Forage For Age(s) Field Notes on the fiddlehead fern

By Debbie Liang April-June 2016

First Impressions April 6th, 2016 9:50pm

As my grade nine English teacher once said, everyone judges a book by its cover despite the popular saying, “Don’t judge a book by its cover”. That was exactly what I did today when our class was officially introduced the “Reading HABITAT Writing” assignment. I judged the fiddlehead fern first by its name, then by its appearance. I was always a plant-lover. Therefore, when I picked the fiddlehead fern from the authoritative little box Mr. Guraliuk was holding, I was delighted. Ferns are so graceful-looking (they remind me of ballerinas dancing in the rain) while fiddles look royal and charming. I imagined a typical fern, with rows of long, slender leaves (pigment green) radiating from a slightly twisted stem, sort of like the outline of a fiddle. I did not imagine a plant that looks like a shrivelled up caterpillar, or a dying, poisonous millipede, in harlequin –creepy—green. I also did not imagine that such an alarming-looking plant is served commonly in cuisines; the first images from Google were food images. My body suffered a mini electrocution from the shock; the fiddlehead fern looks bad compared to my overly fantasized version. The uncomfortable feeling quickly passed, however, as I eyed the fiddlehead fern closely. If this plant was a person, what kind of person would it be? Tsundere. The fiddlehead fern is a tsundere. There is no English equivalent for the Japanese word, but a tsundere is a person who is initially cold and steely, but gradually shows more of his/her warmer nature towards a person (usually someone close or the main character of a story).

Arabesque

Curled up, coy, all the little tentacles, hidden, afraid of the cold air’s bite; a new bundle of feathers not trained by the teachers yet. The sun rains affection day by day while the moon shines lullabies night by night. Other fronds are already entranced by the graceful music of the celestial beings. Once in a while, the breeze comes to tickle the young one’s immature limbs. Slowly, after the earth has turned multiple pirouettes, the rain exercises its loyalty, A masked king with twelve eyes and three hands slips over and asks, “May I have this dance?” The fiddleheads yawn perform a relevé extension curl their arms in second position, and join the dance.

Ferns and Thorns April. 9th, 2016 8:38pm

Yesterday, our English class researched our species. Both Jessica and I were browsing online, saving some sites to ponder carefully later. We had some interesting conversations yesterday. There is a literary journal called “The Fiddlehead”. I need to do some more research into that, because that appears to be a weird name for a literary journal (I think). Surprisingly, the fiddlehead is used in so, and I mean, so, many dishes! The whole time in English my stomach was growling. Maybe the fiddlehead will steer me in the culture direction first—not a bad start. I had trouble finding sites with information on how fiddleheads are portrayed in literature. Jessica’s hawthorn, conversely, appears in poetry and literature many times! She even found references of hawthorn in “King Lear”. While we were brimming with excitement, yapping about our plants, I noticed the hawthorn poems all talked about “she”. I told her to see if hawthorn had any ties with feminism (which actually gave me a new topic to approach for my own species too). Also, the book Jessica is currently reading is “The Scarlet Letter”, written by Hawthorne. What a wild coincidence. English was full of surprises yesterday. Strangely, people kept telling me how delicious fiddleheads are, but I don’t hear people talking about how delicious broccoli is (the fiddlehead is supposed to taste like broccoli and asparagus). At lunch, I went outside to see if there were any fiddleheads in our school gardens. From my browsing in class, I found that fiddleheads are nothing more than baby ferns. I’ve seen ferns around the school. But…they don’t look like fiddleheads…

These are too big to be fiddleheads…I need younger ferns. I remember seeing ferns on certain streets around Gladstone too, so I tried looking for some fiddleheads there, but no luck.

Literary Journal April 12th, 2016 7:41 pm

The gaps between the times of entries may suggest laziness (on my part) but I have been researching and compiling a visual for the next page. Hopefully, the page will be done soon. Meanwhile, I’m not too sure what to write in this field-notebook/journal. I don’t want to go into too deep of an analysis or start writing poetry until I have the science page done because I might keep referencing one way or another to some science of ferns later in the journal. Researching about fiddleheads is actually quite hard because the species is not specific enough. I will have to find generalized information about ferns (which is harder than finding, let’s say, information on the ostrich fern). What I can do right now is learn more about the Canadian literary journal “The Fiddlehead”. I searched the website, but I couldn’t find anything that specifically talks about the species or how the literary journal was crowned such an eccentric name. As Canada’s oldest continual literary journal, there’s bound to be a great loot of works—potentially helpful to this project. I sent them an email. I hope they respond. Oh my goodness, the University of New Brunswick is in charge of this…I am very nervous. What did I just do…?

Exclamation Marks!!!!!!!! April 13th, 2016 8:35 pm

The class was sent on this quest with very vague instructions (how typically Guraliuk). The only specific request from Mr. Guraliuk was for the end project to be ‘highly professional’. How professional is ‘highly’, because I think I am about to make a very unprofessional response right now due to an overdose of excitement. My emotions are cranked high right now…because “The Fiddlehead” actually replied to my email. Oh. My. God! (The only reason I have refrained from using an excess of exclamation marks is so I don’t sound like a five year-old jumping up and down—I might annoy some people).

RE: WHY THE FIDDLEHEAD?

From: The Fiddlehead & SCL ([email protected]) Sent: Apri-13-16 11:33:52 AM To: Debbie Liang ([email protected])

Hi Debbie,

The Fiddlehead was founded in 1945 by a group of UNB students and faculty, who were interested in poetry. They formed a poetry group that they named the Bliss Carman Society after the famous 19th century Canadian poet who had been from Fredericton. Each person in the Bliss Carman Society would bring the poems that they had written to the group. They would all read each other’s poem and discuss what they like about the poems and how to improve them. They would also read poetry books and do writing exercises that would help them become better poets. When they first established The Fiddlehead, they just published their own poetry in it.

In the 19th century several famous Canadian poets had come from New Brunswick (Bliss Carman, Charles G. D. Roberts, and Francis Joseph Sherman) and the members of the Bliss Carman society say themselves as renewing that poetic tradition. Alfred Bailey, who was a UNB history professor and a member of the Bliss Carman society gave The Fiddlehead its name and wrote in the first issue that the magazine took its name from the fiddlehead fern: a “small plant that grows in the Saint John river valley in the spring, and which is said to be symbolic of the sun”. so the fiddlehead plant was seen as a sign of spring – a time of renewal when plants become green again – and the poets in the Bliss Carman society thought of themselves as people who were renewing a poetic tradition in New Brunswick that had first started with those famous 19th century poets. Several members of the Bliss Carman society did become well-known Canadian poets.

In the 1950s, The Fiddlehead gradually became transformed – the magazine’s editors started welcoming contributions from anyone who had an interest in poetry. So people no longer had to be a member of the Bliss Carman society to be published in The Fiddlehead. In 1955 the editor wrote that : “Poets from all parts of the English-speaking world are welcomed to The Fiddlehead.” The editor also decided to sell subscriptions to The Fiddlehead, and sell it in bookstores. In 1959 The Fiddlehead bega to accept short stories as well as poetry.

The Fiddlehead has now been in existence for 71 years and people from all over the world submit to it in hopes of being published in its pages and people from all over the world read The Fiddlehead.

If you are interested in learning more about the history of The Fiddlehead, you should look at its page on the New Brunswick Literary History website: http//w3.stu.ca/ca/sites/nble/f/fiddleahead.html

I hope that this is helpful and best of luck on your project.

Yours truly,

Kathryn

Kathryn Taglia, Mg. Ed. The Fiddlehead and Studies in Canadian Literature / Études on littérature canadienne Campus House, 11 Garland Court PO Box 4400, Universoty of New Brunswick Fredericton, NB, E3B 5A3 Canada phone: 506 453-3501 fax: 506 453-5069 email: [email protected] or [email protected]

This is so exciting! I didn’t imagine them actually responding, and definitely not responding this fast! In fact, I had a dream yesterday about them not responding. A university actually taking a high- school kid from the other side of the country this seriously? Oh, bless them! Bless “The Fiddlehead”! All of the sudden this project seems much cooler. UNB’s email was a great birthday present. I noticed I ended all my sentences with exclamation marks when I sent my reply, so I changed one of them to a period. The people in UNB must be unimpressed by my unprofessionalism, but I can’t help it. I shall go eat my birthday cake now and end this entry or else I’m just going to fill this whole page up with exclamation marks. !!!

Environment April 20th, 2016 4:33pm

A week has passed. I haven’t made an entry in the last few days because I was so busy. My mind is a huge storage room with many ideas, resources, information, and even stories—all regarding this project—stuffed into cardboard boxes, collecting dust. I had a long weekend too. But I was busy hammering away at The Handmaid’s Tale in preparation for my AP exam. Why am I writing this? Because things seemingly disconnected with each other form the most magnificent displays and one piece of ember can ignite a whole forest fire. Translation: I found something in The Handmaid’s Tale that gave me another idea for and entry:

Yes, I know it doesn’t specifically mention “fiddlehead” but if you look at the science page (which I am still slowly pecking away at) on the next page, I am pretty sure a fiddle head was somewhere in that “thicket”. So let’s unfurl my thoughts on both the fiddlehead in “The Fiddlehead” and The Handmaid’s Tale.

The fiddlehead evokes a sense of renewal and joy for the literary journal. As a symbol for the sun, and as a young green plant being welcomed by the beginnings of spring, the fiddlehead holds positive connotation. It represents a rebirth; the renewal of a “poetic tradition” for UNB. This was also the image I got when I first researched the fiddlehead online—positive, bright. However, after reading that passage from The Handmaid’s Tale, I realized that an object’s meaning could vary depending on the environment it was placed in. I don’t think the fiddlehead had a literary portrayal in the book; Atwood seemed to just be describing a setting. Yet it made me think…if the fiddlehead was growing beside a wall with hanging bodies of rebels, how much hope can this little green plant bring to people? Would its meaning change then? If we read Atwood’s passage again, we find the fiddlehead to seem trivial and barbaric—a bunch of weeds. And since the young fern was named for its physical appearance, not even the name could redeem the plant if it really grew, say, a cemetery. I’ll illustrate this more in the next entry.

Windows May 5th, 2016

The other day I saw Mr. Guraliuk look out a window. He was just, to quote him, “cruising down the halls” but even from the middle of the hall, he swerved to the window, which is a good two meters from the centre of the hall. There’s nothing interesting out there, I thought. People were just walking to school that day. If he simply wanted to take a glance, he could have done so just while he was walking; the window was big and we’re not that high up in the building. And this is not the first time he has done that. He does a lot of weird things, like bring a book out during a fire drill then not even look at one page the whole time. (The book’s cover was green, I believe.) Anyways, so I just kept thinking. I could feel an idea prodding out like a young plant about to see the world beyond the soil. I knew if I thought hard enough, an idea would come to me, naturally. And it did. (See the four panel illustration of four windows two pages later).

By the way, my science page is finally done. Thank god. Now I can focus on more interesting things.

It has been two weeks since I’ve written in this journal. The last four weeks have been hectic for me. Every minute of free time was spent reading The Handmaids’ Tale or Wuthering Heights for my AP exam. (I did not find any fiddlehead references in Wuthering Heights, only the Honeysuckle, which I will send to Michelle). So now, I’m trying to dump all I’ve stored in my brain in the past four weeks (regarding this project) out. Mr. Guraliuk said he’d direct us to a new direction tomorrow regarding this project. I don’t want a new direction right now…not until I run out of ideas. So I want to do all I’ve planned to do before tomorrow—impossible, but I can try to get most of my things down first. On Monday, I was walking home from school along Nanaimo and I found a beautiful patch of fern. They were very green…so they must be young fronds! I took a look around. Three people were walking my way. I quickly moved aside the grown fronds and tried looking for a fiddlehead on the inside. And look! I actually FOUND ONE THIS TIME!! I know the photo wasn’t taken very well, but I was in a rush. People were starting to stare at me. I must have looked quite weird to them. What’s so interesting about that fern bush? I looked almost just as strange as someone randomly and occasionally looking out a window. After that day, I resolved to not question my English teacher’s “sightseeing”. Maybe he spotted Salal or something. Speaking of surprises, this is what I noticed today:

“The Fiddlehead” was on Guraliuk’s Gladcanlit blog the whole time and I didn’t even know.

Peekaboo May 8th, 2016 6:50pm Here is an illustration, showing the fiddlehead through four different “windows”. This was what I meant in my previous entries about environment affecting meaning…

My biggest fear is that whoever is reading this actually doesn’t feel any different looking at the four fiddleheads. Obviously, I was being silly with the third window, but nevertheless, each window should evoke a different feeling: perhaps you feel refreshed and lucky to be alive while looking at the first one; maybe you feel tranquil observing the second one; then you might contemplate whether Atlantis actually exists while being creeped out by a fiddlehead swimming in water; lastly, looking at the fourth one, you may feel hopeless, thinking that all life, no matter how young, would crawl towards death no matter what. The plant should hold a different meaning in each window…should.

Way May 9th 2016 3:00pm

gonzo

there’s a change in the air. two crows scatter confetti, crowning the girl with black feathers. soggy sandwich, clothed in Zipbloc suddenly stop their simultaneous parade with the two converse shoes. Acceleration. strong strides. oh, how she runs! the two ominous aves are left to walk the latter half of the street by themselves. pants. a glance back. trotting back to the academy. but Dear reader, the same evening, she leaves the institution. and continues her interrupted mission to locate a certain head of an instrument, growing in the dark patches on the patterned quilt, “Earth”. she sees an ivy and a dandelion twisted in a steamy love, dark, peasant leaves bowing down to lighter kings and queens, an oenomel game of tag between grey squirrels. childhood friends. but no fiddlehead. it was then she noticed that anyone can be Alice and Wonderland can be anywhere

I was only able to find two songs containing the lyrics “fiddlehead”. That’s kind of sad. Also, both songs are really old and sound kind of country-like. One is the song “Puppies” by The Incredible String Band. The other is “Fiddlehead Fern” by Cahalen Morrison and Eli West. In one song, fiddlehead ferns make people want to play a song to puppies. In the other…I’m not sure what happens. The lyrics feel like a poem on an AP exam—incomprehensible (at least for the first reading).

I came across so many blogs doing this project, and I read a lot of interesting stories about people and their love of fiddleheads. That’s cool. I wish I had a story of my own…aside from getting stalked by two crows while walking down Gladstone Street (they almost hit my head while flapping their wings). Fiddlehead Love, where are you?

Outpour May 12th, 2016 5:00pm

I really should be doing math right now, but too many things happened today; I had to make an entry. I lied to Mr. Guraliuk: I haven’t recorded my conversation with Mr. Hamazaki yet (I did it mentally, haha, he doesn’t know). I actually just had the conversation with him yesterday and I wasn’t planning to talk about it until I finished my fiddlehead logo (partly because I know it will make Mr. H curious and then I can strike a conversation with him). Ever since our logo project was assigned in graphics, I’ve told myself to make an entry once my logo was done and explain the meaning behind my design. But now that the topic was brought up in English class today I will feel bad if I don’t record the conversation now—as if that decreases the size of my lie. *Mr. Hamazaki peeks over my shoulder and looks at my logo* “What is that? Is that a fennel?” “…a what?” “Fennel. Search it up. Google it.” *Me: pulls out phone. Clicks “safari”. The page opened immediately to a fiddlehead because I forgot to close the tab the night before* “Oh by the way, Mr. Hamazaki. This thing is what the logo really is: a fiddlehead.” “Yes, yes!! Fiddleheads, that’s what I meant. I don’t know why I said fennel.” *I wheel my chair around* “You know about this thing?! How? Why?” “I’ve eaten them before. They’re good.” *Mr. Hamazaki starts to walk away. I quickly say:* “Wait! Why did you eat these? How do they taste? What else do you know about fiddleheads? Tell me everything.” *he stares at me* “Please.” He then told me that it was so long ago he couldn’t quite remember why. I asked whether it was Japanese cuisine, and he said it was western. All he remembered was that they tasted like asparagus, and it was good. Like many teachers, he looked at me funny when I started throwing questions at him.

I told Mr. Guraliuk I saw fiddleheads at Superstore…[*ta-da! My little sister spotted this before I did. I told her I must find fiddleheads, so she helped me look for them* *also, notice that they are products of Canada. I read somewhere they’re the only native vegetable that made it to Canadian markets*] He suggested that I wait around, see is someone buys the vegetable, then go talk with them. Which reminded me: I have asked someone about the fiddlehead. In mid-April, my family went to a Japanese restaurant to celebrate my birthday. By that time, I had done some research on the fiddlehead and knew that fiddleheads are called warabi in Japanese cuisine. After scanning the menu and finding no warabi anywhere, I asked the waitress.

“Do you have any warabi here?” “Sorry, what?” “Warabi…they’re called fiddleheads in English?” “Oh…” **me: pulls out phone and opens a photo of fiddleheads** Waitress: “Ahhh!” I thought, great, they do have fiddleheads! But then… Waitress: “Sorry, I don’t know what that is…” I haven’t done too much research then, so I didn’t know that the Japanese have three main kinds of fiddleheads that they eat: warabi (bracken), kogomi (ostrich), and zenmai (osmund). Next time I go to a Japanese restaurant, I’m naming all three. Speaking of kogomi, you know what else I found? There’s a Pokémon character (if you don’t know what Pokémon is I will “…jump off the cliffs of Dover, quote King Lear, while being struck by lightning”) called Kogomi. She’s small and her blonde hair curls like the head of a fiddlehead…a fiddlehead head. Kogomi uses Fighter type Pokémon. Just look at her; she can beat you up anytime. The Japanese and Chinese seem to give this tiny plant some fighter spirit; the fiddlehead is portrayed as small but mighty (I mean, Kogomi, and “fist vegetable”). That’s different from “fiddlehead” and “crosier”, which has a much more graceful and spiritual feel to the name.

And now, speaking of characters, Ivy Tang was bugging me three weeks ago, telling me to make a “Fiddlehead Man”; a superhero based on the fiddlehead. The name “fiddlehead” sent that girl in a small fit of giggles for some reason—that’s Ivy for you—and she seemed really keen on this Fiddlehead Man. So yes, a new superhero has emereged. Which reminds me (are you seeing a pattern?) that a few nights ago I was wondering what people called the fiddlehead before fiddles were made. What did the French call fiddleheads before bishop staffs were made?

It feels good to pour everything I’ve been storing in my head onto this journal (I’m not done yet, though). I need to do that sooner or later, especially since Mr. Guraliuk guided us in a new direction today. I have a feeling I might not go the direction he pointed though. When this assignment was introduced, I had a list and a plan of how I would approach this project. I haven’t followed the order in my plan AT ALL. Random fiddlehead-related things kept popping up and I get led to a different track. So far, the fiddlehead controls this project more than I do. Let the species walk us, guide us. Attend to imagined habitat, a thicket of words, within which you read yourself into place (Laurence Ricou) is now written on the blackboard, in big, green lettering.

One more random note: there’s a “Fiddlehead Forum” in the American Fern Society. I emailed them last week, similar to the way I emailed “The Fiddlehead”. I have yet to get a reply from the American Fern Society. L

Reassurance May 15th, 2016 1:26pm

Notice Me

INTRO: If only a tune could really come out from a little fiddlehead ride on the wind, carrying my affection. Maybe then you’ll finally hear my voice.

VERSE ONE: The bright daisies sway softly to the music of the graceful wind. You cut through the meadow, fanning those petals with your fingers. So beautiful. You compliment the sun.

Morning dew starts to disappear; little crystals, studded on cliques of grass, sliding down to the earth. So beautiful, unlike the ones on my face.

VERSE TWO: Far, faraway, I hear the wind-chimes snap to the rhythm of the breeze. Ivy snake up the columns and the roof The chairs are decorated with violets. So beautiful. You walk towards the pavilion.

Above me, the willow twirls her skirt around in pride. And in awe, the fronds around me follow her example and unroll So beautiful, unlike a hidden fiddlehead.

CHORUS : If I were as flamboyant as the others, would you prefer the shade of the willow to the shade of the pavilion? If only I were as visible as the others, maybe You will nest by this thicket instead of playing with flowers If I open myself, spread my arms far apart, so dewdrops can glisten on me instead of rolling down my curled spine Would you notice me? Ahh…

BRIDGE: I know I am still young, but wait for me I will come out of this patch as a vibrant fern Even though I know that once that vivid green is gone from my leaflets Your fickle heart will seek a brighter rose, or daffodil, or marigold I’m still waiting for that moment, when my love would be answered.

OUTRO: One day, my love will be answered.

I might have been listening to love songs and stories while writing that. The Japanese song I was listening to had a melody that inspired me to write about the feeling present in the lyrics, whatever that feeling is. So I decided to take a Satoyama Movement approach. Satoyama Movement started from a Japanese idol company called UP-Front, where the j-idols form units and sing songs that promote the preservation of nature. A lot of the songs mix “love” and “nature” together so make the song more

appealing. That’s what I tried to do, except reading the lyrics alone with no tune steals some of the power of the song away. Anyways, if you’re feeling extra adventurous, you can sing the lyrics more or less to the tune of “Yozora wa nandemo shitteru no?” by CyaRon. Check the instrumental version; the lyrics fit perfectly into the music.

I wrote those lyrics in part because I pity my species—only two songs, and no poems, not even on terrain.org. Even though the fiddleheads looked strangely ugly at first, I like them now.

I found a few more fiddleheads this weekend. I went to Superstore yesterday to see if I could spot anyone buying fiddleheads. No one did. But they added a new sign beside the price. I thought, well, that was a bit late. I read last week that Health Canada issued the warning last year, so what took Superstore so long? Last night, to celebrate the ending of all AP exams, Amie, Jessica, Derek, Michelle, Queenie, Helen, and I went out to eat at Tipper’s. This project was brought up halfway through the meal, and Derek said his neighbour’s garden has fiddleheads. There weren’t any there, but I did find some on the way home from both Superstore and Tipper’s. This time, since there wasn’t anybody walking on the street, I actually took time to feel the plant. It feels fragile and leafy. I felt like I could crunch the thing easily. But it was a good experience. J I’m finding fiddleheads everywhere now. It’s weird—once you become aware of their existence, they appear. What was that quote on Guraliuk’s white board? One way of locating someone is to identify his absence”. My dad had to go to Canadian Tire today and I went to the garden centre. I found some tiny, tiny liquorice fern fiddleheads, smaller than your pinky finger! After scanning the entire garden section, I asked the staff working there whether there were any fiddleheads. Her response was hilarious.

“What? Zeroheads?” “No, FIDDLEheads.” “Oh, those indoor plants. No, we don’t have any here. Nothing with big leaves.” “Oh okay, thank you.” I concluded that she knew nothing about fiddleheads.

Big leaves??

On the streets May 23rd, 2016 3:11 pm

Observer

Silently and slowly emerging out of splatters of leaflets on an overgrown lawn poking its head to spectate, but curled tight to be invisible the crozier commences its favourite activity—people watching. Behind the ostrich patch the rainwater from last night tapping out a tune against the rusted pipe. But no one takes the time to appreciate nature’s masterpiece melody. Vehicles honk impatiently, and the exhaust from machines choke the house and kill the green clouding the intelligent animals’ minds. Everything looks grey—a beautiful painting veiled by a layer of dust. Spying, empowered; the infant green is wiser than adult men. The owner of the house gets entertained by his boring document papers, when the original substance towering majestically beside his house its roots clawing through earth, is unseen. While the rest of the world is moving in a hurry the crozier remains stationary and watches as everyone forgets their identity. This wasn’t the case millions of years ago, when other creatures walked the earth.

The crozier remembers. It is the sun, it has existed long before “intelligence”.

Aubade to the rising sun of spring

Fingers firmly furled like fists I kiss goodbye to the chilly mists. Dawn’s familiar fragrance so pungent. Ding Dong! There’s the doorbell (plangent)! Life wakes up to the sound of death’s knell Escaping winter’s hypnotizing spell However long the road may have appeared Even big challenges could one day be cleared A renewal, a rebirth—can’t roll inwards! Don’t reverse order; fly forward, like birds.

Vancaf May 27th, 2016 10:44pm

I went to the Vancouver Comic Arts Festival with Helen last weekend, determined to unwind from schoolwork. I had a French and History project to work on when I got back…or I thought I did. But of course, English always shows up at unexpected times. I saw works at the Festival that inspired me to write the two poems above. Comics do that to you...they make you imagine. I tried incorporating some of the symbolism of fiddleheads that I discovered (on the wheel). The dark scenery pieces at the festival inspired the first poem, and the second one was inspired by simple doodles (it’s an acrostic poem—very grade five but that was how I felt that time). This (à) showed up. I became really excited, but I didn’t have a lot of money on me. I quickly flipped through it to see if any fiddleheads were mentioned. I saw a lot of other plants—maybe Michelle’s honeysuckle, but no fiddleheads. Nevertheless, I asked the author if I could take a picture of just the cover. I told myself then there was no way I was getting any French or History done… . . . especially since the restaurant my dad took our family too after VanCAF was called “Café Gloucester”. I checked the menu—no fiddleheads. I’ve been checking menus and asking servers everywhere about them, but no one serves them. However, as I was doodling on the place mat (inspired by “Field Studies” by Aidan Koch), I had another idea for a poem. This was partly due to what Guraliuk said a few classes before about Sue Wheeler’s poem, but I wanted to use a King Lear dialogue and modify it, and the first thing that popped to my head was King Lear’s curses. I knew exactly how I was going to incorporate fiddleheads: the cancer-inducing qualities of fiddleheads. (Yes, according to some people, fiddleheads can cause cancer if not fully cooked).

The Fiddlehead’s Revenge

Hear, Nature, hear, our mother, hear! May achieve their goal, crafted to torment man. Thy affection, expectations, efforts Cancer, humble their pride, hinder their youth! Hath received empty rewards. With tumours digging their graves in advance, They have committed murder of siblings, Turn all their folly acts and treachery Poisoned creatures with plastic, dyed the air foul Upon themselves. When they pluck me they’ll And from their egoistic minds never sprout know How sharper than a bullet’s wound it is A seed of shame! If they must sin, To see our families die!—Away, away! increase my vile, that undisciplined cells

I just ruined my positive image of fiddleheads. Beware. If the world were to end, we know what is responsible. I have faith that my fiddleheads will rule the world after mankind destroys it.

Green Revolution May 29th and 30th, 2016

Red. Red. Everything is red! Youyou was tired of the gush of red everywhere. The way everyone seemed to be entranced by the colour of crimson, how everyone so willingly followed the path which lay before them without an utter of defiance was starting to resemble a devilish conspiracy. Perhaps Youyou was the abnormal one. But she couldn’t tell anyone that. She would get killed for it. When the adults turned their backs on her, she quickly slipped out of the room. Their passionate voices, shouting over the dinner table (the way “uncivilized peasants” are known to do) still resonate throughout the house. The atmosphere in her house was like a wound in peace: blood seeped unnoticed into her village, and probably others too. If not washed in cold water soon enough, Youyou might be forever stained like the adults. She doesn’t want that. Quietly, Youyou escaped the revolutionists’ co-op and poked her head into the generous, chilly breeze. Ever since Mao started his Cultural Revolution plan, all the peasants became marionette dolls in a tragic play. With porcelain, smiling faces, the lifeless eyes on their visages were overlooked by Mao. The only things the leader saw were the grains produced by his loyal followers. But the village was suffering. Not enough grains were produced as the villagers claimed, so the officials took too much grain; the village was starving. Stupid adults, thought Youyou. As her little legs tapped out a music sheet of dust clouds behind her, the weight on Youyou’s head started to feel lighter. Her eyes quickly averted away from the village and gazed hungrily at the forested mountain in front of her. Despite not wearing shoes, Youyou proceeded to walk up the dirt path through the woods. Calloused feet started prancing on earth. The green was soothing, and the air fresh. Hidden in a haven of bamboo, Youyou could be herself, and only the giant panda gods could judge her. Youyou’s experienced legs eventually led her away from the bamboo part of the woods. She crossed the border into a deciduous country and walked up the familiar path to her uncle’s house. As the great yolk in the sky was about to lose its grip and fall from the heavens, Youyou’s brain began forming excuses to give to her family when they would yell at her for being away so long. I’ll just say I went to learn how to cook fiddleheads with Uncle Yu, she thought. The excuse was overused, but still valid. After-all, the ways to cook fiddleheads are practically infinite. Something tugged at her feet. It was the edge of a bracken fern. Bracken! Youyou quickly bent down and began to search for the younglings of this plant. Spring was just around the corner, so there weren’t many young fern patches around. This one seemed to have just sprouted not long ago. Let’s see…the ones that are still curled tightly, like a cat’s claws (as Youyou and Uncle Yu liked to call them)…ah, found some! Using the hardened, thick nails from her strong fingers, the young girl, used to labour, easily snapped off the fiddleheads. Pawing through the understory of the woods, Youyou was led to an endless supply of bracken. As her Uncle Yu once spoke, once you pay attention to the small gifts of nature, nature feels the need to reward you with more. Before, the air entertained Youyou. Now, the plants frolicked with her. The yolk finally gave up and plunged downwards. Shucks. Youyou was so occupied with the fiddleheads that she became oblivious to the changing canvas above her. No time to head to Uncle Yu’s right now. If anything, she needed to run down to the village before the beasts commenced their

nocturnal hunts. But secretly, Youyou preferred to stay overnight in Uncle Yu’s cabin more than her own home. Unfortunately, Youyou’s villagers are not particularly fond of Uncle Yu. Uncle Yu was a landlord that lived by himself out in the woods. He doesn’t do any work; he doesn’t need to—he has enough money. Unlike traditional Chinese families, Uncle Yu barely contacts the rest of the villagers. He also doesn’t care for Mao’s policies at all. That angered the villagers, and they all saw him as a traitor. Youyou, conversely, finds Uncle Yu fascinating. He tells stories about the woods: legends, folktales, history. Uncle Yu also has a stash of books on old Chinese customs. These were banned, but none of the officials found Uncle Yu’s home (or hideout, as Youyou often referred to it) yet. If Youyou has the chance to momentarily abandon the backbreaking village work, she will secretly visit her giddy uncle. Now, those chances are slipping away like sand in an hourglass. Five years ago, when the villagers were slightly more tolerant of Uncle Yu’s eccentricity, Uncle Yu often led Youyou away from the village and plucked fiddleheads with her. Outings such as these were what planted the seed of curiosity and interest of nature into Youyou’s young mind. Ferns held a special power, said Uncle Yu. In times of crisis, try talking to a fern. They are ancestors. They are wise. They have seen of wars, revolutions, yet they remain unchanged. What does that have to do with anything? Youyou munched on a fiddlehead. Well, don’t these ferns seem to be saying to us, stop asking for so much? Ferns have lived so long. When new plants bloom, like, say, this flower here, ferns move aside for them. They don’t complain. Losing some territory is completely fine for them. And now look! Such diversity! These flowers! These trees! Didn’t the world change for the better? Just look! Don’t overanalyze, just look and ponder. Youyou looked. For the first time, the birds weren’t some common creature; they’re exotic beings. The maple in front isn’t just a huge tree; they’re a solemn temple of the gods, housing many species. That weed over there isn’t just a stubborn nuisance; it is a persistent warrior fighting through the weather. Uncle, how did the world come to be? Oh, and how do you know? Dear, when you’re too obsessed with the proof, the evidence, the science, you miss out a lot on what life is about. Why don’t you just enjoy the fiddleheads? Because I want to know why! Uncle, tell me why! Don’t seek answers from me. Listen to the plants tell their story! The ferns told me theirs. And the young ones you’re munching on right now, they have a story too. Tell me, Youyou, what do they taste like? …Kind of crunchy…but sweet. Ah yes. Isn’t a life where you just let things flow naturally, where you greet the world during spring and let the spotlight shine on the snow in the winter, where you relax and fall into the pace of world, a sweet one? See? They just told you their story! From that day on, Youyou crowned the fiddlehead as her favourite plant. The fiddlehead held fantasies. One day, the Cultural Revolution would end and life could keep moving forward. One day, the throbbing red would disappear. One day, the villagers could see the world the way Uncle Yu saw it. Instead of a Red Revolution, they would have a Green Revolution.

Youyou watched the black paint dry up in the sky and spots of white begin to appear. She knew she should be sleeping, but seeing the fiddleheads that evening resurfaced too many happy memories for her. Tomorrow, when dawn breaks through, maybe green heads will prevail, instead of red minds. The fiddlehead is telling you to be hopeful, Uncle Yu would say. Youyou smiled. The next day, while the sun was searing the villagers, Youyou’s second aunt came running through the field. Her body tore through the rice paddies, painting the yellow field with a brown stroke. People turned their heads. After she regained her breath, she panted: Uncle Yu was executed this morning for being a landlord!

Years later, Youyou will still think about that day. The day when not only did the world not turn greener, but also when the villagers fell into hysteria and all started checking their identification documents to make sure they weren’t accidentally labelled as a landlord.

The usual annoying, adult voices didn’t seem to bother Youyou that day. The world was mute. She was deafened by silence. The fiddleheads had finished telling their story. What happens to stories when there is no one to tell them? In the end, are fiddleheads just fantasies? The real world is too hostile for such pure thoughts to exist. Youyou didn’t know what to think. When Youyou went into the woods to look for answers, she couldn’t hear anything. Something clicked in her, and she tore through a dozen bracken bushes, yanking the fronds out, destroying all the fiddleheads. Occasionally, a salty water droplet or two mixed in Youyou’s brew of grief. What a nice seasoning for those ferns—grief.

But now that years have passed and Youyou’s head has been cleared; she realizes that the fiddleheads’ legacy still stands throughout the revolution. The revolution occurred because the people allowed it to, stepping back and falling into the pace of Mao. But something precious had also been destroyed. Youyou still isn’t sure what. Being green.

Professional Inspiration June 2nd, 2016 3:52pm

Mr. Guraliuk said we have to share what we’ve done so far with our projects tomorrow. I’m not too keen on that: first, this is still a work-in-progress and I still haven’t poured everything I have in my head onto this; second, I usually only show my works to my circle. On Monday, during Physics, I asked Helen if she wanted to come with me to talk to biology teachers. They might have some valuable information to set us off into a new direction. After English class that day, I embarked on a journey with Helen into the C-wing, main floor. Derek tagged along for the first half of our ride. Helen suggested we ask Ms. Ronne, who was “very nice” according to her. Off we went! After explaining ourselves a bit, the following conversation happened: Ms. Ronne: So, what’s your animal? [Looks at me] Me: Um, it’s the fiddlehead fern. I was wondering if you have any interesting story or information. Ms. Ronne: Oh… [smiles] They grow in a lot of places. Me: Have you eaten them before? Ms. Ronne: Yes I have! Me: [thinks: yes, yes, yes, there’s a story!!] Ms. Ronne: The first nations used to pick them as they were a spring plant. They would harvest the fiddleheads in the beginning of spring. Just pluck them out of the maple trees. Me: Trees?! Ms. Ronne: Yeah, you know how trunks have like moss fields and stuff. The fiddleheads could just grow right out from a tree. Me: *nod nod* [thinking: I did not know that before!] Ms. Ronne: They would eat them raw or spiced with butter. But don’t eat too much though. Me: Why? **I was hoping she would give me some info about the fiddleheads being cancerous** Ms. Ronne: You just don’t eat too much of anything. Then, she proceeded to talk about Helen’s Indian Hellebore and Derek’s Pacific Tree Frog; all the while I was trying to brew up the courage to ask her about her story. Right before we left, I said… Me: Could you tell me about your experience eating the fiddlehead? Ms. Ronne: [smiles] It was very sweet! Me: Oh! Did you eat it at a restaurant? Western? **I was thinking about what Mr. Hamazaki told me. Secretly I was hoping she ate it at a non-western cuisine so I could write about something new** Ms. Ronne: Oh no! I just plucked it out in the forest. Wow!!! Even better!!! Next, I suggested for us to go to Mr. Ho. We did. For some reason, our talk was funny. Derek already left by this point. Me: Hi Mr. Ho. Could we take five minutes of your time? Mr. Ho: Uhhhh…[smiling]…for what? This was very similar to Ms. Proudfoot’s reaction when we bombarded her about Heart of Darkness. I love freaking teachers out. Me: We have this English project where we’re assigned a species. We want to see if you know anything about them. Mr. Ho: Oh okay. What species did you get? Me: The fiddlehead fern.

Mr. Ho: [thinks…] the fiddlehead…they’re very tender. You know when we looked at the ferns last year (I was in his biology class—loved it), the middle, mushy part is the fiddlehead. Is yours a species? Me: No, it’s a growth stage. Mr. Ho: That’s what I thought. So yeah, the ones that just sprouted, the tender ones are fiddleheads. Me: Mhm. Have you eaten them before? Mr. Ho: Oh yes, I have heard that people eat them. I personally haven’t. But you can’t— shouldn’t—eat too much of them. Same thing Ms. Ronne said! A Biology teacher thing, perhaps. Mr. Ho then asked Helen what her species was. When he couldn’t say too much about the species (same with Ms. Ronne), he went and brought back both of us A BOOK! Yay! Praise the biology teachers.

Because my body was getting tired from accompanying the cold, hard floor of our high school hallway, I decided to stroll through the school. Then, I took a killer photo of a fiddlehead in the school grounds. I’ll show you later.

Two weeks ago, I asked Mr. Dubé about the fiddlehead. It was perfectly normal for me to ask him abruptly without some sort of reason because Mr. Dubé tends to say random things all the time. The French teacher and his students live on the normality of abnormality. I asked him about the “crozier” and I found out that the French calls it “tête de violon”, head of the violin. The name sounds so chic that I decided to write a fairytale about it.

Once upon a time, a boy named Pierre lived in a small town. Crooked streets zigzagged through a maze of Victorian houses. Triangular roofs towered above the small people, and glittering tiles disguised the poor wood frame of the houses. This town was called Myuzique. The ruler, 1572 years old, was born from a legendary plant. No one has ever seen this plant, but it was said to appear only to people with a sense of music. Every household in town has an instrument because of the myth; everyone wants to impress the legendary plant. Pierre lived with his sister, Josephine, in a narrow house. It was burdened in a forest-green colour, and the black, pointy roof poked into the sky. The wooden planks on the exterior were dilapidated, and the overgrown hedges and fern bundles resembled strange creatures crawling through the night. Everyone avoided this corner of the town. The area was said to be cursed by the violin god, who was mad that the inhabitants disgraced the violin by not playing it properly. Indeed, murderous screeches emit from the house once in a while. Pierre did not play that violin. It was the gift from his dead mother, and it reminded him too much her absence. Josephine was too young to understand death when the disease robbed her mother’s glory, so she played the violin day and night. Even though Josephine mastered all her violin lessons, the violin she owned would never fail to fail her. One day, in frustration, Josephine smashed the violin onto the ground. “I hate you!” she exclaimed. Alarmed by the horrid sound of destruction, Pierre concluded his house was finally falling apart and quickly rushed to the living room. A slaughtered violin smiled at him with all its entrails spilled out. Josephine was nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly, the fern patches in the front of the house trembled and spoke in a low, hollow voice:

“Two are gone, just one left. The greatest misery of a theft. Tune the head to match the years Of all three fruits to hear the cheers.”

Pierre, in confusion, didn’t know what this meant. All he knew was some sort of corrupted magic had stolen Josephine. He grabbed the head of the violin as if clutching a person’s neck and demanded in rage, “where is my sister?!” The violin turned into a sword, almost plucking out Pierre’s eyeballs. After a minute of silence, Pierre snatched the violin head—or rather, sword—and threw on a coat. If he were going to find his sister, a weapon would come in handy. A sword is probably a better choice than a kitchen knife, not in terms of offensive power, but in the fact that it’s harder to accidentally stab oneself with a sword. A kitchen knife is another story, thought Pierre as he glanced at the neat patterns of cuts on his fingers, formed whenever he tried to cook.

The sound of the boy’s boots resonated through the engulfing night. Three months of searching brought no bounty; Josephine’s whereabouts were still unknown. By this time, Pierre was in the belly of the mountains encircling Myuzique. Exhaustion poisoned his whole body, and he dragged himself across the dirt path. With no motivation to live or to search for his sister now, Pierre’s body thudded to the ground. His eyelids relaxed before he could see a strange shop just a few metres ahead. “Gwenaël”. Pierre’s renewed vision on the shop which glowed in white, defying the power of the night. Crooked wooden columns held up the perfectly domed roof. Feathers in pastel colours hung on a thin line, along with miniature bells, under the roof. “Gwenaël”, Pierre muttered. Somehow, the name was alluring. Without knowing why, Pierre began to inch towards the shop. “Bienvenue”, said an old lady as soon as Pierre entered the shop. Before he could utter a single word, the old woman quickly exclaimed, “I know why you’re here. The townspeople stole your sister.” ”How is that possible?” Pierre retorted. How could this muffin-head possibly say that Josephine was still in town when Pierre spent two months scavenging through every single street and building? “If you don’t trust me, look in this crystal ball.” Oh, so this is one of those scamming fortune-telling shops, thought Pierre. “No thank you, I don’t have money”. The heels of his big black boots pivoted and were seeking the door of the shop. “Your name is Pierre, and you have one more sibling than you think.” Stopping dead in his tracks, Pierre turned around and eyed the woman suspiciously. A sly grin crept across her face. “Who are you, anyways?” spoke Pierre. “My name is Gwenaelle with a ‘le’. I made that violin you have tied around your waist. And you, are a punky kid with untamed hair and horrible manners.” Swallowing his humiliation, Pierre stepped towards Gwenaelle and whispered, “I’m sorry. Would you please show me where my sister is?” Seeing that Pierre was truly apologetic, Gwenaelle showed him the crystal ball. A swirl of ice crystals formed into little miniature houses. With wonder, Pierre gazed into the crystal ball. The little miniature houses stretched vertically as more and more of them sprouted. Soon, they unfurled into a full-fledged town. Suddenly, the ice crystals collapsed and morphed into people: men, women, all holding instruments—flutes, trumpets, guitars—practising endlessly. Their eyes had no pupils; the ice crystals did not form them. All they did was practise. A little lump of crystals lunged out from a

corner of the crystal ball. Josephine! They formed Josephine! Pierre’s own pupils dilated as he watched Josephine’s lively eyes gradually turn into the blank canvas like everyone else. The fleeting of life happened the more she played the violin. Gradually, the smile she had on her face fell limply into a horizontal line. Suddenly, Pierre realized that the townspeople did steal his sister. Their mindset of always trying to impress the legendary plant contaminated Josephine. Music should be played from the soul, not executed by a carcass. While Pierre was marvelling at his discovery, Gwenaelle brought out her staff. A peculiar staff it was, with the top curled tightly inwards like one of a bishop’s. She tapped the staff once, then five times, then seven times, then twice. Pierre didn’t know what was happening, but suddenly, the crystals grabbed and yanked him. A flurry of white clouded Pierre’s eyes. All of a sudden he was surrounded by a dark smoke. Am I inside the crystal ball? Pierre wondered. “Hey muffin-hea—I mean, Mrs. Gwenaelle, where are you?” No answer. The dark smoke crept closer and closer. Crimson dripped as a grin wormed across the visage. of smoke Two wolfish eyes appeared and hawked Pierre hungrily. Instinctively, Pierre brandished the violin head. A blade grew out from the instrument and Pierre stabbed furiously into the demon. Yet each time the smoke just reformed to its original shape; the sword couldn’t do any damage. Sweat beads glistened across the young boy’s face. An hour passed and Pierre was still trapped. “Give up already, little boy? Haha~ As I though, all that nonsense about love and kindness being strong is just a hoax to scare people.” The demon scowled. “You’ll never escape this place.” Seeing that he couldn’t do anything, and yet the intangible demon couldn’t physically hurt him, Pierre sat down and panted. He was about to throw his sword down in frustration until he remembered that when Josephine disappeared, the violin was smashed in what seemed like anger. So instead, he began to pluck furiously at the strings. The demon twitched. Pierre didn’t notice. Tears grooved two canyons in his face as Pierre thought of Josephine and his deceased mother. With what was left on the violin bust, he tried plucking a part of a song his mother taught him. The demon coupled over. Pierre looked up in astonishment. The blade that was on the violin head suddenly disappeared, its shiny fragments rearranging themselves into a groovy case. A reflecting wooden surface emerged from the metal. Two ‘f’s bordered the four strings. It was the violin! After a moment of silence, Pierre began to play the violin. If he was right, this was how the demon could be defeated; not by a valiant sword, but by sweet music. Moments later, the demon faded away. Pierre thought he saw droplets trickle those crimson eyes right before they disappeared with the rest of the body. The world Pierre was in shattered. A familiar white greeted him. Gwenaelle was standing there, smiling. Pierre was back in the shop. “Bon travail, Pierre.” He smiled. He knew exactly what she was talking about. That smoke was like a person’s mind— intangible, but could be dyed black easily. Only a weapon from the soul could move the demon and rid a soul of darkness. Emotionally, Pierre had played the memories of his mother’s love and melted negative feelings. In a way, he really did kill with kindness. “That goes the same for the town.” Gwenaelle’s voice rang like bells throughout the shop, interrupting Pierre’s thoughts. “To impress someone, it’s not the skills that will do it. You can’t move an intangible soul with physical playing. Music moves more easily than swords. Channel your feelings into

your song—my violins were made for passionate music, not pointless playing. Your mother fell into the trap of emotionlessly playing when she was pregnant with your youngest brother.” “What happened?” “The violin took them both. It has been two years since your mother’s death, right? Well, the baby inside her belly went with her to the place where Josephine is. Go, Pierre. Don’t be a blank stone; be a radiant jewel. Compose a song, full of feelings, in the beat of your age and your sibling’s age. Soon your family will be reunited.” “Thank you, Gwenaelle. Good bye.” With that, the little stone started rolling and didn’t stop until he hit the bottom—the end of his song. While he was walking home, Pierre began forming music in his mind. After a week, he had his whole song. It was in rhythms of fifteen arcos, seven arcos, and two pizzcatos, corresponding to the ages of the three siblings. Once he played it, all three of his family members—Josephine, his mother, and his younger brother, reappeared. Happy tears flooded the house. Two days later, the king’s messenger came and invited the whole family to the castle. Upon meeting the king, Pierre asked politely why there were summoned. The king smiled and said, “my mother told me that someone had finally lived up to the violin’s symbolism: something heavenly, tranquil, and serene.” “Wasn’t your mother a plant?” “Yes. Her name was Gwenaelle. She’s a head-of-a-violin.”

Centuries after this incident, the people of Myuzique believed that the head-of-a-violins growing in town were avatars of the Myuzique god, reminding people to stay true to themselves and therefore, true to music. A forced tune cannot beat a soulful note.

The names in this story were a tribute to my French teachers. The meanings of their names are cool. Also, I just realized that fiddlehead ferns have two “f’s”, just like a violin. I know that story doesn’t focus too specifically on the plant itself, but it does play around with the name. “Names are important,” to quote … way too many people. The fairytale also played with one aspect of fiddlehead symbolism: spirituality.

Times June 3rd, 2016 various times

Our English class shared our in-progress projects with each other today. In the middle of the class, Mr. Guraliuk asked if I had researched (the now closed) Fiddlehead Joe’s Eatery. I wanted to say “This is the third time you’ve mentioned that restaurant to me (thank you—lead me on a spree of find fiddlehead restaurants). Yes, I have done some research” but instead I just nodded. Why does Fiddlehead Joe’s have to be closed?! I really want to go and try some fiddleheads and maybe talk to the staff. Now the nearest restaurants with a name involving fiddleheads are all on Vancouver Island. If my parents think the fiddleheads in Superstore are too expensive to buy, there is no way they would let me board a ferry just to try some of these wild-vegetables. Speaking of which, Mr. Guraliuk expects some recipes from me. That stresses me because I don’t know if I’m able to get my hands on any. Yes, the Superstore staff said fiddleheads would still be available mid-June. Yes, I have found a number of recipes (they were the first things I looked at ever since the project started)…but that is irrelevant unless the fiddlehead prices lower (my parents buy bags of vegetables for under $1).

You know what, why not search up some other architecture related to fiddleheads? If there’s a theme park in Belgium named after an Australian marsupial, there might be a structure in the world related to fiddleheads. In April I remember seeing a fiddlehead statue. I need to include fiddlehead attractions here. They are one of the things I have not yet searched. Along with medicinal uses and Aboriginal uses. Everything else (even cartoons) I have done.

Logo June 6th and 12th, 2016 5:39pm; 8:53pm

The logo on the left is my initial draft of the logo I made in graphics (mentioned a few pages earlier). The logo on the right is the final version of the logo.

At first, when I still didn’t know a lot about fiddleheads, I just planned my proposed company (in which the logo is for) to be selling flowers or something. A botanical shop. After I became more familiar with the fiddlehead, I decided to change what my company would sell; it woiuld now specialize in baby products because the fiddlehead is symbolic for the short, precious moments of youth, as well as life itself. I thought the “Crozier” selling diapers and baby wipes might be appealing. The two fiddleheads, arranged in 180 degree rotations, not only represent the harmony of circles, but also a strong bond. In this case, it represents the strong family relationships. As mentioned before, the “Koru” represents nurturing relationships—what relationship is more nurturing than that of a parent and their child?

Dancing amongst the greens June. 12th, 2016 9:41 pm

I was starting to think that no one would reply to my emails about the fiddleheads except for “The Fiddlehead”. Then, Katy Heine from Hands Four Dancers of Ithaca replied to my inquiries about the Fiddlehead Frolic. I came across a video on Youtube about the Fiddlehead Frolic (looks like square dancing) in May. Like many things in this journal, I didn’t have time on the actual day to make and entry, so I stored my discoveries at the back of my brain. Now that the project is due soon, I have to try to pour everything down onto these papers. She sent this email just two days ago, nine days after my initial email. I thought I wouldn’t receive a reply again…bless her for helping me!

Hi, Debbie—

I’m afraid that the name of our dance event has very little to do with the merits of this fern, other than that it starts to grow around here more or less at the time of our event (early to mid-April).

We were looking for something alliterative to go with the word “Frolic” (which has been used in the name of other contra dance weekends, such as the Fire Ant Frolic in Austin, Texas), and we settled on “Fiddlehead” because in its early stages the fern resembles the scroll of a fiddle, which is the main instrument in contra dance music.

I hope this is helpful. By the way, there’s contra dancing in Vancouver! Check it out at http://www.vcn.bc.ca/vcountry/.

Best, Katy Heine for Hands Four Dancers of Ithaca

Tell me your name June 12th, 2016 9:46 pm

Bracken

• Pteridium aquilinum

Ostrich

• Maeuccia struthiopteris

Lady

• Athyrium filix-femina

Male

• Dryopteris filix-mas

Royal

• Osmunda regalis

Cinnamon

• Osmundastrum cinnamomeum

I kept trying to find a scientific name for fiddleheads (I had yet to find any). I had just about given up, then Guraliuk presented us with some Don McKay poems. “What’s in a name” was written on the whiteboard that day. Coincidences. “Pond” is at the back of the room. The names listed above are the scientific names of ferns whose fiddleheads are commonly eaten. The Japanese eat the Cinnamon fern. Royal ferns are good for people with rickets. However, the ferns must be cooked fully to kill the thiaminase, an enzyme that takes away Vitamin B from the body. Ferns contain shikimic acid and therefore should not be eaten raw. “Say the names”. We all spoke this poem the first day.

Mme. Oger-Black June 13h, 2016 4:42pm

Last week was “Grad week”, and most (almost all) grads skipped English. When Helen and I showed up to English last week, Mr. Guraliuk kind-of-sort-of-somewhat-pretty-much kicked us out…or actually, strongly suggested we leave. So we did and we moved to Mme. Oger-Black’s room. I was planning to ask her about the fiddlehead sometime anyways. What a great decision. Mme. Oger-Black knows a lot. She told Helen and I stories about our plants. Thank you for kicking us out, Mr. Guraliuk. Mme. Oger-Black has eaten fiddleheads. She ate them steamed with butter. “As the French expression goes, ‘everything tastes better with butter’”, she said. I think that’s how I’ll cook them too. Oh, did I mention I finally convinced my mom to buy a pack of fiddleheads? Thank god—I was starting to worry that I wouldn’t be able to meet another strong suggestion from someone about bringing in fiddleheads to class. Back to madame. She loves fiddleheads because “Fiddleheads are great sign of spring…when you cut everything…all the old fern leaves that are brown, and inside there’s the gift of fiddleheads.” “That’s so poetic, Madame.”

She gave me a look, smiled. I asked her where she ate them. I have asked every teacher. Google isn’t telling me where I can eat these…locally. She told me it was a restaurant in North Vancouver and it was a First Nations restaurant. The name was fading from her memory, but she said it might’ve contained the words “Indian”, “table”, and/or “Salish”. I searched online and found “The Village Table”, “Tomahawk”, “Indian Fusion”, and more. But there were no mentions of “fiddleheads” in their menus, just “veggies”. Oh well. Mme. Oger-Black’s mom has made them; her mother harvested them from the Pacific Spirit Park. As a teenager, Mme. Oger-Black, whose father worked at UBC, remembers “going to this exclusive, expensive restaurant with [her] neurologist dad and his doctor friends” and eating fiddleheads. (The Salmon House, I’ve now been told). “This is so funny,”Mme. continued, “This is what the First Nations people used to gather, and we were spending so much money on something that used to be free. There ya go,” madame smiled, “have fun with that”. (I will, madame.)

Christmas in the Spring Dear Fiddlehead Mahsos

Away, away Dear fiddlehead mahsos Rip off the curtain of crispy brown you rejuvenate our joy; Discard the aged skin, and make vanish when life becomes ordinary, your The obsolete wrapping perfection—a holy orb, wheel of fortune— rounds out the edges of our toughened talent Anticipation, anticipation to treasure tiny treats. memories of the first The hands have ticked to the right time time we were graced under your presence, The clime has rotated to the right slot we remember, oh we remember An era of the beginning of life what we were supposed to feel in regards to nature. Applaud, applaud our aged joy becomes a five-year old, wild Festive, jolly holiday in a different season and free; over-excited at small wonders: The tearing away of packaging under an Easter Sun Mahsos, you, we revere. Reveal the tender, young gifts wrapped inside we picked you through the trickle of time; the river bank gods witnessed our No snow, no reindeers, no Saint Nick; dedication. your holy appearance is Same warmth, same delight, same joy— engraved on our wigwams, our canoes. to «deck the lawns with bounds of fiddleheads share your wealth of magic was our hobby; Fa la la la la la la la la » remember the many times we would be your entourage to the market and trade you for things much less than you.

yet now you’re suffocating in plastic packages, your value being defined by a bounty of dollars.

Non-fiction June 13th, 2016 7 :18pm

Guide to Fiddlehead Feasting Fiddleheads used to be uncommon—by-passed by ordinary people, but a prized treasure for nature-lovers and harvesters of wild-plants. The First Nation tribes of Maliseet and Mi’kmaq in Eastern Canada and Maine are widely thought to be the first ones to pick these young ferns as food. Descendants of French colonists, known as Acadians, of the two aforementioned areas carried the custom of eating fiddleheads through many generations and this custom eventually prospered to elsewhere. Now, fiddleheads appear in your local grocery stores and fancy restaurants. As the first rays of spring gently tap upon the wet April soil, fiddleheads slowly drill through the ground. With brown husk watchfully covering the fiddleheads, the curled head slowly stems out. Observant foragers will undoubtedly be delighted at this sight. Indeed, harvesting fiddleheads often lead people into the depths of nature, beside river or steam banks, away from the busy lives of working men and women. Discovering fiddleheads can be a rewarding experience for those who especially took the time to hunt for them. Fiddleheads are local to New Brunswick (and other places in the East), New Zealand, and New England. Precautions must be taken before snapping those tender ferns off. Before excitement carries inexperienced, eager pickers off to a dangerous path, it is important that they are educated about the foraging of fiddleheads. First, there are so many species of ferns in the world and not all of them could be ingested; some will rob the life from humans. The most widely approved (and loved) fiddlehead is that of the Ostrich Fern (Matteuccia struthiopteris). These fiddleheads owe most of their popularity to people of North America and Japan. Ostrich ferns are found in wet forests. Another popular fiddlehead is the Bracken. However, think twice about eating this fiddlehead; studies have shown that bracken ferns contain a carcinogen. With the bracken being part of traditional dishes in Korea (known as the Gosari) and Japan (warabi), the amount of stomach and throat cancer found in these two countries are higher than the rest of the world. Causes have traced it back to inadequate preparation of fiddleheads, as well as the ptalquiloside toxin in bracken. In early spring, around April to May, locate your choice of fern patches. Fiddleheads typically grow in batches, so you’ll find a bounty of them at once. Ideally, only pick one or two fiddleheads per plant; over-excessive picking could harm the fern and kill it. What used to be a rare treat is now so popular that the fiddlehead/fern population is threatened. Now, fiddleheads are sold for high prices and are considered a delicacy. Heads that are about the same size as a loonie are preferred and most-loved; bigger fronds are tougher. Instead of using knives to cut them, which could potentially harm surrounding plants, snap them off with your fingers. Those who snap off easily are optimal. These wild vegetables should be picked when they are just four to six inches above the ground, before the frond unfurls. One special feature about fiddleheads is the groove on the inner side of their stalk. This growth stage only lasts one to four days, so pick them while they last! Bracken has been noted to last from April to August, but the prime season is April to June (for all fiddleheads). Health experts warn the population to fully cook fiddleheads before consuming. Be it Bracken, Ostrich, or other species, fiddleheads could not be eaten raw. Rinse the wild vegetable carefully, gently shedding the brown husk off. Then, proceed to steam or boil the fern. Steam for ten to twelve minutes; boil for fifteen minutes. After boiling, do not reuse the water!

Conveniently, fiddleheads could last months (up to a year) in the freezer. They will only survive up to five days in the refrigerator. Cooking fiddleheads with butter is one of the most widely used methods. Many recommend sautéing the vegetable with pepper and salt. Enjoy with eggs, potatoes, or other. Not only is this vegetable exotic looking and sweet tasting (similar to asparagus, broccoli, and spinach), but it is also rich in nutrition: one, fiddleheads contain omega 3 fatty acids, which is known to help reduce heart disease and cholesterol, two, a wealth of antioxidants reside in fiddleheads, and three, they also contain Vitamins A and C, niacin, manganese, protein, iron, and fibre.

• The hapu’u fiddleheads in Hawaii are only eaten during famines, when there aren’t many food options. • In Siberia and Norway, bracken is used to make beer. • In North America, bracken has medicinal use in eliminating intestinal worms and treating diarrhea. • In Europe, bracken is used to preserve wine.

New Brunswick, New Zealand, and New England all have the word “New” in it. I don’t know why. Maybe I should ask Mr. Neu about the fiddlehead just for fun.

Fiddlehead Town June 14th, 2016 12:43

I am not skipping class. We have a free block in Graphics. Yesterday, I went to hand in my history project (which had been hindering this English project, and vice-versa) to Mr. Jakoy (relief!). Guess what? Mr. Jakoy knows about fiddleheads too! (Has Mr. Guraliuk warned them?) You see, when a teacher tells me they know about fiddleheads, I feel so uncivilized. On the contrary, when they are just as confused as I was before this project, I feel relieved that I was not the only one. So here’s Mr. Jakoy’s story. He was camping with “crazy people” somewhere in the Gibson area along Sunshine Coast. He ate the fiddleheads in a camp. I asked how they were cooked and how they tasted. He said the fiddleheads tasted “good” [imagine Mr. Jakoy with wide, sparkly eyes] and were cooked with garlic and butter. “But ya know, everything tastes good with butter.” Like all my teachers, this experience was so long ago that Mr. Jakoy could not remember the details. Alcohol was involved though. Mr. Jakoy also didn’t remember how the fiddleheads were obtained. Maybe they were plucked from maple trunks.

SOME Restaurants and Places related to the Fiddlehead

Fiddlehead Bistro 486 A Franklyn Street, Nanaimo, B.C., V9R This Bistro offers private catered events. Prices range from $7 to $32 and only dinner is served. The owner is a dad who enjoys taking nature walks. He named the restaurant after the plant he discovered with his family on one of his explorations. “Our logo, is a japanese koru and symbolizes new life, strength, and peace”, he says. Brunch may be served on special occasions. A range of expensive wine is served in this bistro. v I didn’t know the Japanese called the fiddlehead “koru” as well…

Fiddlehead Joe’s (now closed) 1-1012 Beach Avenue, Vancouver Customers are blessed with the gorgeous view of False Creek while eating out-of-the-ordinary cuisine. Burgers and sandwiches are filled with prime rib/lamb, steak, and chicken breast. As the name suggests, recipes with the rare fiddleheads are offered in this restaurant: fiddlehead soup and sautéed fiddleheads are just among the few. While enjoying the sight of boats cruising along the sparkling dapples of False Creek through the floor-to-ceiling windows, customers sit relaxed, soothed by the cream coloured walls and the sophisticated black designs of the shop. Likely, a variety of seafood would be present on the many plates of hungry people in the room. Salmon, Halibut, Fraser Valley duck, mussels, and scallops are cooked in enticing ways—pan seared, draped with French sauces, grilled—to satisfy your taste buds. Brunch, lunch, and dinner are served. Brunch is served Saturday and Sunday from 10am to 3pm. Lunch is served from Tuesday to Saturday from 11:30am to 3pm. Dinner is served on Tuesday to Friday from 5pm to 10pm. On the weekends, dinner is served from 6pm to 10pm. The restaurant was owned by Joe Ennis from Fredericton, who was nicknamed the fiddlehead when he was young. He picked the ostrich fiddleheads in his youth and named his bi-coastal cuisine restaurant “Fiddlehead Joe’s”. Prices range from $21-$30. v My dad’s friend invited us to the False Creek Yacht Club for dinner one day. It was just six minutes from where Fiddlehead Joe’s used to reside. I planned to go check the location out, but after getting lost three times in downtown, and with the sun setting, I decided against it.

Fiddlehead Bistro This Bistro on Nanaimo Island offers private catered events. Prices range from $7 to $32. A range of expensive wine is served in this bistro.

Fiddlehead Statue at Saint John Arts Centre Uptown This statue not only represents something that grows locally around the area, but it also represents fine arts (head of a fiddle).

Fiddlehead Resort Bordering Lake Huron on the Bruce Peninsula of Ontario, the camp has been in existence for fifteen years. Despite being surrounded by Nature, you still get free wi-fi and modern facilities! You can also fish here. v I emailed them too to ask about their name. They didn’t reply yet.

Love and Magic June 14th, 2016 11:07pm

Love~

Looking at fiddlehead jewellery on Google images is cool. The heart was partly inspired by some earrings I saw. If we’re in a more John Donne mindset, circles represent love (that’s what the temple told me too). A circle does not have angles/points; the harmonious and infinite shape is more suitable to be recognized as love. I drew a (wedding) ring. It’s not the best drawing; I’m still getting used to drawing on my tablet. Also, a lot of websites have the word “fairy” attached to fiddleheads. There’s an online shopping site that sells garden decoration, and one of their sets was called “Fiddlehead and Fairies”. There was much more fairy/faery-fiddlehead information out there. Seeing tiny gnomes and little houses situated beside gigantic plants (strangely, no fiddleheads) inspired me to draw this:

Resort June 15th, 2015 2:37pm

The Fiddlehead Resort Camp replied today.

“Hi Debbie, wish there was some deep meaning but we purchased the camp 15 years ago with the existing name. It is my understanding many years ago the property was very abundant with fiddleheads in the spring and to this day we still have many ferns which inhabit the surrounding green space and low lying areas around the property. Thanks for your questions. Good luck on your project.

Jason at Fiddlehead Resort.”

All these people wishing me good luck J I need it for Friday’s presentation. What do I even say? How does one learn to speak ‘fiddlehead’?

Seeds , Recipes, & la Fin June 16th, 2016-06-16

Ms. Thompson recounted her fiddlehead story for me. She said when she was still a Brownie, she had to learn how to survive in the wild. Dandelions and fiddleheads were among the things she learned to eat, and she remembered being “fascinated” by them. (I believe Justin will be making Dandelion tea for us on Friday.) Her aunt cooked frozen fiddleheads, and she has also eaten them at Fiddlehead Joe’s. Like Madame Oger-Black, she mentioned harvesting fiddleheads at Pacific Spirit Park. (I remember Mr. Guraliuk saying a while back that Ms. Thompson played soccer with or against (?) the daughter of Professor Ricou, who inspired him to present us with this assignment. We all seem connected via this species…) Ms. thompson said fern spores remind her of dinosaurs. I think that’s cool.

“We have the receipt of fern seed; we walk invisible.” (Henry IV., Act II. Scene 1)

Chant of the Ancient Seeds

A certain species twines through the understory of forests clawing out like ferocious beasts But the young ones, too vulnerable to watch over their reproductive organs flash those intricate patterns: Little orange spots drumming

ritualistic tunes in our head Loopy fiddlehead. We trek through the forest, an ancient, silent castle A picture I took while looking for Helen’s Little orange spots singing Hellebore. coronation songs while we tread We’ve inherited the throne from lizards too vassal Little orange spots humming stories of those who’ve lead; We’re the real young ones. We’ve been too facile

Four-thirty. I open my fridge and anxiously pull the package of fiddleheads out. My heart sinks. They are still discoloured. The vibrant green that once praised the freshness of the vegetable has ripened into distressing deep brown. My heart sinks further. I ask my mom whether the fiddleheads had really turned bad. Putting down her magazine, she glances at the poor vegetables and says the chill in the freezer killed the green. But the vegetable is still safe to eat.

Half a year ago, a Korean bistro opened across the street from our house. As a treat, my family of five paraded down to the new restaurant. Scanning the menu, trying to imprint every single detail about this foreign culture’s food into my mind, I grinned and volleyed the different choices in my head: bibimbap, dumplings, udon, kimbap… In the end, a cradle of rice and vegetables caught my eye. It was

“stone pot rice”, or bibimbap. A flutter of excitement rippled through my heart as the waiter took my menu away after I’ve ordered. The sizzling of the rice reached my senses before the bibimbap’s peculiar appearance entered my field of vision. A golden, perfect yolk sat stoutly in the middle, framed with an array of colourful vegetables. I recognized seaweed, carrot strips, and others. But some slender, brown vegetables propped their heads up at me, mocking my ignorance. My chopsticks found their way to the mysterious, brown vegetable first. I chomped down on the slimy stalk. Salt, and some other seasoning I couldn’t recognize blossomed the flavour of the vegetable. A crunch would immediately spill delicious juices out, which would accompany the chewed bits and slide down my throat. Easy to eat “What are these, dad, mom?” Four eyes flicked up from their pork rib and noodle lunch. They examined the vegetable. Neither of them knew what it was.

I now know that they were fiddleheads. Gosari. I had eaten fiddleheads before.

Repeating to myself that gosari is also brown is a futile attempt to calm my mind. Gosari is a whole different species than the luckless fiddleheads in front of me. Something else rings louder in my head, clobbering my own reassurance: “I expect some recipes from you”, said my English teacher. For two months, I worried over how I was going to meet that expectation. If my hands had selected a different species from that box full of options, that afternoon we searched the school grounds for “salal” – which we did find in the inner-courtyard, things would be different. Unfortunately, I like my plant and would like to continue my English project on the fiddlehead. Fiddleheads are a delicacy in Canada. Buying fiddleheads makes wallets cry—unless you’re rich, which I sometimes daydream myself to be. Mom was already generous to buy me one package—I could not mess this up. And I did. Quickly, I release the fiddleheads from their prison and pour them into the sink. Maybe, if I cook them, if I were nice to them, they would reward me with that green pigment again. The stalk feels tube- like. I rub and rub, waltzing the fiddlehead in between my fingers. The leaflets feel feathery, yet compact. Several times, I uncurl the vegetable, transforming it into a spring. If I could, I would play with it more, but time is ticking. After rinsing the fiddleheads in cold water and trying to peel off the brown husk (which is hard to tell, since the whole frond is deep brown now), I gaze longingly at them, willing them to turn green. They are still brown by the time I plop them into boiling water. One by one they plunge to their whirlpool. The bubbles massage their smooth texture and the steam soaks their figure. Back and forth, back and forth, I pace around the kitchen, rattling the pots and pans sitting inside the oven. My mom comes to check on me. “I have to boil these for fifteen minutes, mom.” “Fifteen minutes?! It will turn into goo!” I agree with my mom. Health Canada issued a warning last year, however, reiterating that fiddleheads must be cooked and should be boiled for fifteen minutes. The English class will eat these tomorrow. I cannot be burdened with food poisoning thirty people.

Every five minutes or so, I lift the lid of the pot and exclaim, “oh my gosh, mom, it is turning greener!” It is. Starting from the inside, the shy leaflets, a jade green float across the fiddleheads. However, fifteen minutes is almost up and most of the frond is still a deep brown. Sighing, I pour the brown water down the drain after the fiddleheads are scooped out with a holed ladle. I look at them. Steam entangles between each individual. Suddenly I am not frustrated anymore. I am just sad. Their slightly improved colour seems to be telling me that they tried their best. But I can’t bring these tomorrow. They’re abnormal. My mom walks in the kitchen. She offers to help me cook the fiddleheads “Chinese style”. According to her, both my dad and I are not skilled enough to use the precious frying pan, so cooking with butter was not the most ideal way. I am actually excited for “Chinese styled” fiddleheads. Everyone eats fiddleheads with butter; a little variety won’t hurt. Plus, I could possibly use that pun in Madeleine Thien’s “Simple Recipes” and say “I took a wok on the wild side!” tomorrow in class. (I won’t actually say that. I can’t speak in English class for some reason). I watch my mother’s experienced hands toss the fiddleheads around in the wok. She is immune to the bouncing oil. The fiddleheads cackle as the thundering boom of the oil, garlic, and ginger devours the fiddleheads. Vegetarian oyster sauce trickles on top of the fiddleheads, and salt is added to give the fern some taste. After snapping many photos, I watch the fiddleheads get lowered into the dish. The sauce is black, and darken the complexion even more. That moment, I am both happy and distressed. I don’t know if I can take them to class tomorrow. I take my first bite of the fiddlehead. I can feel the little fern leaves in my mouth; they feel weird, like caterpillars scratching my tongue. Unfortunately, I can’t taste much of the vegetable itself. The boiling seems to have stolen the original flavour; I taste something similar to hot water. Neatly, I pack my brown fiddleheads in a sealed container. They’ll have to do. But inside, I shrivel up because my fiddleheads do not look normal. They do not look edible. When my dad comes home from work, the first thing he asks me is “did your fiddleheads turn green after cooking?” His gentle voice triggers something. A swell of warmth brims my eyes and something clouds my vision. Opening my eyes wider, I mumble, “no”. During dinner, I must look deflated. Both my parents notice. My only chance to cook fiddleheads and I screw up…I feel like a fern picked before it could turn ripe. How could they turn brown…was it because I didn’t boil it for two minutes before freezing it? That must be it…but I had not read that before today, really. All of a sudden I feel like a huge failure. “Would you like me to buy another pack and you can try again?” Asking my parents to buy even one pack is already asking a lot. First, cooking fiddleheads isn’t a requirement; I wouldn’t fail if I didn’t take them to class (although I wonder which would hurt me more: me failing or seeing disappointment). Second, they really are pricey. Our family does not own a money tree. But after dinner, my parents decide to buy me one more pack of fiddleheads anyways. “But it’s five bucks for so little, dad.” “Five bucks is worth your experience. You learned something, did you not?” I sit, stunned, as my parents and my little sister leave to Superstore to buy me another pack. They’ve let me stay home so I could type this very story. Deep inside, I know none of them really wants to invest in fiddleheads, so I am moved. With a new, bright green pack of fiddleheads, I now expertly wash and scrub the brown covering off. The end of the stalk is black, as if the harvester had seared them to keep snake heads from growing back. After snapping the ends off with my fingers, I place them in a holed basket, running the ferns through water. The fiddleheads bounce up and down as if they are on a trampoline. I smile. The boiling

process is a lot more brightening than last time. Young fiddleheads bob up and down on the waves and circle between air bubbles. Their deep bright green turns a bit yellow, but the bright colours warms my heart. My dad shows me to cook them the Chinese way this time. The wok is heated and oil added to the base of the wok. Nothing else is added until smoke rises from the wok. Once those columns signal us that the time is right, my father places the ginger and garlic that I had diced earlier into the wok. Sizzles ring through the kitchen. Growling, the wok is growling. A clap of thunder! Boom! The fiddleheads are placed in the wok. “This is the special thing about Chinese cooking: the loud noise confirms the “qi” of the wok. More taste seeps into food while the aura riches. We don’t slowly add the food in, we desire the explosion.” My feeble, thin arms hold the cooking turner and move the fiddleheads around in their pit. The oil is jumping up and down, like lava in a volcano. “Don’t be afraid”. Tossing and scooping the fiddleheads, I watch in amazement as the oyster sauce, wine, salt change the smell of them. A naughty drop of oil jumps onto my arm. I answer by wincing. Tasting the newly-made batch of fiddleheads, I nod in satisfaction. They taste about the same as the brown batch, just more tender. And, they are still green. Being Green! My mission is complete.

10:53 pm. My FIDDLEHEADS:

*watching Chopped Canada (link sent by Jessica) did not help me with my anxiety *all images except for the ones on the science page and the Pokémon character are original works *the image on the title page is a fiddlehead, a question mark, and a dragon

Special Thanks To…

Mr. Hamazaki M. Dubé Mr. McCallion Ms. Montroy Mr. Jakoy Mme. Oger-Black Ms. Thompson Mr. Ho Ms. Ronne Mr. Russell For sharing their stories about the fiddleheads (or lack of stories)

Ivy Tang for Fiddlehead Man idea Jessica Nguyen for sending links on fiddlehead food/recipes Helen Leung and Derek Wu for accompanying me on my fiddlehead rampages (hunts…ish) Queenie Li for answering my violin questions

Mr. Guraliuk, for introducing me to this project Professor Ricou (who I do not know, whose project provided the seed for this project)

isn’t this fiddlehead gorgeous? I was so happy when I uncovered it. Those swirls~

Works Cited

"About Us." Fiddlehead Bistro. Fiddlehead Bistro, n.d. Web. 14 June 2016. . Beardshaw, Chris. "A Fern Favourite: The Plant with a Rich and Ancient History." Mail Online 13 Oct. 2008: n. pag. Mail Online. Web. 13 Apr. 2016. . Bentz, Stephanie. "Time for Fiddlehead Picking." Must-See Attractions Gaspesie. Government of Canada, 26 May 2014. Web. 13 June 2016. . Brandon-Evans, Tira. "Earth Well: Ferns." Faeryshaman. Elder Grove, 2009. Web. 29 May 2016. . Brown, Elizabeth Nolan. "Health Hack: 5 Facts about Oh-So-Seasonal Fiddlehead Ferns." Blisstree. Defy Media, 6 Apr. 2013. Web. 11 Apr. 2016. . "Classifying and Identifying Ferns." Science Learning. U of Waikato, 15 Oct. 2010. Web. 11 Apr. 2016. . Debolt, Emily. "Fiddlehead Frolic." Native Plants and Wildlife Gardens. Carole Sevilla Brown, 2013. Web. 12 June 2016. . "Dinosaur, Hypsilophodon." Tumblr. Tumblr, 28 Dec. 2014. Web. 27 Apr. 2016. . The Editors of Encyclopædia Britannica. "Vascular System." Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica, n.d. Web. 27 Apr. 2016. . "??" ["Fiddleheads"]. Baidu. Baidu, n.d. Web. 12 June 2016. . Fear, Craig. "How to Find, Identify and Cook Fiddleheads." Fearless Eating. Fearless Eating, n.d. Web. 12 June 2016. . The Fiddlehead editors, ed. "The Fiddlehead." The Fiddlehead. U of New Brunswick, n.d. Web. 12 Apr. 2016. . Fiddlehead Frolic 4-16-16 in Ithaca, NY with Mean Lids and Mary Wesley. YouTube. YouTube, 17 Apr. 2016. Web. 12 June 2016. . "Fiddlehead Joe's Eatery Inc." VancouverPlus. N.p., 1 May 2008. Web. 3 June 2016. . "Fiddlehead Joe's Eatery Inc." VancouverPlus. VancouverPlus, 1 May 2008. Web. 12 June 2016. . Funk & Wagnalls New World Encyclopedia Staff. "Fern." EBSCOhost. Funk & Wagnalls New World Encyclopedia, 2016. Web. 29 Apr. 2016. . Government of New Brunswick. "Symbols." Service New Brunswick. Government of New Brunswick, n.d. Web. 9 May 2016. .

Heron, Mike. "Puppies." Lyrics.net. STANDS4, n.d. Web. 9 May 2016. . Jones, Judith. "Fern Glossary." Fancy Fronds Nursery. Ed. Jones. Squarespace, n.d. Web. 11 Apr. 2016. . The Journal of the American Fern Society. "A Brief Introduction to Ferns." The American Fern Society. N.p., n.d. Web. 26 Apr. 2016. . Kristen. "Fiddle-dee-dee." Watcha Eatin? Family favourites and food adventures. Blogger, 6 June 2009. Web. 12 June 2016. . Lapointe, Rick. "Let Us Go Fiddlehead Foragin', but Carefully." The Japan Times. Japan Times, 21 Apr. 2012. Web. 9 May 2016. . Loney, Heather. "Health Canada Issues Warning over Eating Raw, Undercooked Fiddleheads." Global News. Corus Entertainment, 8 May 2015. Web. 12 May 2016. . Lyons, C. P. Trees Shrubs & Flowers to Know in British Columbia. First Paperback ed. Oshawa: J.M. Dent & Sons (Canada), 1974. Print. Matthew. "Fiddlehead or 'Koru' - Rich Symbology." Welcome to an Unfurling and Reflection of Growth. Blogger, 3 Oct. 2007. Web. 9 May 2016. . "More about the Fiddlehead." Hampton Hands Jewellery. Yola, n.d. Web. 14 June 2016. . Morrison, Cahalen, and Eli West. "Fiddlehead Fern." Cahalenandeli. Bandcamp, n.d. Web. 9 May 2016. . Pengelly, Lee. "Beech Fern Sporangia." Silverscene Photography. Photium, n.d. Web. 27 Apr. 2016. . "Polypode." Photos de végétaux. N.p., n.d. Web. 11 Apr. 2016. . "Real Food Right Now and How to Cook It: Fiddleheads." Grace Communications Foundation. Grace Communications Foundation, Mar. 2013. Web. 13 June 2016. . Shaw, Hank. "How to Eat Bracken Fern Safely." Hunter Angler Garden Cook. Hunter Angler Garden Cook, 28 Apr. 2016. Web. 29 May 2016. . Stoller, Johnathan. The morning sun caresses a young fern, Opening for the first time Yet its genetic spiral is as ancient as the galaxies. DavidMixner. Rhys Gerholdt, 30 Apr. 2011. Web. 11 Apr. 2016. . Sustainable Sachi. "Gosari (???) Braised Fiddlehead (Fern Bracken)." Sustainable Sachi. Wordpress, 3 May 2011. Web. 9 May 2016. . "Welcome to Fiddlehead Resort Camp." Fiddlehead Resort Camp. Fiddlehead Resort Camp, n.d. Web. 14 June 2016. . "Why the Fern?" Fern Life Centre. Fern Life Centre, n.d. Web. 9 May 2016. .