Nature + Culture

In Season: Mulberries

A tub of mulberries, freshly picked.First pick of mulberries today. The street trees we usually pick from have had all their lower branches pruned in a hopeless (I dare not say “fruitless”) effort to reduce the masses of mulberry fruit squished into jam on local sidewalks, but about a kilometre away I found a street tree laden with low-hanging fruit and, with the property owner’s permission, picked about 4 cups.

Mulberries have a sweet and slightly tart taste. They make excellent mulberry-lavender ice cream, very good jam, and are an unbeatable companion to dark chocolate. They also stain strongly, and would likely make excellent purple or burgundy dye or ink. Like most berries, they freeze easily for use throughout the year—a good thing, because mulberries in the Toronto region fruit briefly, a week or two before the raspberries are in full swing, from late June to mid-July. The best mulberries to pick are the fat, long ones that detach readily from the branch. Mulberry trees with eastern exposure seem to produce the sweetest, fattest berries.

Mulberry trees are somewhat controversial in native plant circles, mainly because Asian white mulberry trees (Morus alba), reportedly introduced to North America in the 1600s, have replaced or hybridized with native red mulberry (Morus rubra) and are therefore considered invasive. Native red mulberry is severely endangered in Ontario: reports from 2014 indicated that there were only 217 red mulberry trees remaining in the province, clustered mainly in southwestern Ontario.

Personally, I am on the fence about hybridized mulberries. I am always open to correction, but currently it is my non-expert impression that the proverbial ship may have sailed on the prospect of restoring a sustainable population of non-hybridized red mulberries in Ontario. I am not convinced it is possible or even desirable at this point to eliminate hybrid trees. Having said that, at least two native red mulberry trees are on my wish list for Maher Circle and, if we are able to procure some for our native pollinator garden, I will endeavour to maintain a 50 metre clearance between our natives and any non-native or hybridized mulberries.

In the meantime, however, I am happy mulberry season has begun, and hope over the next week to pick a year’s worth for the freezer, of which a quantity will go into a batch or two of delicious mulberry-lavender ice cream.

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Seen: Producers of Miracles

Wild bumblebee pollinating raspberry blossoms on 1 July 2025, Toronto, Canada.Today is the third of July, and my raspberries are producing fruit. The first ripe berries, hot in the sun, always, are reverently consumed: sweetness on the tongue. Afterward, most of the berries go straight into the freezer until I have enough to make milkshakes, ice cream, and jam.

Reverently, too, we observe the bumblebees who pollinate the flowers and are therefore the raspberries’ principal keepers. Here is one, hard at work a few days ago, a producer of miracles in summer sunlight.

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The cicadas are in season, too. I heard the first one of the season late yesterday, as the humid evening eased itself into dusk. I heard it again this morning, and hopefully soon we will have a loud chorus of cicadas, droning in the summer air.

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Also, seen recently in my woodland garden: a male blackburnian warbler! I am terrible at bird identification, and my phone camera managed only pixelated pictures, but blackburnians have such distinctive plumage that it was fairly easy to narrow down the species while flipping frantically through my collection of field guides. I assume this bird was in transit and stopped by my woodland garden to shelter under the cedars and enjoy the bird bath.

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What Remains

Archaeological site investigating ancestral Menominee agriculture in northern Michigan.
Madeleine McLeester image.

A few days ago, via Connecticut Public Radio, I learned of recent archaeological research finding evidence of large-scale precolonial Indigenous agriculture in northern Michigan. The research findings, published recently in Science, discuss an ancestral Menominee agricultural site consisting of at least 95 hectares of raised, ridged fields planted mainly in maize, beans and squash maintained, likely for centuries, between about 1000 CE and 1600 CE. The study authors report further evidence, in the form of burial mounds, ritual earthworks and village sites, indicating that the fields were intricately connected to the broader Menominee cultural landscape.

These research findings are important for a variety of reasons. First, the Menominee fields (only partially surveyed to date) may be the largest surviving precolonial Indigenous agricultural site in eastern North America–a crucial find given (a) that pre-contact Indigenous communities were long believed to have maintained settlement sites only for short periods, and (b) that more than 90% of pre-contact Indigenous landscapes have been obliterated from the landscape by settler-era farming and development over the last 400 years. Second, their scale, sophistication and long duration underscore the reality that pre-contact Indigenous cultures modified landscapes in extensive and prolonged ways—via deforestation as well as through extensive earthworks and the movement of soils (e.g., floodplain soils brought to the fields, and evidence of compost used as soil amendments)—to serve agricultural and cultural aims. Third, the cultivation of maize on a large scale near the northern extent of its range invites a reexamination of historical crop practices and precolonial population distributions.

I love these research findings because, in the way that innovative research often does, they deftly upend received notions—in this case, about Indigenous impacts on the land. Far from flitting through the woods, leaving few traces (as “empty continent” claimants still insist) —or, alternately, living in Edenic harmony with nature—Indigenous North Americans were active agents of environmental change and extensive modifiers of landscapes. The archaeological evidence, bolstering Menominee narratives, indicates a long history of sophisticated cultural practices, specialised resource activities, and extensive trade networks.

It is also worth noting that the extensive patchwork of linear mounds also rebuts a ridiculous but often repeated claim that Indigenous structures (& epistemologies) were all curved, in contrast to colonists’ supposedly straight lines. I note this because more intelligent framing of the differences — and similarities — between Indigenous and settler ways of knowing & doing are needed both to add to cultural understanding and to advance projects of reconciliation, not to mention appreciating the complexity of North American landscape history.

I also love these research findings because, for the first time in longer than I can recall, they make me excited about contemporary scholarship. In the last three decades the so-called cultural turn has brought important insights to the social sciences and humanities—but it has also, in recent years, led them to become increasingly pedantic, orthodox, and ossified. Increasingly often, evidence is harnessed to serve a foreordained premise about what (and who) is ‘good’ or ‘bad,’ determined along ideological lines. In this rubric, far too much scholarship has, contradictorily in this supposed age of interdisciplinarity, become doctrinaire.

To me, good scholarship should open up subjects to further investigation, not close off questions. By challenging received notions about how pre-contact Indigenous communities used the land, McLeester et al make room for further exploration of Indigenous land uses, economies and cultural practices. Two areas of follow-up relevant to this particular research program include learning more about the reportedly non- or less-hierarchical nature of ancestral Menominee communities, their trade networks, and village sites (strongly implied, it seems to me, by the use of domestic compost in the fields) the teams have yet to uncover. That the team will likely continue to combine field archaeology methods with oral histories from contemporary Menominee knowledge-keepers makes this a project to keep watching.

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Seen: Albino Milkweed

albino milkweed

Yesterday, while tending to the pollinator garden I coordinate in a nearby public park, I was surprised to see this common milkweed (Asclepias syriaca) exhibiting albinism.

Apparently albino milkweeds occur infrequently in nature, likely due to a genetic mutation. Because they lack chlorophyll, they are unable to photosynthesize and, reportedly, do not live as long or grow as large as ordinary milkweeds. However, milkweeds spread by rhizome, meaning that albino milkweeds may gain nutrients from fellow plants to whom they are connected.

Albinism in plants is never common, but reportedly occurs often enough in redwood trees and orchid plants to suggest it may confer some evolutionary advantage (perhaps especially in shade and understory environments), wherein non-chlorophyll-producing plants—known as mycoheterotrophs—forgo photosynthesis in favour of parasitizing mycorrhizal fungi. One wildflower native to Canada, Monotropa uniflora or ghost pipe, is fully mycoheterotrophic.

[Personally, I object to the term “parasite” to describe mycoheterotrophic plants. If the mycoheterotroph gains or borrows energy without harming the source plant or fungal organism, it seems to me it would more properly be described as a commensal.]

I cannot say whether the albino milkweed in my local park has ‘chosen’ a mycoheterotrophic strategy or is simply a mutant plant. It is noticeably smaller than its peers, but seems healthy so far and shows the beginnings of a blousy blossom head. I will monitor it through the season to see how it grows. I’m curious to see whether it will remain healthy and, equally, whether its blossoms will attract insects.

In the meantime, my mutant milkweed is a thing of beauty and a source of wonder, nestled in among her green sisters. I am grateful to her for existing, and for giving me the opportunity to learn something new about plant genetics and physiology.

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Shelter

Image shows a small burrow entrance through snow into a dead tree stumpManitoba maples (Acer negundo) are native to northwestern Ontario and the prairie provinces, but have controversial status in southern Ontario, where they can spread aggressively. Manitoba maples grow quickly, colonizing disturbed areas such as vacant lots and along urban alleyways. Due in part to rapid growth, Manitoba maples tend to have brittle branches, leading to their reputation as ‘junk trees.’

But Manitoba maples also provide useful ecosystem services. They reduce erosion, hold soil, and grow where many other trees struggle to take root—especially important in disturbed areas. Their seeds feed squirrels and (among other birds) attract the evening grosbeak, a member of the finch family with distinctive yellow plumage. Manitoba maples also host boxelder beetles and rosy maple moth.

I am ambivalent about Manitoba maples. For years we had several growing on the margins of our city property. One, out front, we maintained as a privacy hedge until, tired of the need to prune it twice every summer (Manitoba maple branches grow as much as 2 metres each year, with pliable green shoots turning woody and dense by the following growing season), I cut it down. Fortunately an eastern redbud had volunteered beneath it— a slow-growing native species which produces a dreamlike halo of violet blooms early in the spring.

In the back, between our and our neighbours’ garages, a Manitoba maple once quickly grew tall and thick enough to crack the pavement in the walkway and damage the eavestroughs on both structures. With regret we took that tree down—except for an eight foot stump my husband suggested we leave in place to serve as a post supporting our back gate.

Over the past decade that stump, now weathered to bare wood, has housed a surprising variety of creatures. For several years a colony of carpenter ants dwelt within its chambers, hollowing out the wood until the stump resonated like a drum when rapped. One year, after the ants had moved on, it housed a small colony of native bumblebees. The stump has also housed a variety of shelf fungus, including turkey tail and Dryad’s saddle, and from time to time raspberry canes have sprouted from openings in its trunk.

Each year the stump wobbles a bit more on its axis, as what remains of its roots decay and gravity calls it back to earth. Last summer my husband stabilized the top with wood and wire, hoping to buy another two or three years out of our organic gate post. Our plan, when the trunk finally falls, is to take it to the circle park just down the street, where I coordinate a community pollinator garden, to enrich the soil and provide valuable habitat as it returns to earth.

Over the last few days Toronto has received a major dumping of snow, with about 50 cm accumulated over a three-day period. Between snowfalls we’ve managed to keep the sidewalks and walkways clear, albeit with snow mounded high on either side. While clearing snow near the back gate some of it, inevitably, ended up piled against our Manitoba maple stump.

This morning, on the way out back to shovel out the car, I noticed several small openings in the snow right against the trunk. Burrow holes, for a mouse, or a chipmunk, or possibly even a rat. Alongside them was a small cascade of wood shavings, sawdust from burrowing, Somebody, it seems, is overwintering in the long-dead stump of our Manitoba maple, taking shelter against the storm.

The next time I go out, I will leave it a small offering.

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