Yuzu season

The first green yuzu fruit are on the young, potted tree on our terrace. Citrus x juno is a cross between a wild citrus and a mandarin-type orange, hailing from either Korea or northern China around a millennium ago. Mine came a little more recently from Four Winds Growers in... Let's figure it out:

I-know-we-were-living-here-so-late-2018-aka-the-year-from-hell-but-was-it-then-no-probably-spring-2019-hang-on-a-second-NO-WAY!-it-was May-2020! (Thank goodness for emails.)

In other words: Pandemic Purchase. A good one.

The dilemma is: Do I harvest the green yuzu now, when they are unripe, microplane their intensely perfumed green zest from their hard round bodies, and make yuzu kosho (above), the powerful Japanese condiment that transforms everything it touches? (My earlier recipe is in the prickly ash chapter of Forage, Harvest, Feast - now, I tend to ferment it.)

Or do I wait for them to ripen, turn yellow, and then make the very-very delicious Korean-style yuja-tea - the ripe slices macerated in sugar (which is what I do to just about every fragrant thing I forage), the slices-plus-sugar forming a slow syrup while candying the yuzu. (That would be around December or January, when our tree will be back indoors, and I may be in Cape Town, universe and virus variants willing.)

The syrup is wonderful in hot black tea, very fragrant; and delicious in icy drinks, too. I eke out my jarful from last January, made from ripe yuzu bought at Eataly in Manhattan. I soaked the squeezed yuzu fruit - still very perfumed - in gin to make the most of them, too. It's some good gin.

If you'd like to try yuzu and don't grow your own, there are more and more sources, thanks to small growers beginning to expand their citrus flocks. It's illegal to import the fresh fruit from Japan, where most yuzu is grown (because of citrus pest and disease issues; nothing to do with Japan, and everything to do with protecting the local and major citrus economies from pathogens. That's also why you can't buy trees from US growers if you live in certain states - citrus lockdown).

Try the New Jersey-based Bhumi Growers. Or Suzuki Farms, Delaware.  And Californian Mud Creek Ranch sells via the distributor, Fruitstand.

It's hard to walk away once the citrus bug has bit.

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Walks

Into the Wild(s...: of Brooklyn)

In Green-Wood Cemetery there was a hornet's nest in a Turkish hazelnut tree. It is exquisite. If it was Art, people would line up and wait.

Under a young oak tree nearby there was a young raccoon, foraging for acorns. 

In Prospect Park a downy woodpecker stood silent for a minute. Was she listening or resting? Or dreaming woodpeckerish dreams?

In a patch of jewelweed where storm-fallen trees have created a slash of sunlight, hummingbirds feasted and fought among the flowers. Then they rested. Tiny as moths, fierce as fundamentalists.

They perched on the roots of tilted trees, preening and scratching, itching and plotting.

And at home, on the small terrace, a monarch found the milkweed, at last.

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Hike up a hill, get biscuits!

You may have heard that it has rained a lot in New York.  Bad for people. Good for plants.

Come and meet some of those plants during a series of new botanical walks, beginning on Labor Day, with a Lookout Hill Hike in Prospect Park. Yep, Monday. Tomorrow! There will be a minimalist but delicious picnic of fresh biscuits with toppings of butter, pawpaw, and lilac honey. And iced spicebush coffee.

On Saturday, September 11th, we will commemorate the 20th anniversary of that terrible day in a very positive way: walking among the trees and flowers and diversity - human and botanical - of Central Park's North Woods. Our Woods and Water walk will be followed by a picnic on a hill.

Finally, I am very happy to be returning to the New York Botanical Garden's Adult Education fall program with two walks, on October 8th and 17th.

See you there!

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Book for Forage Walks and Classes

August's end

It seems sudden, the arrival of the night. But the evenings are evenings, again. This is 7.39pm on Monday. Supper not on the table, yet.  Raccoons not yet on the rooves. 

The chimney swifts are aloft earlier.  The cricket chorus adds new members, nightly. The trees vibrate with the zeal of cicadas. The tropical plants are all at their happiest, not realizing that in two months they may be indoors, again. 

In the dark, I can no longer see the dozens of tiny buds on the (hardy) tea plants. I don't know if they will bloom in autumn or early spring (they are Camellias, after all). And I have harvested my first, green tea, from new shoots.

I think I have seen night hawks, from the terrace. I hope they come back. At night, before I go to sleep, I learn the Latin and Greek names of birds. It's hard. These night hawks might be Chordeiles minor. I have to make up ways to remember. So I say, these night hawks strike a minor chord. Chord...eiles...minor. But it works. Some birds are easy. Blue jay is Cyanocitta cristata. The etymology is beautiful.

And here comes Labor Day. 

There is a walk, then, to say goodbye to summer, at Dead Horse Bay. If you're coming, booking is via the link below.

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Return to Dead Horse Bay

True cardamom, false cardamom, and the tropical garden

And sometimes the terrace is a mess. Because it all happens here, on the stone table. Potting, transplanting, and after it is all swept and wiped away, supper. 

I divided the galangal early in the year, planting the smaller version of itself in a temporary black nursery growpot. It has been thriving, so I decided to dignify it with a terra cotta home and there it is, bottom right on the table.

In the back is true cardamom (Elettaria cardamomum), from Companion Plants, and now residing in a larger pot, too. "True" cardamom has a long backstory: a year-and-a-half ago I learned, thanks to a sniping but enlightening comment from an obsessed plant geek (who has never re-surfaced), and then a lot of rabbithole research, that most, if not all, the so-called cardamom plants being grown for sale in this country are not. Cardamom, that is. Instead, they are false cardamom (Alpinia nutans). And most growers themselves are unaware. So for years I grew the flourishing false, thinking it was the true. (How do you know which you have? In the words of Randy, the grower ar Randy's Tropical Plants, with whom I corresponded about telling true cardamom apart from false: "If the foliage is fragrant, then it is not Elettaria cardamomum.  It is almost certainly Alpinia nutans." So crush and sniff, and sorry. But the false cardamom is still a great, low-maintenance house plant!). 

In conversation with Peter Borchard, of Companion Plants (which is one of my favorite growers of esoterica, based in southeast Ohio) he promised me the real deal, when he learned that he, too, had unwittingly been growing the false. So as soon as their single, verified parent plant had babies - they are easy to propagate, like all rhizomatous members of the Zingiberaceae family - they kindly sent me one. (The first specimen was mistakenly shipped to our previous address, so perhaps our Horrible Neighbor benefited. Eeeh. Bad memories. The bike slasher and shouter. He was convinced we were stealing his parcels. It was fascinating, but not fun, like a car crash. The second shipment arrived here, safely.) 

So will I get cardamom pods? Maybe not. Randy said it is unusual for them to bloom unless conditions are perfect, and also said that they must be hand pollinated (like vanilla). 

In the blue pot (bought in desperation, since stores have run out of terra cotta, thanks to pandemic garden-mania) is the black pepper vine (Piper nigrum, and yes, the producer of green and black peppercorns; well, not yet). It came from Companion Plants, too. It settled in so well that it needed an upgrade in terms of size, and is now feeling better in blue. Even if I have my doubts about the color. It will come inside in winter, of course, to join the tropical flock of citrus, and various members of the ginger family. I have no idea how it will take to dry indoor conditions in winter, but I have learned that the more plants I have indoors, the higher the humidity levels. When the air is freezing out, there is film of moisture on the double-glazed windows. A liveable greenhouse.

Now, in late, tropical summer, a frigid winter seems impossible. Our outdoor humidity is at 73% while we shelter indoors, refreshed by central air (set to a reasonable 78'F - is that reasonable?). But winter will come, as it always does, and tropical forest will join us for the duration.

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66 Square Feet - The Book

Summer in the jungle

And it's August. July slid by, filled with walks and picnics, and wild scents and red fruits. 

The terrace has filled out to its summer jungle voluptuousness. Fennel has shot up and is flowering and the South African milkweed is about to begin, too. Cardamom and galangal and black pepper and sand ginger throw tropical parties at night, after we have gone to bed.

What is missing is last year's lush screen of moonflowers on the birch poles, and also the raspberry along the railing (removed because of its incurable virus, and replaced with another, after scrubbing and sterilizing the pot). I regret the moonflowers, but an extremely late sowing of an unusual white lablab bean from Abbie Zabar's stash may still have time to climb. It's a baby. I also cut the Clematis 'Etoile Violette' right back to provoke more flowers in...guessing...mid September. (You can see the first one I grew here, in the original 66 Square Feet in Cobble Hill - funny, that post has an almost identical title.)

After a lavender hiccup (mistake, their roots needed more room) the windowboxes are fluffy with a yellow Agastache cultivar from the Gowanus Nursery, Nemesias that have not stopped flowering since spring (they are a wildflower from South Africa's Western Cape, in bloom there after wet winters, so it's fascinating that these can withstand intense New York humidity), and more South Africans: the daises are an Osteospermum, also planted in April. 

I made this warm salad that warm night by grilling tomatoes over coals, splashing them liberally with very good soy sauce (Ohsawa nama shoyu), adding crushed purple basil from the pot on the terrace, and a shredded sesame leaf (Perilla, but not the frilly shiso, which tastes a little different). 

Stuff? The pink sparkling wine is Graham Beck Brut rosé, a cold treat on a warm night. The kikoi is one of the endless collection that I stockpile after a South African trip (it's been 17 months, and counting) and the pillow covers I ordered online from A Love Supreme, also Cape Town-based. The ibis plates are from Anthropologie's discontinued Nature Table series designed by the whimsically wonderful artist Lou Rota (you can still find this series squirreled away on eBay).

So, there it is. Our oasis within Delta variant life.  Everything changes while it stays the same. We garden. we walk, we cook, we order in. Forage-picnics (for now) still happen, but proof of vaccination is required. We adapt, we wash our hands. We wait.

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Next Walks? - 5th and 7th of August

July terrace

July, and the Silk Road lilies have opened. They are taller than I am. During these hot days they hold their breath, but towards late afternoon their scent is increasingly released. By evening, the whole terrace smells like cloves.

The right hand side of the terrace is also home to the Thai limes (Citrus hystrix). I recently re-potted them - again - due to suspected root rot. They were doing very well and putting out new growth, but a week of tropical and daily rain in early June, followed by a mad and humid day in the 90's, apparently resurrected a dormant pathogen. This time, in their very mixed potting media (with lots of big bark chips) I included a fungicide, a very expensive additive that is my last and extremely reluctant weapon in the root rot fight. Now we wait. 

Also, the black raspberry has been removed. It came from its nursery last year with a virus that I was too ignorant to identify at the time. Its pot was scrubbed and sterilized, and a new raspberry is in its place. And I bought a self pollinating hardy kiwi, too. 

The other side of the terrace is now home to the healthy yuzu (Citrus juno) - moved far (that's relative) from the sick limes, just in case, as well as Liatris, a collection of hyssops (Agastache), fennel and Calamintha, whose long-lasting flowers are all so attractive to pollinators. Except, I've barely seen any insects this summer. Still, the chimney swifts patrolling above us must be eating something. Inbetween are the happy, undemanding bay tree and prickly ash. And, of course, the stone table, where we so often eat supper, and watch the world above our heads (last night it was a low-flying osprey).

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