right here on my desk! Yeesh! I looked there twice! How could I have missed it?"

Pick any of the above. At one time or another, we've found the phone in each of those places.

The object of our attention is a simple (translation: outdated) clamshell design. We could text with it and take pictures if we wanted to, but we don't. We bought the phone for one reason: to talk. Of course, to do that, the phone must be present, and as far as I can tell, it doesn't come with a feature that lets aging boomers locate the device when they forgot where they left it.

Marriages thrive on a diet of mutual respect, appreciation and tolerance. I love my mate and enjoy his company, but when we're searching for a misplaced cell phone, he drives me crazy.

That's probably because his mannerisms mirror my own. We're both frequently preoccupied and shamefully forgetful, and our forgetfulness is vexing. No one wants to be that person — the one who is constantly wondering aloud where she left this or put that.

Yet here we are. We have become our parents. We've entered the "muttering" phase of life, when things refuse to stay put and some yet-to-be-discovered force causes small objects such as cell phones, keys and important notes to vanish inexplicably.

Until the phone rings and the wayward object is located.

Promises ensue.

"I will try harder," I vow, "not to leave the phone in the car, on my desk, on the porch or (all right, I admit it) in my purse."

I promise to try harder to focus on what I'm doing. I will pay more attention. My husband promises, too. Time passes. If we're lucky, we make it through an hour. Then it happens again.

"Have you seen the phone?" I ask as I wander through the house.

Tiny ants...big OUCH!

Immediately after a red imported fire ant nest is disturbed, the ants launch a merciless attack.

 

Given the choice of wearing shoes or not wearing shoes, I always opt for going barefoot.

But being barefoot is dicey in a state where the potential for ant bites is great. Floridians whose unshod feet touch the ground are apt to come home with painful stings inflicted by a tiny insect with a long name: Solenopsis invicta Buren.

Nicknamed RIFA, for red imported fire ant, it's one of two species of fire ants that live in the Sunshine State. The RIFA is widespread, but Florida is also home to a less common species known as the native or tropical fire ant. Neither of the species takes kindly to being stepped on, and they respond to such unwarranted behavior by attacking mercilessly.

If you spend any time outside, you know what I mean. According to a University of Arkansas report, these powerful dirt movers infest more than 275 million acres of land in the United States and Puerto Rico and inject their venom into millions of people annually.

Although we call them ant bites, what we really experience are painful stings.

Fire ants grab the attacker's skin with their strong mandibles to inject a venom that causes an immediate, localized pain. Within minutes, a red, raised spot usually develops, followed a day later by a white, pimple-like pustule that itches like crazy.

Because each ant can sting repeatedly — and because several ants often attack simultaneously — multiple stings are the norm. It's not uncommon to run away from a fire-ant encounter with dozens of stings.

Ubiquitous as fire ants are in our lawns, fields, driveways and sidewalks, they were not always a part of the Florida landscape. In the early 1900s, these South American natives made their way into the southern United States by way of cargo ship. Early seafaring vessels used soil as ballast, and it's likely the dirt-dwelling ants came aboard inadvertently and were then unloaded in America.

Once here, the ants prospered. Colonies multiplied and spread rapidly. Red, imported fire ants now populate every county in Alabama, Florida and Louisiana. They exist in parts of Arkansas, Georgia, Mississippi, Oklahoma, North Carolina, South Carolina, Tennessee, Texas and Puerto Rico. They have even made their way to California, Missouri and across the Pacific to Hawaii.

The insidious fire ants can't tolerate cold. If temperatures drop to freezing for more than a couple of weeks, the ant colonies die. Fire ants dig into their complex underground burrows for protection. Although they don't hibernate, they are increasingly less active when it's cold outside.

Although it isn't exactly barefoot weather, winter is the safest time to venture outdoors shoeless in Florida. I mention that because as of this past week — if judged by fire-ant activity — winter is officially over. My feet are proof. At the start of the week, I was going barefoot, but by the end of the week, I wasn't. My toes were so dotted with ant bites that I refused to leave the house without some sort of foot covering.

From an entomological point of view, fire ants are fascinating critters. They have complex social systems, unbelievable strength and an impressive ability to adapt to a broad range of environments. But that doesn't mean I have to like them.

The bottom line is that these small insects with the big sting are painfully annoying, practically impossible to avoid and incredibly difficult to eradicate. The best we can do is tread carefully and keep a spray bottle filled with vinegar handy. If applied immediately, white vinegar helps quell the discomfort of a fire-ant attack.

Being barefoot may be my preferred state, but practicality trumps preference when it comes to fire ants. I may hate shoes, but I love the way they protect me from ant bites.

Savoring the moment

Undulating hills in shades of green highlight a stretch of Florida's Turnpike a few miles south of Exit 285

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel February 20, 2011)

A stretch of Florida's Turnpike is especially striking this time of year. When I drive through it, I am awestruck. For just a moment, I gasp. It's that lovely.

The section I'm referring to is only a few miles from my home. I see it shortly after I get on the turnpike at Exit 285. About five miles south — still in Lake County — the road snakes its way over and around a series of hills.

In flat Florida, it's unusual to chance upon a vista with such contour-rich terrain, but this area is the exception. Gentle curves and slopes dominate, and the road follows their lead. The engineers who designed the road could have taken a different approach. In 1964, when that segment of the turnpike was built, they could have sliced through the hills with straight-line efficiency. Fortunately, they chose not to.

Although topography makes this spot special, it's only one reason why I find it so attractive. Trees are the other. This is especially true during springtime, when new leaves have formed and the land is greening up after months of brown.

Two types of trees cover the hills — pine and deciduous. The pines are about 20 years old, tall, straight and orderly. Like many local pinewoods, this is an intentional forest. The trees grow in rows with even spacing. Citrus growers probably planted them. After several severe freezes in the late 1980s, many grove owners turned to pines to maintain the land's agricultural status.

If scrub pines were the only trees covering this stretch, the landscape would be pretty but not exceptional. What makes it extraordinarily beautiful are the deciduous trees that have sprung up between the pines. They're mainly chokecherries, planted not by man but by birds and squirrels. Over the years, the chokecherry trees have flourished, growing as tall and broad — if not more so — than the planted-by-man conifers.

When I drive this part of the turnpike, I feel like I'm back in Pennsylvania or traveling through North Carolina. It's that different from the Florida I'm used to seeing from behind the wheel. It's as if I've entered a landscape painting. Shades of green are dazzling. Light greens and dark greens blanket the hills. No houses are in sight. A jewel-like lake shimmers in a hollow. A curving road weaves through the hillocks. It's a portrait of serenity, peacefulness and springtime.

And then it's over.

About a mile after it begins, the landscape returns to Florida highway normal. Hills give way to flat terrain. Straight passageways predominate. The tree line diminishes until only a few scattered evergreens border the road. Homes begin to appear. Many homes. So many houses bank the turnpike that the developments require concrete walls to buffer road noises. Welcome to the Sunshine State Parkway.

No matter where you live, there are bound to be things you love about your chosen home and things you dislike. I'm not wild about massive developments, and I hate seeing trees cut down and hillsides carved up to make way for ticky-tacky, zero-lot-line homes. I especially dislike seeing such things happen to landscapes as beautiful as this one.

For now, this acreage remains undeveloped, but if the past is any indication, it won't stay that way long. At some point, trees will give way to home sites. Hills will be paved over, and lights will brighten land that's illuminated now by the sun, moon and stars.

That's why, whenever I drive this stretch of the turnpike, I take in the view. I savor the moment and appreciate the scenery because beauty is that most fleeting of intangibles. It's as transitory as cars passing on the highway.

My fuzzy Valentine

A soft beard, a sweet baby - put them together...what's not to love?

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel February 13, 2011)

Today is Valentine's Day. On this day of love, my heart belongs to a man whose face I've never seen.

Not all of it, anyway.

My husband, Ralph, is my amour. He also happens to be a person with a beard. It's a full beard, wild and untamed. It covers most of his cheeks, all of his chin and that narrow space above his lips. Ralph had a beard when we met in 1970. I've seen his entire face only in photographs of him as a teenager.

It's a good thing I like beards. I like the way they look and the way they feel. Many people find facial hair unappealing, but I'm not among them. I'm attracted to bearded men the way some men are attracted to women with long (or short) hair. It's a hard-wired part of my persona.

Like many men of his generation, Ralph's hair fell below his shoulders when he was in college and he had a full, untrimmed beard. Although he looked the part of a hippie, he wore a beard then for the same reason he wears one now — he doesn't like to shave. I can't fault him for that. I don't like shaving either.

Over time, Ralph's thick, brown locks have become grayer and a bit thinner on top. His beard, however, is just as big and wild as ever. Occasionally, I take out shears and hack it back a bit, but that's akin to trimming a hedge. Within a few weeks, a fuzzy fringe has returned, as thick and full as ever.

Choosing to go through life with an unruly swirl of facial hair has had its downside. Some people just don't get it. My parents felt that way. They could never understand why their son-in-law didn't shave. If he must have a beard, they reasoned, why not have one that's neatly trimmed?

But my husband has never been the manicured type. He's a casual person who's more concerned with how things work than how they look. He thinks independently and questions social norms. When he believes in something, he sticks with it. I've always admired him for that.

There have been times when I've wondered how Ralph would look without a beard, but I've never taken the next step and asked him to shave. If I insisted, he'd probably cut off his beard to please me. When you love someone, you want that person to be happy. But that's also why I haven't (and probably never will) ask him to shave. I wouldn't want to make my husband do something he doesn't want to do just to satisfy my fickle curiosity.

There is no secret formula for attractiveness. No one look is right or wrong. Fur may cover my husband's face, but no amount of facial hair can hide a person's compassion, kindness, gentle nature and intelligence. For 40-plus years, my husband's words and actions have demonstrated his feelings for me and for our children. We are secure in his love and support.

Actions, not appearances, define a person's heart.

My heart belongs to a person whose entire face I've never seen, and I like it that way. In any marriage, a bit of mystery never hurts.

Signs of spring

Mulberry trees are among the many plants that are responding to warm temperatures by sending out new leaves.

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel February 6, 2011)

It is only February, but the plants think it's spring.

The tips of the fig and mulberry trees have swollen with potential, as new leaves get ready to unfurl. Meanwhile, other deciduous trees have already completed the process. The tender, young leaves of maples and tupelos appeared weeks ago. They now cover the winter-bare branches with a blush of color.

Beneath the trees are weeds, those tenacious volunteers that thrive on neglect. Weeds have spread across brown lawns and bare patches of ground.

Plants are either extremely optimistic or very foolish. Don't they know it could still get cold?

Last year around this time, we had 10 days of chilling weather. Temperatures in the low 20s and high teens turned green leaves black and dashed the hopes of new buds that dared to emerge. That experience made me cautious. The plant world might be saying that spring has arrived, but I'm hesitant to believe.

Despite my hesitation, I was outside the other day pulling weeds, transplanting broccoli seedlings and planting pansies. It's hard to resist gardening with such beautiful weather, especially after an unusually cold winter.

Temperatures in the mid-60s to low 70s are enticing. Leaving my jacket on a hook in the hallway, I go for leisurely strolls, work in the garden or settle into a chair to absorb the day. Blue skies and bright greens herald the promise of spring. Even if the promise is broken, the pleasure of these lovely moments remains.

Back in December, our loquat trees were in full bloom. Clusters of lightly scented white flowers covered the branches. When winter arrived prematurely, the flowers withered. I couldn't help but wonder what would happen next. Would the trees recover? Would fruit ever set?

It is now February, the month when loquat fruit usually ripen. Clusters of flowers once again cover the branches. On some limbs, the flowers have already started to develop into small orbs of goodness. The crop will probably be later than normal, but there will be fruit. Unseasonable weather hasn't stopped the trees from doing what loquats do — flower, fruit and produce new seeds — just delayed it a bit.

I'm encouraged by how the loquat trees overcame the winter hardship. If another cold snap strikes this month, the same thing probably will happen again. The trees will respond with more flowers and an even later, smaller crop.

Plants handle adversity with amazing resilience. From my office window, I see the dead leaves of three kinds of gingers. At first glance, they look awful — all lifeless and limp — but upon closer inspection, I see new shoots emerge. The overall appearance is barren, but hope is afoot. Beneath the dead tops, new life has begun.

Maybe plants are neither optimistic nor foolish. They are growing organisms responding to internal triggers without the shackles of human thought. They go about their business without hesitation, without worry, without frustration. They simply live.

Weather is unpredictable, but plants are the essence of predictability and patience. No matter how extreme temperatures get, the plant kingdom responds with faith in the future. Spring will come. Plants will grow. They know it, and despite my hesitancy, I know it too.

A Far Eastern experience that's close to home

Long aisles filled with boxes and tins of tea entice both Asian and non-Asian customers

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel January 30, 2011)

I don't go to Orlando often, so when I do, I pack as many stops into my trip as possible. Inevitably, one of those stops is an Asian market.

O-Town has dozens of stores to choose from, but the two I like best are Dong-A Co. (816 N. Mills Ave., 407-898-9227) and 1st Oriental Supermarket (5132 W. Colonial Drive, 407-292-3668).

The 1st Oriental Supermarket is on Orlando's west side, making it a few miles closer to home. Although the distance is shorter, it is still worlds away from any comparable American grocery-store experience.

Established in 2003 and located in a former shopping plaza in Pine Hills, the 42,000-square-foot supermarket claims to be the largest Oriental market in Florida. No matter when I go, the store is crowded. Customers of various ethnicities load up carts with products from their homelands that aren't readily available elsewhere.

For me, a person with limited travel experience outside the continental U.S., an ethnic market is like a virtual travelogue. America fades away as I step through the double glass doors. Cantonese, Vietnamese and other tongues replace English. Foreign sights, sounds and smells surround me. No matter where I look, I see something unfamiliar, and I love it. Without having to board a plane, I have been transported to the Far East.

This is no Epcot experience. This is the real deal. Employees aren't trained to cater to tourists. If anything, they display a certain amount of impatience toward the English-only crowd. Asian markets are busy, get-what-you-need-and-get-going places. Stores such as 1st Oriental Supermarket are the Far Eastern equivalent of Sam's Club or Costco. They provide a wide selection of products, often in oversized packages, at low prices with limited service.

Ostensibly, I go to the market because I'm running low on tea. Colorful tins and boxes of tea occupy both sides of a long aisle at 1st Oriental Supermarket. I can search for a specific type, shop by brand or seek out blends for certain ailments or needs. A seemingly endless array of teabags and loose-leaf varieties competes for my attention.

Inevitably, I leave with several selections, including my current favorite, Prince of Peace brand organic jasmine green tea. I usually opt for the 100-bag box for $5.95. My local Publix, which doesn't carry the Prince of Peace brand, sells a similar product for $3.96, but that's for only 18 bags. At American groceries, economy-size packages of tea are simply not available.

Although tea is my excuse for traveling 27 miles to shop, that's not all I buy. I always come home with some packaged items as well as a selection of seasonally available fruits and fresh produce. On my most recent trip, I purchased six egg-shaped white sapotes, a bunch of bok choy and two types of dried ginseng root.

Sapotes are South American fruits that have found a niche in Vietnamese and Filipino cuisine. After examining the display of about a dozen different kinds of bok choy, a Chinese green that's like a cross between cabbage and spinach, Ralph picked one and added it to our cart. Asian grocery stores stock an abundance of leafy green vegetables, most of which are unfamiliar to non-Asian consumers.

Anyone who finds the unfamiliar fascinating will enjoy a visit to an ethnic food store. At 1st Oriental Supermarket, entire aisles are devoted to bags of dried mushrooms, cans of syrupy fruits and packages of seeds, roots and dehydrated fish. Live fish and eels swim in a 1,000-gallon tank. Customers can choose what they want for dinner, then take it home, filleted to their specifications.

The store also contains a meat market, fresh poultry corner, bakery, Chinese medicinal herb area and assorted housewares, cookware and personal hygiene items. There's so much to see, I often feel I'm on sensory overload.

The Internet does a great job of bridging physical distance, but it's not yet able to duplicate the experience of picking up and touching an object, inhaling its fragrance or savoring its taste. Sometimes a hands-on approach is needed to foster real understanding. Shopping at an ethnic market is an easy, inexpensive way to expand horizons and broaden your palate without having to travel far from home.

Thanks to clever camouflage, killdeer nests are elusive

Killdeer

Simply Living (First appeared in Orlando Sentinel January 23, 2011)

Killdeer are fast runners. They scurry by when I'm taking walks and rush out of the way when I'm driving down our dirt driveway. They move so quickly that their slender legs seem to disappear, making them look more like cartoon characters or windup toys than the land-loving shorebirds they actually are.

Although the killdeer is a type of plover, you are more likely to see one on a golf course, field, pasture or even your front lawn than at the beach. These 10-inch-long birds are easy to identify. They have white bellies, tawny backs and two black neckbands. They also make a distinctive cry when disturbed. A startled killdeer will take to the air with a scolding screech and circle overhead. Its flight is erratic. Intermittently, it flaps its wings frantically and glides effortlessly. It releases a shrill wail as it flies.

I see killdeer all the time. They might like the many sandy paths we have that don't get much traffic. Killdeer nest in such areas, although to call the places they lay their eggs "nests" smacks of hyperbole. A killdeer nest looks like … well, it looks like the ground. The birds meagerly attempt to scratch away dirt. I'm not talking about a big hole but a mere indentation. Into this minimal space, the female deposits four to six eggs. Once she has laid her eggs, the birds add light-colored stones, sticks and bits of shell to camouflage the nestlings.

In the 20 years I've lived here, I've come upon a killdeer nest only once. I was walking along an infrequently used path when I saw what looked like a bird with a wounded wing. The old "my wing is broken" trick is a killdeer specialty. When it senses danger, a mother or father bird will feign injury to divert a potential enemy's attention away from the eggs or baby birds. The adult bird does this by dragging one of its wings along the ground as it moves away from the nest site. Every now and then, it cries out plaintively, bobs up and down and fans its tail feathers.

It's a captivating spectacle. I can see how it might fool a hungry animal in search of an easy meal. Humans, however, are not as easy to trick. I allowed the bird to continue by pretending to be distracted. All the while, I was mentally mapping the spot so I could return later. I let the bird draw me away until it finally flew off. Later, I returned to the spot thinking I'd locate the nest in a flash.

It didn't happen.

I walked back and forth, but no matter how many times I carefully crisscrossed the spot where I first saw the killdeer, I couldn't find any sign of a nest. Then, just as I was about to admit defeat, I spotted it. Several buff-colored eggs with mottled brown and tan marks were nestled together in a shallow hole in the middle of the driveway. The nest blended so seamlessly with its surroundings, it was hidden in plain sight. I looked at the eggs but didn't touch anything. Killdeer, like many birds, will abandon eggs if they think they've been disturbed.

It was years ago when I saw that nest. With all the killdeer on our property, there must be many others, but I never discovered them. That's either a tribute to the birds' clever camouflage or an indication of how little time I've dedicated to the art of nest detection. Whatever the reason, I'm happy to have so many of these bug-eating plovers in the area. Killdeer eat seeds and all sorts of invertebrates, including earthworms, grasshoppers, beetles and the larvae of water bugs. They will even consume live frogs or dead minnows when necessary.

Killdeer are not my favorite birds, but because there are many of them, they are easy to observe. You don't have to love a critter to appreciate its special characteristics, unusual habits and distinctive behaviors. Perhaps one of these days I'll chance upon another killdeer nest. Until then, I'll get a kick out of listening to them scold me for getting too close as they scurry away.

A new home for an old desk

The roll-top desk drawers and crannies may be empty, but the floor remains covered with items to be sorted.

Simply Living
(First appeared in the Orlando Sentinel January 16, 2011)

I've spent the last three days emptying the roll-top desk in my former office. The desk, an oak behemoth that I bought about 30 years ago, has 15 drawers and nine cubbies. In 2009, when I moved my office from one room in the house to another, I left behind the desk and everything inside those cubbies and drawers. I always intended to go back and clean it out, but every time I did, the thought of emptying all those compartments was overwhelming.

Time after time, I put it off.

That changed last week when my friend said she was in the market for a used desk. Knowing my affinity for secondhand stores, Theresa asked me which thrift shops I thought she should visit. I mentioned a few, but in the back of my mind I was thinking of my old desk.

The next time I saw Theresa, I asked if she had found a desk yet. When she said no, I took the plunge. "Would you be interested in an old wooden roll-top desk that I no longer need?" Her enthusiastic reply made me realize that my days of procrastination were about to end. We arrived at a price and, more important, a day and time when she would pick the desk up. I knew that without a deadline, nothing would happen. I needed a push, a date on the calendar, before I could even begin to attack the project.

Once a date was set, my work began. I brewed a large mug of jasmine tea and settled on the old office floor. With a trash can and several cardboard boxes nearby, the sorting began. I rummaged through drawers, tossing this item here, that item there. I found boxes of colored pencils, old calligraphy pens and rubber stamps for decorating envelopes in the days when I actually wrote letters by hand. There was an entire drawer filled with sewing paraphernalia and another with blank paper, old pads and partly used notebooks.

Some things were easy to sort, though others brought me pause. When I discovered containers filled with my children's baby teeth, along with handwritten notes about when each tooth was lost, I put everything else on hold and took a trip back through time. As it turned out, time travel was to become the theme of my desk-emptying endeavor — especially when I began sorting through the two large file-cabinet drawers.

File folders overflowing with data from the days before computers were so stuffed into those drawers that I had difficulty opening them. Once I did, I found myself awash in a flood of memories. Piles of paper relating to old business projects triggered a sense of relief. Into the trash they went! I was glad to be rid of them.

That's not how I felt when I discovered the hand-drawn Mother's Day cards and colorful scribbled love notes written by my children when they were little. Those discoveries made me long for the days of sticky kisses, tight-squeezing hugs and crayoned words of devotion written in the colors of the rainbow.

Deep in the drawers were more reasons to remember. I unearthed reams of my old writings — stories, poems, songs and letters. Drawings, too. And letters from friends, some who are no longer alive. Time slowed as I read through those long-ago words and looked at sketches I hadn't seen in years.

Sometimes a piece of furniture is nothing other than a few bits of wood, some glue and nails. That wasn't the case for my old wooden desk. For me, that desk was a portal to the past. As difficult as it was to tackle, emptying the 15 drawers and nine cubbies transported me back through time. It refreshed my memories. My appreciation for the little things in life was renewed and invigorated.

After all the sorting, reviewing and renewing of memories, you might think I was sad to sell the desk. I wasn't. It made me feel good knowing that my friend will soon be filling the drawers and cubbies with memories of her own. I'm 59. Theresa is 27. That desk has enough nooks and crannies to contain several decades of her life's detritus.

I wish her well on her journey. Maybe someday it will be time for her to pass the desk on to someone else, and she'll face the curious task of sorting through papers and deciding what to do with old pens, crayon-scribbled notes and a collection of her children's baby teeth. When she does, I hope she gets as much satisfaction from her efforts as I have had from mine.

Versatile kale packs nutritional punch

Young Red Russian kale plants thrive in Florida throughout the fall, winter and early spring.

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel January 10, 2011)

Every day around lunchtime, I go into the garden and cut a few kale leaves. After shaking water droplets off them, I bring the crinkly edged greens inside to use in place of lettuce on my sandwich. Kale leaves add a pleasant crunch to my midday meal as well as a slightly sweet, pleasant flavor.

Unlike lettuce, which has few vitamins and minerals, kale leaves pack a nutritional punch. Each bite provides antioxidants, anti-inflammatory nutrients and cancer-fighting glucosinolates. Kale is a rich source of vitamins A, C and K as well as minerals such as calcium, copper, potassium, iron, manganese and phosphorus.

Kale belongs to the Brassica family, whose members include arugula, bok choy, broccoli, Brussels sprouts, cabbage, cauliflower, collards, mustard greens, radishes, rapini, turnips and watercress. While some of its cousins are strong-flavored and bitter, kale is mild-mannered and inoffensive. Consider it the Clark Kent of cruciferous veggies.

Kale is easy to grow. Its growing season is long — August through March. It likes cold weather and is seldom bothered by bugs or disease. The variety we're growing this year is Red Russian, ordered from Fedco Seeds in Waterville, Maine (fedcoseeds.com). Although the company's main clientele lives in Northern climates, many of its seeds, including Red Russian kale, do well in the South.

In late August, Ralph sowed about half of a 70-cent, 2-gram packet of the tiny black orbs into three 15-gallon containers filled with our special soil mixture, a rich combination of composted manure, peat and woodchips for aeration. Within a few weeks, dozens of sprouts began to appear.

When the young shoots were about an inch high and sported a few small leaves, my son Tim, who inherited his father's green thumb, transplanted them into two dozen 15-gallon containers. From then on, the seedlings developed quickly. We began harvesting the frilly leaves in late September. Today, four months later, the plants are still producing growth without showing any sign of decline.

I take scissors with me when I'm out gathering leaves. Kale leaves grow on tough stems that resemble pinkish-green celery stalks. The stems are edible, but they taste better when cooked, while the tender young leaves are delicious raw. For each sandwich, I snip off four bread-slice-sized leaf sections. I come back for the stems when I'm making soup or looking for a crunchy ingredient to add to a stir-fry.

There's much more to do with kale leaves than use them as a substitute for lettuce. The chopped greens also work well in stews or in any recipe that calls for spinach. Sometimes for dinner, I'll gather a basketful of the fresh tops and chop them into small pieces before sautéing them in a cast-iron frying pan lightly coated with olive oil and pressed garlic. When the leaves are turning bright green — it's important not to overcook — I pour in a dash of lemon juice, turn off the heat and cover the pan for about two minutes before serving. If Ralph is making dinner, he'll add a sprinkle of turmeric as a seasoning.

When we lived on Cape Cod, my kids were partial to kale soup, a Portuguese staple available in many local restaurants. I haven't had that ethnic delicacy in years, but recently, Ralph and I spent time in St. Petersburg, where we discovered a completely different use for this most versatile and nutritious vegetable. Leafy Green Café, a wonderful little vegan raw-food eatery, serves side orders of a house specialty called kale chips. The chips — crunchy, seasoned morsels that melt in the mouth — are the result of slowly drying fresh kale leaves sprinkled with a special spice mixture. They were unexpectedly delicious.

Just as Clark Kent changed into Superman, the modest kale plant reveals superpowers of its own. The difference is that kale's transformation requires no telephone booth. All that's needed are an inexpensive packet of seeds, some potting soil and a desire to experiment with your taste buds. No matter how it is used — cooked, raw or dehydrated — kale is one vegetable worthy of attention.

Fancy name belies rose's hardy nature

The fragrant and carefree Louis Philippe rose blooms continually, even in cold weather

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel January 2, 2011)

The low-maintenance, disease-resistant and sweet-smelling Louis Philippe rose practically grows itself.

Unseasonably cold weather has wreaked havoc with my more tropical landscape plants. Several varieties of ginger have lost leaves, as have hibiscus bushes, cassias and even one of our golden rain trees.

Flower-studded ground covers such as wedelia, impatiens and zebrina (wandering Jew) also succumbed to the cold. Overnight they turned into soggy black mats, while colorful accent plants such as Mexican petunias morphed into skeletal images of their former selves.

One botanical bright light remains in my otherwise freeze-dulled landscape: an antique rose with a fancy name — Rosa "Louis Philippe." Even when frost blanketed the ground and icicles dangled from crape myrtle seedpods, this hardy bloomer remained unscathed. It continued to produce a headdress of ruby red flowers.

I've been growing this particular rose for more than 20 years, but it would be misleading to suggest that I was responsible for its success. Louis Philippe roses belong to the category of plants I like best – independent cultivars that don't require much attention.

Named in honor of Louis XVIII of France, the rose was introduced to North America in 1834. Lorenzo de Zavala, Mexico's minister to France and a Texas colonialist, received rose plants as a gift when his service ended. His wife, Emily, an avid gardener, planted the roses alongside the front porch of their home in Lynchburg, Texas.

I'm sure the flowers looked lovely next to Emily's house, and the heady fragrance must have perfumed the rooms, but I wouldn't want to copy her example. Like most roses, the Louis Philippe has thorns. It also spreads. Left alone, this sweet-smelling ever-bloomer expands annually until it eventually fills a 7- to 8-foot wide area. It also will grow upward.
Although not technically a climbing rose, this is one strong-willed, determined beauty. A few years back my son planted a cutting he had rooted (Louis Philippe roses are also extremely easy to propagate) beneath a pine tree. The rose now stretches up into the lower branches. It's at least 10 feet tall.

Although I have been growing this cultivar for two decades, I didn't learn its name until this past summer, when a customer at our bamboo nursery pointed it out.

"I love your Louis Philippe roses," the customer said, as she stood next to a sprawling specimen we had supposedly confined within a bamboo fence.

"Is that what it's called?" I asked. "I always assumed it was a knockout rose."

"Oh, no," she said. "It's an antique rose. Very fragrant. Very hardy. It's definitely a Louis Philippe."

My customer knew roses the way I know bamboos. I wrote down the name, and after she left I hurried to my office to look it up online.

Although my research confirmed her pronouncement, I quickly learned that one rose could have many names. Some people call it crown rose, while others know it as Florida rose, Florida cracker rose, cracker rose or antique china rose. Regardless of its label, Rosa "Louis Philippe" has been a popular addition to Southern landscapes for the same reasons I find it so endearing.

"It is considered a continuous bloomer because it produces flowers over such an extended period. It has a sweet fragrance and has good disease resistance," according to OnlinePlantGuide.com.

The website of Seminole Springs Antique Rose and Herb Farm in Eustis adds a culinary perspective: "The flowers of Louis Philippe are deliciously scented and are great to use in the kitchen for rose syrups, rose water or just as a cut flower."

It's easy to see why this bush rose receives so much praise — especially in Florida after an early winter freeze. Many flowers have qualities that make them appealing, but few have as many desirable attributes as this common rose with the fancy name.

Family newsletter provides a record of life's big and small moments

Milestones such as a grandchild's birth share space in a monthly newsletter with less momentous events.

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel December 26, 2010)

Year-end letters: Some people love receiving them. Others find them boring, overdone or annoying.

I'm in the "love 'em" camp. Every time I get a newsletter from a faraway friend, I feel like I've received a gift. I enjoy reading about what folks have been up to for the past 12 months, and I pore over any included pictures.

I like newsletters so much that I write my own, but I've tweaked the concept a bit. Instead of sending out a yearly missive, I pen a monthly review. I've been doing it since 1997, and although my mailing list has expanded over the past 13 years, the reason I compose the letters remains the same. I write to have a record of our family's life. It's a way to remember.

Without some sort of recordkeeping, dates and details of noteworthy events blur or even fade away. To prevent that from happening, I make the time to preserve moments. Every month I sit down at my computer and let my mind drift back through the past 30 days. It's a chance for reflection, introspection and summation.

On a monthly basis, I consider my life: What did we do this month? Did we have fun? Were there problems? I seek out a theme.

Every month, at least one feature predominates. It could be as special as the birth of a grandchild or as mundane as an overwhelmingly busy schedule. Whatever that theme is, I elaborate on it, then flesh out the newsletter with bits and pieces about unrelated topics. Which flowers were blooming? What fruits and vegetables did we harvest? Did we take any trips? Were there any interesting wildlife sightings, good books read or friends who visited?

I'm not the only one involved in this project. Over the years, my children and their spouses have found themselves drawn in. When the kids were little, I did it all myself. I'd ask them what they wanted me to say and paraphrased their comments to include in the review. As they got older, that extra step seemed unnecessary.

I felt the newsletter would be better for everyone if the children, who were no longer little kids, took a more active role. That's what we do now. Each of us is responsible for writing our own section. We each pick out the pictures we want to include, then post them on the blog that replaced the printed-out newsletters I used to write on the computer and send by snail mail.

Although I don't miss the days of sticking stamps on dozens of letters, addressing them by hand and taking them to the post office, posting a monthly missive on a blog has its own share of difficulties. The design and layout procedures of the blogging site I use are a continual source of frustration. Every month some glitch in the system presents challenges to overcome. After listening to me rant and rave for many months in a row, Ralph learned to stay out of my office on the days when I'm putting the blog together.

Despite such frustrations, I'm glad to do it. Creating a pictorial and written account of our family's activities every month gives me a tremendous sense of accomplishment. It no longer matters if I can't recall details of important events or my mind goes blank when asked to remember some special date. I can refer to the blog.

I can look up details and jump-start my memory with pictures and anecdotes. My only regret is that I didn't start earlier. I wish I had a record of the previous 27 years of my marriage, something to look back on and cherish. Fortunately, my children will have such a record. And their children will, too.

What better way to start the New Year than by investing a little time in recording the past? It is one investment that has guaranteed returns.

Only fellow Floridians understand complaints about 'cold' weather

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel December 19, 2010)

It's cold!

The heat is on, but as I write this, I'm sitting in my house wearing several layers of clothing and fur-lined boots. I'm typing in the living room instead of my office because my office is far too frigid.

A large, single-pane picture window covers an entire wall in my usual writing space. Normally, I love that window because it provides great views of the garden and hillside, but when the temperature dives, so does its charm. Cold air seeps through the glass like water through a burst pipe.

Speaking of burst pipes, did you remember to leave your faucet running during the recent freeze? We Floridians become so accustomed to year-round warm weather that we forget to take basic preventive measures such as protecting water pipes from freezes.

We abandon many wintertime procedures when we settle in the Sunshine State, and we do so gladly. Who wants to wear layers of clothes, worry that the cold will kill our plants or create geysers out of barely buried water pipes? We didn't move south to sit by leaky windows or to cover our feet in anything except flip-flops.

But cold weather occasionally comes, and Floridians adapt. We also complain.

I'm telling you this because I know you'll understand. You live in Florida, too, and even though the weather probably will have warmed considerably between the time I'm writing this and the time you're reading it, most of you share my desire to live in a freeze-free zone.

That commonality enables us to commiserate with one another. We can start conversations with, "My gosh, it's cold," knowing that the people we're talking to will nod their heads and offer up a sympathetic reply.

That's not the case if the person we complain to lives out of state in, say, Rochester, N.Y. I made that mistake the other day. Ralph and I spent the night at La Veranda Bed and Breakfast in St. Petersburg. Before breakfast, we began loading up the car with our suitcase and gear. The car was a short distance away, so in typical Florida fashion, I didn't bother to bundle up before heading out. By the time I came inside to sit down at the table, I was chilled.

"Brrr," I said to the other guest who entered the dining room just after I came in. "It's cold out there!"

The man stared at me as if I was talking gobbledygook.

"I just came in from outside," I explained, thinking that would help.

"How cold is it?" he asked.

"Maybe in the low 30s," I said. "It's really cold."

He continued to stare.

A spark of awareness lit in my cold-dulled brain. "Where are you from?" I asked.

"Rochester, New York," he replied.

"Ah," I said. "Well, that explains your expression. Forgive my complaint, but to me it's cold. Not to you, no doubt, but we Floridians aren't used to such chilly weather."

The rest of our breakfast conversation was pleasant enough. We managed to avoid any weather-related topics and said our goodbyes with mutual respect.

The encounter reinforced a maxim I learned shortly after moving to the Sunshine State: If you want to complain about the weather in Florida, make sure the person you are complaining to lives in Florida, too. You'll get no sympathy from Northerners. They simply don't understand.

Old love

40 years ago...and today

Simply Living

Forty years ago this week, I made a decision that changed my life.  Instead of going back to my parent’s house in Yardley, Pa. for winter break, I hopped on an airplane and flew to Boston.  I’d never been to Boston before.  The only person I knew there was my high school friend Megan.  I asked Megan if I could visit and she offered me a place to stay. 

At the time, I was a second-year student at the New College of Hofstra in Hempstead, NY.  Although my official major was Humanities, a more accurate description of my college focus was Being Involved in Relationships.  Academically, I was doing fine but my relationship meter had bottomed out.  The trip to Boston was a step toward independence.  I was tired of constantly searching for that special someone.  I’d had my fill of pining over boys.  My plan was to spend the holiday in a guy-free zone visiting art museums, exploring the city and reconnecting with my friend. 

That’s not what happened.

Megan lived in a big house with several roommates, one of whom was a longhaired, bearded fellow with thick lenses in his plastic-framed glasses.  His name was Ralph and we met shortly after my arrival.  Within three days, we were a couple.  I never did make it to any art museums during my Boston getaway.  Megan and I hardly spent any time together and instead of exploring Boston, Ralph and I hopped into his blue Datsun station wagon to spend a weekend on Cape Cod.  Afterwards, we drove to his parent’s home in Illinois for Christmas, stopping first to see my folks in Pennsylvania. 

The paths we travel in life can change so abruptly.  I was only 19 when I met my future husband but it was an encounter to last a lifetime. 

In the 40 years since, Ralph and I have had countless adventures.  We’ve lived in three different states, raised four children and are presently enjoying the pleasure of being grandparents.  Both of us shake our heads in disbelief when we consider how much time has passed since our fortuitous New England encounter.  The years may have grayed our hair and wrinkled our faces but they have also added a treasure trove of shared experiences and depth to the affection we feel for each other.  I’m more in love with my husband now than ever.

Ralph is currently reading Ray Kurzweil’s book, The Singularity is Near.  Kurzweil is one of the world’s leading inventors, thinkers and futurists.  His predictions for the past 21 years have been remarkably accurate.  In this 489-page tome, Kurzweil draws a detailed picture of what he believes the future will hold.  For the next 40 years, he envisions a world far different from anything we’ve yet experienced.

It is understandable that my husband finds Kurzweil’s concepts intriguing.  There comes a point in life when the road ahead looks decidedly shorter than the road already traveled.  Kurzweil presents possibilities that extend the journey.    

Only time will tell if his predictions prove true.  Although the author’s view is optimistic, I don’t share my husband’s enthusiasm for the topic.  I’m more concerned with the present that I am with the future.  I find myself more inspired by all that has already transpired than I am by what might or might not come to be.

I’ve learned many things over the past four decades but one lesson that stands out is that nothing is static.  The direction your life takes can change in an instant.  For me, that instant happened forty years ago this week.  Would I go back and do it over?  In a heartbeat. 

After a long wait, mushrooms crop up at last

Fresh picked shiitakes!

And another mushroom still growing

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel December 5, 2010)

What a surprise! After two years of waiting — long enough to have just about given up — the oak logs that my husband seeded with mushroom spores have produced a small crop of shiitake mushrooms. My son Timmy discovered them sprouting from the pile of stacked logs.

"Look what we've got!" Ralph said, as I came into the kitchen still drowsy with sleep. I knew something was going on from the sound of slamming doors and excited voices during the normally sedate pre-breakfast hour.

"Timmy found all these shiitakes growing on the logs," Ralph announced, holding out a plateful of round, brown mushroom caps ranging in diameter from 3 to 6 inches.

Shiitakes are Ralph's favorite mushroom. For years he has been eating both fresh and dried versions of this historically prized, nutritionally rich fungus. It has been a long time, however, since he has had a homegrown supply.

Shiitake mushrooms originated in Asia and have been around since prehistoric times. For thousands of years, Chinese and Japanese farmers have cultivated shiitakes on logs cut from the "shii" tree, a medium-size evergreen related to beech and oaks.

Ancient peoples noted the mushroom's numerous health benefits, and recent research supports many of those traditional claims. Low-fat, high-protein shiitakes are an excellent source of vitamins and minerals. These qualities have not been overlooked by my health-conscious husband.

"I wonder if that's all we'll get or if it's just the beginning," Ralph mused while trimming off the bulbous stem ends and brushing away a small spider hiding on the white underside of a mushroom cap.

My husband's uncertainty is understandable. He hasn't had a reliable mushroom crop since we left Cape Cod. In the late 1980s, Ralph took a three-day mushroom growing course at Fungi Perfecti, a family-owned company in Washington State founded 30 years ago by Paul Stamets. Stamets is renowned mycologist, a scientist who specializes in mushrooms.

Ralph returned from that hands-on workshop with his mushroom fervor at full throttle, revved up and ready to establish his own supply of edible fungi.

Back on the Cape, he felled some large oak branches and drilled many small holes to receive the inch-long dowels containing the shiitake spores, or spawn. Less than a year later (spawn mature at 6 to 18 months), he was sautéing his own homegrown mushrooms with olive oil and garlic in an cast-iron pan. The logs continued to produce a bumper crop of brown-capped beauties for several years.

Then we moved to a completely different climate.

Ralph assumed that without an extended cold period, shiitakes wouldn't grow in Central Florida, so he didn't try to establish a colony. For the past two decades, we relied on fresh shiitakes purchased locally and on dried mushrooms ordered from an online supplier.

My husband's mycological musings started anew when he read an article about a Floridian with a backyard shiitake mushroom operation. Inspired by that farmer's success, Ralph decided to try again. While waiting for shiitake plugs to arrive from Fungi Perfecti, he cut up oak logs and readied them for seeding. That was two years ago. Until this week, the only mushrooms he had harvested were two or three small specimens, barely enough to provide a satisfying meal for one.

Only time will tell if the logs will continue to produce a crop. I hope they do. Growing your own food is satisfying on so many levels. Not only do you savor the incomparable flavor of homegrown edibles and enjoy the nutritional benefits of eating the freshest food possible but you see how each type of food grows. By watching their development, you get to know plants. You even become familiar with whatever little bugs, butterflies or, in the case of shiitake mushrooms, tiny spiders find those crops attractive.

With shiitake mushrooms — at least with those spawn that manage to establish a colony — the process of producing your own food is as basic as it comes. Choose logs. Drill holes. Insert seed plugs. Seal holes. Provide a shady, moist location. Sit back and wait.

But be forewarned: By the time you're ready to give up all hope that you'll ever reap a harvest …surprise! Shiitake mushrooms for supper, homegrown and delicious!