Welcome back, readers, and welcome, new readers!
Almost four months into the year and it feels like the season is turning, for the two of us in the northern hemisphere (Trudi and Marianne), it’s from winter to spring, while Norann in the Antipodes is heading from summer into fall. This post is about that change; we named our substack “seasons” and by golly we’re going to write about them.
“Looking for signs of spring” is a time-honored activity for PreK and kindergarten classes on the Bruderhof – the children dart from garden to garden, looking for shoots and early flowers, rejoicing in every robin and new leaf. So here are the signs of spring (or fall) that we’re seeing or looking forward to:
Trudi – in Yeongwol, South Korea
Oh dear, I’ve never heard of “antipodes” but they do sound interesting! Norann, please define, as I can’t bear to look up another word. My brain is already on hourly overload with the Korean language. Immersion is just that; it leaves my head in a whirl of vocabulary until I feel word-logged, like a sponge that has taken in all it can. Included in the kitchen terminology that I’m trying to digest these days—I help cook our daily communal meal at Yeongwol—are a host of spring vegetable names.
A welcome sign of winter’s retreat in Korea are small green plants appearing on mountainsides, along roads, at the edges of gardens and parking lots, on riverbanks—really everywhere. In early spring, it’s quite normal to see elderly women, a small tool or knife in hand, collecting the wild greens for home or restaurant. (These women are able to to squat down and work surprisingly well for being in their seventies and eighties.)
There are a few vegetables I have harvested myself, one being 쑥, pronounced “Suk”, (aka “mugwort” in English) a strangely sweet-tasting little leafy plant. Another is 달래, “dallae”, a wickedly good little wild onion variety that looks like thin grass at first glance. My best is 냉이, “naengi”, a delicious and very popular little root (see pictures). That only touches the surface.
I have been to one restaurant whose specialty food was mountain vegetables. I had some rice (of course) and a small pan-fried fish of some sort but the real attraction was the array of traditional Korean “side-dishes”, various kimchis, a few different roots, and a lot of little greens, some leaves from trees but mostly plants that grow in the wild. Each green had a distinct flavor, and each was perfectly seasoned. Probably in part soysauce, garlic, sesame oil, etc. I didn’t feel particularly full after the meal but those dishes were more than palatable—exquisitely flavored, and incredibly delicious. Now that I’ve done a bit of cooking myself, I also realize that it’s a bit of an art to get a root or tough leaf to soften up appropriately.
Although life in the countryside sometimes has me pining to see more of humanity and fewer stray cats, I still highly prefer it to a tourist experience in urban Korea. As my third springtime in Korea commences, I find myself looking at the ground because I love the naturalness of discovering free, edible gifts of Nature (when I was a kid that included snow). My interest is not driven by hunger though, and I often reflect that perhaps a history of war and oppression engrained the habit of hunting and gathering into the people of this peninsula. I would guess that knowledge of wild edibles has been key to survival for South Koreans and certainly North Koreans.
One member of Yeongwol in her mid-sixties is very proactive in early spring. I think her excitement helps the snow melt. I once clambered up a brushy mountainside with her to find some kind of leafy plant which we later enjoyed in soup. I don’t remember the name of the plant—just the adventure of getting it. In the last few weeks and days, the same lady has been busy harvesting all kinds of plants, painstakingly peeling off yellow leaves or dirty outer layers, and washing off the dirt. It takes time, but the resulting soups and side dishes are heavenly: an earthy yet fresh taste. It’s the flavor of Spring, with her sometimes subtle, sometimes bold, but always delightfully rejuvenating arrival.
Marianne – in Woodcrest, upstate New York
Midwinter spring is its own season, and that’s what we have here in Woodcrest. A mild winter turned into a snowy March, but the aconites and snowdrops were here before the snow and are now visible again along with daffodils and hyacinth, so real spring can’t be far off. Here’s a list of some spring things I’m looking forward to:
lambing season. Like many Bruderhof communities, Woodcrest has a barn with a couple horses, cows, goats, pigs, chickens, and sheep. Different families are responsible for different animals (our family helps with the horses), and my brother Rich and his kids take care of a flock of sheep. A dozen or so ewes are due to lamb any day now, and if you’ve never seen a week-old lamb in a field of new grass, make this your year to fix that.
community cleanup day. Sometime before Easter, usually a Saturday, there’s a designated day for all ages to get outside to sweep gravel off the roads, rake lawns, and generally tidy up from winter. Part of the reason for this is to reflect the preparation of our hearts for Easter with the clearing away of accumulated junk from the winter months. A big load of compost gets dumped somewhere central, and everyone carts it to the gardens around their house to get ready for the next growing season.
the plant sale! Actually it’s not a sale – none of us has any money since everyone on the Bruderhof has taken a vow of poverty, so it’s really a giveaway. But this is what we call it when flower and vegetable seedlings that have been grown in the community greenhouse are put out for families to take, and there’s a frenzy of optimism as we all imagine the lush growth soon to occur in our freshly composted gardens.
birdwatching season. The ducks have been coming through since early February, and the warblers will be arriving in their turn, so now we repeat our treasured family activity of driving for an hour or more to stand at the edge of a marshy field, binoculars in hand. Kent and the older kids are avid birders, and my role is to haul the four-year-old out of the swamp when she falls in, and provide snacks.
evenings outdoors. It’s light when we come home in the evenings now that we’ve switched to daylight savings time, and on days when it’s also warm enough, the area in front of our house is a swarm of small people making chalk art, playing four squares and hopscotch, and climbing trees, while their slightly older brothers have a soccer game on a nearby field. Living in community means there are children from six or seven families within a minute’s walk, and they magically converge to get another hour of play out of the day.
not dealing with snowpants and boots any more. The gloves that have been lost this year can stay lost.
Norann – in Danthonia, New South Wales, Australia
Antipodes, Trudi, is a geographical term denoting a location which is diametrically opposed to another. Australia and New Zealand have become known as the “Antipodes” because we are considered to be on the other side of the world from our “mother” country, Britain.
And it’s not only geographically that we’re opposite from you at the moment: while you are looking for signs of Spring, we are awash in the wonders of Autumn. The apple, pumpkin, grape, and pear harvests are underway, our deciduous trees (we’ve planted many) are beginning to turn colour, and there’s a welcome, autumnal bite to the early morning air.
This is one of my favorite seasons because:
my mother loved it so much – her birthday was in September, and the aster, daisy, and goldenrod-filled fields of upstate New York filled her with wonder every year.
I fell in love in fall with Chris, the man who later became my husband, in the crisp months of an American Autumn, and that joyous remembrance is fresh with the changing season.
it’s a glorious time in Australia; the flies disappear along with intense heat, the last light lingers as the night cools down, and it’s time to harvest the wine grapes in a local vineyard, an adventure I’d like to share with you.
Last week, Chris and I went with a busload of young people to pick the Gewurtztraminer harvest at Topper’s Mountain. We left an hour before dawn, and arrived at the vineyard as the last stars faded. We were joined by several other local pickers, who called out cheerful “g’days” across the parking area.
We began picking the grapes - the clumps are easily snipped with secateurs - just as the sun lit up the clouds.
We continued picking until early afternoon - the bunches were crisp, sweet, and healthy without a hint of botrytis, a problematic fungus.
It was rewarding to pick such wholesome grapes, as the last time I worked in this vineyard was just after the devastating Tingha Plateau bushfires of 2019. The entire vintage was destroyed by smoke, and many vines were burned by spot-fires that jumped from the raging flames in the neighbouring pine-filled Topper’s Mountain State forest. That year, we snipped the ripened and compromised harvest off the vines and just let the clusters drop on the ground.
Today, some charred vine chunks still cling to the wires and serve as a reminder of that difficult season.
Thank-you tags sparkle in the wind above the baby vines that were donated as gifts after the bushfires.
It was satisfying to the follow the tractor back to the sheds and watch the grapes being loaded onto trailers. The harvest was driven 3 hours north that night to be crushed, and for the wine-making to commence.
The rest of the Gewurtztraminer were harvested two days later, followed by the Chardonnay and then the Shiraz.
The vineyard cycle is reminiscent of life: the seasons of security and struggle, planting and harvest, tending and patience…the endless dance of teamwork to turn soil and sunshine into fine wine.
Best wishes on the 2023 vintage!
What we’re enjoying
Norann
What I’m reading: Demon Copperhead, by Barbara Kingsolver. I’m a huge Kingsolver fan (my favorite is Animal Dreams) and have taught Dickens’ David Copperfield for years, so Demon was an obvious next read. This Appalachian rendition is raw and dark and difficult, and while Kingsolver is again proving a master at her craft, I think I shall lay it aside until after Easter. For a more complete review of this book see Chris Zimmerman’s thoughts on it.
What I’m listening to: A certain nephew keeps me in new music all the time, but his most recent recommendation will also have to wait for a few weeks….in the meantime, the harvest season here means lots of parrot action following the crops, especially at dusk and dawn. This means our playlists are silenced because the flash-mob eucalyptus choirs are in full voice and anchored by red-winged parrots, sulpher-crested cockatoos, dusty pink galahs, and rainbow lorikeets. The warbling magpies put in steady and sweet appearance as soloists.
This extremely rare mix of a rainbow lorikeet and eastern rosella put in an appearance last year, and we hope we’ll get a sighting again:
Marianne
What I’m reading: The modern myth The Legend of Heliopher (“sun-bearer”) is one of our family’s pre-Easter read-alouds. Hearing it this year, I was reminded of the scene in The Silver Chair where the witch tries to convince Puddleglum and the children that good and beautiful things don’t exist – there’s a similar episode in the story (“There is no light, there is no sun”), similarly resolved by self-sacrificial courage.
Also been reading Sally Thomas’ recent novel Works of Mercy really is this good.
What I’m listening to: Grieving the seven people who died by shooting in an elementary school in Nashville, TN yesterday, I’m listening to “Ihr habt nun Traurigkeit” (Ye now have sorrow) from Brahms’ German Requiem. I’m thinking especially of the mothers of the three children who died and who were the same age as my oldest daughter as I hear these words from the Book of Esdras, “Yea, I will comfort you / as one whom his own mother comfortest.” This recording by Jessye Norman.
Trudi
What I’m reading: Well, really a whole bunch of things. Since Yeongwol Community is working hard to get nutrients into our soil—the natural way of course—I’ve been reading Jesse Frost’s The Living Soil Handbook as well as other resources. (I learned by trial-and-error in my personal gardening attempts last year.) Frost’s book is highly educational and surprisingly readable and engaging for it’s textbook-like content. I’d recommend it to anyone interested in doing some home-grown vegetables this year.
What I’m listening to: Mendelssohn’s Spring Song in various forms. My family used to play—like on our instruments—an arrangement for strings which is breath-taking. If you’re feeling a little chilly and dreaming of warmer weather, try it out. Piano lovers can enjoy this version. Or for clarinet and piano version, try this.
And now, to end: a recipe!
Contributed by Marianne
We’ve adapted the German custom of an Easter egg tree to a single branch inside, and since some eggs break every year, we decided to make a dozen new ones.
First step is to empty the egg shell, which you do by making a hole with a pin on each end, and then blowing out the contents. You can do this with your breath, but it’s much easier to get the asthma nebulizer and use that. (You can definitely cook the egg once its out of the shell, but you probably want to put it in the fridge for a couple days to let the bits of shell settle out.)
Next step is to wash the eggs (vinegar on a rag to get the grease off), and then dye them. We [I] chose the simplest method, which is to put a few tablespoons of salt in a container, add liquid food color, and shake. Rice instead of salt works fine too.
Final step is to brush off the excess salt and find some ribbon to hang the eggs with.
Wishing you the best,
Trudi, Marianne, and Norann
Thank you for such beautiful writings about spring and fall, north and south, and for the recipe for dying eggs. How wonderful to read about the greens of Korea. I've only gotten as far as dandelion greens from my yard.
Norann, may you enjoy the results of the grape harvest.
Yes, spring is everywhere now in the Hudson Valley. Welcome lambs!
Thank you all - Susan
Always enjoy reading these vignettes of life in your different communities as the seasons change. I'm also interested in what you're listening to and reading, and sometimes follow up on them. What struck me this week was Marianne's comment on grieving with and so supporting, the mothers of the victims of the latest American shootings, while listening to certain passage in Brahms' Requiem. I can imagine how powerful that would have been.