Pickled field garlic

I love watching this water. No matter where I am in the world, I will remember this constant motion, this old, slow method of moving from one place to another place in a city that likes to move fast.

On the lawn sloping down to the water at Pier One, we ate our April-pickled field garlic. Not in brine for long, it has a volatile punch of pure garlic but remains faintly sweet. A slice of Stinky's wonderful duck rillettes and some ham washed the pickles down perfectly. A family was snacking on the blueberries planted above the swampy part of the park - most of them are still green. The blueberries, not the family.

Today we plant a garden in Park Slope. And tomorrow we hoof it to Pennsylvania, with boerewors in our luggage, for a Fourth of July in the woods, near a cold, clean lake, with swimming, and foraging and cooking, and friends. Until next week posts may be sporadic. Or not.

Enjoy this most American of weekends...