The bluebell wood

We were enveloped in low cloud, today. Persistent, gentle moisture. Because of it, the BBG decided to cancel the foraging walk I was to have led in the afternoon, and, despite having looked forward to it, it was a bit of a relief. I hadn't had much sleep, and the prospect of a free afternoon was quite attractive. 

I was at leisure, after my morning class,  to stroll back to the subway in the May weather, carrying my bags, and my post-class relief, like a tired albatross around my neck. Not quite, but sort of. 

I met some really nice people, everyone seemed to enjoy the food, and there will be other walks, on other days. 

Now, I just need to not think so much, for a while. I can't wait to see my parents, Selina, Cape Town, the corgis, the mountain outside our bedroom window. Winter. I haven't seen a Cape winter since 1994, when I left.

Back to Brooklyn , and the heart breaking blue. The garden was deserted. A pity - for the garden, not me- as the light is good on grey days and the mist so fine that everything sparkled. The bluebells are in their glory. I write about them, in my book, in May (Chapter Five!). I write about everything that has mattered to me, in this city. I needed to do that. To say thank you.

The bluebells will still be there on Tuesday (the garden is closed on Mondays), but not perfect for much longer. Go, soon.

I wonder what it would be like to lie in the middle of them?

And yes, they smell about as good as they look.

Chives on toast

A soggy day in Brooklyn town.

While not viewing the morning with alarm, exactly,  I do wonder if it won't be too soggy to walk in Prospect Park this afternoon. I baked serviceberry cookies for my walkers.

But my bags are packed - with goodies for my morning class - and the Frenchman will help me ferry them to the BBG. He was talking about cloudy days and bluebells earlier in the week so perhaps he'll hang around to take some pictures of those. They are in bloom and the overcast sky will make their colour pop.

Above? Fresh sheeps milk cheese from Hilltop Creamery (for whom I can find no web presence at all) on wholewheat toast,  with spring chives from the terrace.

Also good with field garlic leaves.

Chicken and leaf sandwiches

When one has all these daily leaves, how does one eat them?

In sandwiches, for one thing. Sandwiches are weekend food. 

Brown bread, Hellman's mayonnaise, Maille mustard, and last night's roast chicken. A healthy cracking of black pepper over the top.

Leaves? Chervil, fava beans, pea shoots, trout lettuce, nameless cress and red mustard.

Now go forth, and picnic.

Bring back stories.

How green is my salad?

I started to weed out the bolted kale yesterday evening while an enormous block of cumulus hung exactly above the roof and threw out enough drops to make me nervous for the camera. The cat sat firmly on my fava beans and chewed grass. I abandoned my weeding and concentrated on picking our supper salad: cresses and mustards and spotted lettuces and a few whiskers of dill, and un-sat-on fava leaves, peas, and young lamb's quarters. 

The rain came down while the sun shone and I disappeared back down the hatch to rescue our spatchcocked chicken, which was browning very nicely in a hot oven.

It was a warm day. The black spot is creeping into the Iceberg, the terrace is becoming a jungle - overnight, it seems. Lilies are already almost as tall as I am, and I have begun to support them to prevent unseemly leaning.

We should all be so lucky...

Roses in May

The Iceberg rose is beginning to bloom reliably enough for me to pick the ones that lurk behind a tangle of branches, and which won't be missed when I'm actually sitting on the terrace - quite a rare event these days - and looking at them. The Munstead Wood has one ripe red bud, and many more green and tight, and the Abraham Darby is loaded. The two new roses have shot out tender new stems, but I won't see them bloom before we leave.

Next week.

Can't believe it's so soon. Miles to go before we board, it seems. The book still does not have a cover or final subtitle, so that the specter of the Unknown lurks - never my favourite state of mind. I had expected it all to have been well wrapped up by now, but publishing works in mysterious - very mysterious - ways.

In the meantime, life could be worse than coffee and roses.

Cliff edge gardens

The ones on the Fifth Avenue, anyway.

My office

Yesterday it was here, in Central Park's Ramble.

I was on a scouting mission - looking for edible plants for a foraging walk. I hadn't been in the park for about a month, and things change fast. There were lots of holes -blue sky visible in the wooded Ramble, where trees from the last couple of catastrophic years - intense storm cells, October snowfall, tornado, Sandy - have been cleared. And there was a forest of Japanese knotweed. Absolutely out of control. It needs to be eaten. Seriously.

These beautiful white violets are very tall, about two feet high. Viola canadensis. Common name, well, tall white violets.