fingers crossed for fewer bagels

totally unrelated photo by Tristan

I lived in the Bay Area during the late nineties and early aughts (yes, I'm using it, deal) and during that time there was a mildly interesting but incredibly lazy and mostly unbearably ironic underground metal scene.  In hindsight it all seems terribly pathetic.  Some of the musicians have moved on (geographically and artistically) to more worthwhile things, but nothing particularly notable or successful.  One exception is John Gossard, who has somehow consistently been part of something good and interesting and honest.  Even if the music didn't always float my boat, at least it was real and imaginative and sincere and in sharp contrast with the tired parody parading as art elsewhere.  The most recent incarnation of this phenomenon is Dispirit, and they're playing in Brooklyn this weekend!!  I'm going to see them Sunday and I'm staying in Manhattan in hopes of actually getting some sleep after. 

They'd better not suck. 

Only two weeks until we head to Iowa for Easter.  I can't wait to have fresh herbs in my omelet and fresh flowers on the table.  Everything is already up and out of the ground there!  Meanwhile, tomorrow we're expecting more snow here.  Harumph. 

Avoiding Unnecessary Articles and the Brooklyn Botanic Garden

Are these contorted magnolias?  Someone from Kiev Kyiv would know.

This afternoon I felt compelled and was writing a little something about Ukrainian tomatoes and lilacs and such and realized that I was using the phrase "the Ukraine" like Americans tend to do.  And it's wrong!!  Or so I'm told.  I'm just going to scrap the whole thing because I'm afraid that I'm going to offend someone with my excessive and unnecessary use of articles.  So there's that.  I tried.

Instead I'm going to share some highlights of our trip to Brooklyn yesterday.  It was pouring rain all morning but that didn't stop us from enjoying the first signs of spring at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.  It did stop me from getting any good pictures of them, though.

Out-of-focus snowdrops and a gorgeous old crepe myrtle.

Cornelian cherry, I think.  Note the coffee cup.  Nice touch, no?

Inside we attended a workshop that, much to my chagrin, had almost nothing to do with gardening.  It had to do with lasagna (and not lasagna gardening or lasagna composting, but actual edible lasagna) and a professional chef that invited Tristan assist him in demonstrating how to assemble a vegetarian collards-based lasagna.  Tristan was so unbelievably thrilled and did a great job and I'm such an idiot, I didn't even THINK to grab the camera.  Ugh.  Anyway, then we got to EAT lasagna!  It was delicious and it was free!!  Hurray for happy kids and free lunch.

And then we went to the BBG library.  And they were having a book sale.  And because of the rain and the size of my bag I restrained myself enough to buy just six books.  That might be a personal best.  I couldn't bear the thought of books getting wet (or carrying them on the subway).  My favorite of the lot is this:

Written, illustrated and published by two ladies in Iowa in 1940.  Yes, really! 

Everything about the book is smart and clever and sweet.  Look at the table of contents!!

No, really, LOOK AT IT.

The illustrations are fantastic.

"Less Known Lily Folk", including Blue Dicks.

Even if the whole day had been crap, finding this book would have made the trek to Brooklyn worthwhile.  But the day wasn't crap!  After lasagna and the library we heard Onika Abraham of Farm School NYC speak about what "organic" means to her and how the quest to make our gardens organic should really be a journey toward remembering who we are and where we've come from and honoring our heritage by utilizing the practices and knowledge of our ancestors.  I realize that to her, a black woman in New York, this means something more specific and maybe more important than it might mean to me.  But agriculture has been practiced by various peoples on nearly every continent for thousands of years.  We're all burdened by a collective amnesia with regard to our past and our identity.  Having our hands in the Earth is a primal reminder of what we are; that we live not only in concert with nature, but that we are nature itself, and cannot live in spite of it.  Onika's speech was inspiring and beautiful and poignant and it felt like a real privilege, for myself and especially for Tristan, to see her and hear her.  BBG posted a too-short Q&A with her here.

The rain let up just enough during the afternoon for us to explore a little more and allow for the most befitting mist to form over the ponds in the Japanese garden.  It was breathtaking.

 

After that the day took a turn for the worse.  I won't go into too much detail but someone tried to send us home with a sweet potato and we went to Rockefeller Center and it was just barely sprinkling and apparently New Yorkers really like umbrellas but not sensible shoes (WTF!?) and it was all I could do to not push people into traffic.  But Tristan was able to go to the LEGO store and I was able to soothe my psychosis with Mozartkugeln from the Lindt store.  And I'm in love with the subway and how cheap it is and how the signage is totally sufficient!!  Good public transportation is so undervalued.  I don't care if it smells like pee (okay I do a little bit, but it's about the bigger picture, right?).  We love New York.

Summer Rambo

We bought a beetle!!  A turbo beetle.  Whatever that means.  What's important is that it fits into the free (but tiny) parking space that I've been given and that it won't cost me a fortune as I commute between the pool house and Hudson.  And it makes Tristan happy, which is almost worth the $5k that I paid in excess of what I'd budgeted.  The salesperson tried to get me to fork over another five grand for gingham seats, but I demurred. 

Don't call it cute!!!  Okay, you can.  It is.

The car won't be mine to drive for probably another week, so for now I'm holed up in my apartment, concentrating on trees and seeds and specifically apples.  Of course I'm growing French apples.  Among the ones I've ordered, including the obvious choices of Calville Blanc and Orleans Reinette, is one with the peculiar moniker "Summer Rambo".  The name doesn't immediately seem particularly French and apples might understandably be the last thing the phrase inspires, but this is in fact a very old French apple, whose name has been horribly anglicized over the course of centuries (I think this is why the French can be so uptight about the preservation of their language, just look what happens!!). 

Thanks to the fabulous 'Apples of Uncommon Character', I am over-the-top tickled and giddy to be armed with this bit of trivia:

One person who is a fan [of Summer Rambo] is the author David Morrell, who in 1968 was struggling to find a name for the main character of First Blood, his novel-in-progress about a Vietnam vet.  As he cogitated, his wife came home with apples from a local farmstand.  He bit into one, loved it, and asked what it was called.  "Rambo," she said.  Morrell rushed to his typewriter, and an action icon was born.

We should all be so inspired by fruit.

This weekend we're going to Brooklyn to see some crocuses and socialize with fellow gardeners at the Making Brooklyn Bloom event at the Brooklyn Botanical Garden.  Gardening in the city has to present challenges that I can't even imagine, and these people are probably made of tougher stuff than me.  I hope to be inspired by their ingenuity and creativity and continued perseverance in the face of so much concrete.  And be utterly humbled and grateful for my 23 acres of woods and water and earth.  And old apples and young Sylvester Stallone.

Ghost Orchards and Greenport

It is rare since moving to New York that we have a car, but today we did and we drove to the Greenport Conservation Area just north of Hudson to enjoy the miraculously above-freezing weather.  It was quiet and gorgeous and just exactly what we needed.  We encountered only one other person on the trails but an inordinate amount of dog shit.

Beautiful.

If only dogs could read.

I've mentioned before that I have trees en route for our little future farming gardening operation at the pool house on School House.  Some of those trees are listed in a book by Rowan Jacobsen called Apples of Uncommon Character.  I curled up with Apples tonight, along with a glass of Pomponette, the most beautiful wine imaginable.

Tell me that's not the most beautiful beverage you've ever seen.

There is a passage in the forward that had me crying like a baby.  John Bunker of Fedco Seeds is notorious for seeking out "lost" apples, and one such apple was the Fletcher Sweet.  From Apples:

One of Bunker's best finds was the Fletcher Sweet, which he knew originated in the Lincolnville area.  In 2002, he met a group from the Lincolnville Historical Society.  They had never heard of the apple, but they knew of a part of Lincolnville called Fletchertown, which, like so many other old villages in northern New England, had since been reclaimed by the forest.  The society posted a note in the local paper saying it was looking for an old apple called a Fletcher.  A seventy-nine-year-old named Clarence Thurlow called the paper and said, "I've never heard of a Fletcher, but I know where there's a Fletcher Sweet."

Thurlow led Bunker to the dirt intersection that had once been the heart of Fletchertown, pointed to an ancient, gnarled tree, and said, "That's the tree I used to eat apples from when I was a child."  The tree was almost entirely dead.  It had lost all its bark except for a two-inch-wide strip of living tissue that rose up the trunk and led to a single living branch about eighteen feet off the ground.  There was no fruit.  Bunker took a handful of shoots and grafted them to rootstock at his farm.  A year later, both Clarence Thurlow and the tree died, but the grafts thrived. 

Mr. Bunker has since returned Fletcher Sweets to Lincolnville and anyone can purchase their own shoots (scions) for grafting from Fedco Trees.  Additionally, you can indulge almost any antique apple curiosity at Trees of Antiquity, an absolute favorite tree source (and resource). 

The beauty and magic of heirloom seeds and antique trees is that they are relics pregnant with potential; little living artifacts. Possibly less individual than a painting or a song, but a little piece of someone's soul lives on.  If ghosts had gardens old apples are what they'd grow.

I want to write more about the trees I've ordered but I have an early (and probably awful) morning planned for tomorrow.  I need to buy a car but am burdened by a total lack of male genitalia.  This unfortunate dearth of a penis on my part somehow renders all car salespeople absolute dipshits.  I can't think of anything I'd like to do less right now, but carshopping has to be done and I'm a little in love with this Fiat even though it's doubtful I'll even fit inside.  We'll find out tomorrow!

Pool House Chronicles II

That lampshade, my goodness.

I'm sorry for having been so derisive toward the bagel debris in Brooklyn.  Now that I'm acquainted with the phenomenon of bagels as a cultural touchstone I feel just terrible.  On many levels.  My heartfelt apologies.  And sympathies. 

Regarding the pool house on School House:  As of today we are officially in contract!  Trees have been ordered.  Tractors are being researched.  Tears are being shed. 

I am terribly homesick for my girlfriends and their little ones.  Tristan must be missing everyone, too, but is better at keeping his mind and hands occupied (thanks, LEGO).  It will be another long month before we see Iowa again, and our dear friends.  This long stretch of unrelenting winter mirrors my heart in the absence of people who love me.  But I am warmed by these photos of fun with our friends and birthdays in July..

 

And warmed also by the delivery of even more seeds, this time from Solstice Seeds, which as far as I can tell is just one lady and her garden in Vermont.  She has a great selection of obscure and heirloom vegetables, both local and foreign (I discovered her in a desperate search for Jaune du Poitou leeks).  Dinner at Food Studio tonight helped tremendously as well -- I'm not a rice person but drizzle lemongrass caramel all over it and I am all over it.  Hudson definitely has its comforts. 

And I don't think I've ever seen a single bagel here, in the street or elsewhere.

But there is no greater comfort than girlfriends... 

.. or having wipes front and center.

No Sleep In Brooklyn

Yesterday at the pool house on School House the problem tank was removed from the premises without incident or evidence of contamination.  It was such a relief.  And the sellers, whom had previously seemed to me to be nemeses invited us in for coffee and sent us home with cookies.  They couldn't have been more lovely.  I couldn't be more grateful, or ashamed.

Today I signed a real, honest-to-goodness sale contract and wrote a check with a number that barely fit into the little box.  Everything is so close to actually working out...!!!!  But it's hard to feel as ecstatic as I should, not just because of the big number in the little box, but because I had absolutely no sleep last night.  How do people sleep in Brooklyn?  It's so loud!!  And there are bagels everywhere.  What is that about?!  Bags and bags of bagels.  Bags broken, bagels strewn.  What is wrong with you people, seriously?

I wish I could think of something more positive to say, or remember the name of this beautiful flowering shrub at our house in Iowa...

 
I did meet a mostly-lovely Moroccan-Frenchman last night.  He's not the man I've wanted to meet, but he's probably the man I deserve. 

The Wonder of Whitman's and William Woys Weaver

Last week I waved as hope was leaving, but it's skulking around and peeking in the windows these past few days following an awkward Valentine's Day exchange at the pool house on School House.  Everyone seems awful and difficult when their intentions are filtered through lawyers and brokers.  Myself included, almost certainly.  In person and armed with an unwieldy box of chocolates we're vulnerable, a forgivable mess.  If this thing works out we'll owe everything to Whitman's.

I want to say something about the seeds and trees I'm ordering but I don't know where to begin.  I rediscovered the amazing Kitazawa Seed Company in Oakland and am so glad that I did.  And the seeds took all of one day to get to me, ONE DAY!!  From Oakland!!!  I can't wait to grow these delicious Hinona Kabu turnips again, or try the baby-sized Konasu eggplants (they are so cute!!).  We're hoping to grow the pink popcorn that Tristan had in his garden last year.  The seed is available from Victory Seeds, an incredible and impressively ethical seed source from which I also order a peculiar strain of Mortgage Lifter tomato with chartreuse foliage.  I've grown all kinds of unusual-foliaged tomatoes and the pale leaf strain of Mortgage Lifter is the only one thus far that actually produces delicious fruit.

Other seeds I'm excited about:  White tomatoes, which I have never grown before (unless you count the cherry Snow White), including White Wax, which was previously rather hard to find and heralded by William Woys Weaver, and Etoile Blanche d'Anvers, a little pleated French Belgian (excusez-moi)
tomato (from Sand Hill Preservation in Iowa, a company that only accepts orders via actual mail). 

Since the soil here seems more suited to growing roots than the loess of northwest Iowa I'm diving headlong into carrots and turnips and rampion.  These black turnips of Pardailhan have intrigued me for a long time and I've never grown them, UNTIL NOW.  Seed seems scarce, as it is for so many French vegetables I'd like to grow.  I have a source for the turnips, but not for the bellot carrots I'd like to try, or the Roscoff onions.  Come on French people!!  Help a gardener out.