Saturday, June 7, 2014
After visiting a beautiful garden on a high floor yesterday, I stopped at the Union Square Farmers Market, where I exercised restraint (one box of strawberries - my first of 2014, and three holy basil plants.)
In 66 Square Feet - A Delicious Life, I wrote:
This is the scarlet season.
In Brooklyn Bridge Park the slender branches of serviceberry trees hang low with ripe fruit early in the month. The little pomes - inverted coronets - taste sweet when red and apple sauce-ish when purple. It is easy to browse quietly for a secluded hour here on urban fruit within arms’ reach. At Pier Six an MTA bus driver waiting for the start of his shift beside his bus asks, as he sees me reaching up for more, Are those things edible? Yes, Sir, I say, they are indeed.
As I walk up the low hill at the western extremity of Atlantic Avenue and turn down shaded Henry Street towards home, I think about serviceberry pie, a highlight of my foraging year. I think the bus driver might like it. He might like serviceberry pancakes, better, though. What is more American? Pie, period? Or pancakes for breakfast?
And that is where I will be today. Walking that route (if you're quick on the draw, you can still come), looking for those fruit, and perhaps finding some mulberries at the tail end of the expedition. Our delayed spring means that the ripening may be off by a week or two. And I can always return for the serviceberries. Friends will visit us from Virginia, mid-month and I'd like to bake them a serviceberry pie.