The view from here

My digital image folder for our terrace is arranged by year and by month, with various category-folders for each month like Citrus, Sunny Pots, Shade Pots, Ramps, Birds, and Table. There is also a small folder for each month called, View. This is the view.

It's not much probably. But it's also a lot. It's not the ocean, or mountains, or Central Park. But when I saw this apartment for the first time, I knew enough about views in New York City to know that this was A Good View. Why? Because, instead of house-windows staring right back at us at the end of the lots below, or a massive building blocking the sky, there was a long northern view across a lowslung rooftop, relieved by old, industrial  skylights. And beyond that, mature trees in the gardens one block over. They were in leaf, that August. Very green. On either side of the skylit roof, were - are - more expanses of empty, low rooftop, all sheltering a laundry empire whose parking lot beside us houses fastidiously parked white trucks that are washed squeaky-clean every Sunday (I didn't know that, then).

These low, wraparound rooves (roofs, for Americans) gave us two things, no, three precious things, in terms of hyper-urban life: light, sky, and privacy. You jump on that when you recognize it, and I jumped. While we lost a marvellous in-ground garden, we also lost the ever-present sense of living in a fishbowl (as well as a bonkers upstairs neighbor). 

It is inevitable, in a city where there is a dramatic shortage of housing, and where fortunes are made in real estate, that this view could not last. But it's something I have made (some) peace with. At some point a very large building will rise all around us. Before it rises, the existing structures will be demolished. And then impressive holes will be dug. New and massive foundations will be laid. Ours, 100 years old, will shudder. 

I am not sure where we will be, when it happens, but not here. 

In the meantime, I will add more View folders to my monthly collections as the year unfolds, and we will watch the light on the skylights and rooftops,  the hawks and the woodpeckers in the old catalpa, the trees beginning to leaf out, and the occasional raccoons rambling on their twilit errands. 

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My Gardenista Column

May Day

On May Day, when the spoiled citizens of France took to their streets to protest their president's decree that they should retire at the age of 64, and not 62, I walked in the woods at the northwestern tip of Manhattan. 

It had rained all weekend, and in the old hills, untouched by the grid that flattened so much of the island, water was running, everywhere.

I visited a vast nettle patch and collected a bagful to blanch and freeze, for tarts and breads and biscuits and as-yet-uncreated mid-spring stews. Field garlic was at its fattest, too, and easy to pull from the sodden soil.

On logs obscured by fallen branches, in swathes of Japanese knotweed and emergent jewelweed, wood ears proliferated.

I saw a small handful of other people, mostly women, jogging, and walking, and the sounds that surrounded us for two hours were running water and singing birds. 

As I left a man placed his large backpack on a rock in the forest and unpacked it, possibly to spend the day in contemplation of the million shades of spring green. But as I walked down my last hill I heard from his rock the fatal sound of flat bleating. The peace was shattered by his sack of bagpipes, playing a penetrating flaccid scale, each ascending note more defeated than the last. 

My timing had been perfect.

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@marie_viljoen

I am...

Thankful for FDNY firefighters.

For blue New York skies.

For Sun Sai Gai, the best roast-duck spot, that has made it through the pandemic.

For the Tropics, on Mulberry Street in November.

For the fruit of cacti.

For Fuyu on Canal Street, and the vendor carefully handing me her recommendations.

For fresh rambutan.

For fragrant Thai bananas.

 And for tiny Mosco Street.

For a city of immigrants.

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Empty windows

Nothing much to see here, really (or is there...?) but this view of the street means that spring has been declared.  The citrus trees have moved out to the terrace. 

The blue suitcase is one of several that will stash winter sweaters and mittens and scarves once they have all been washed and cedar-balled. And the boxy thing on the windowsill is a fancy noise machine that we bought at our last place, when unpredictable neighbors threatened our slumber. It makes very good cricket sounds, wave sounds, rain sounds. And other, esoteric sounds. Now, the machine is a helpful option for warmer nights when a souped-up, drive-by car, tweaked to backfire like gunshots cruises the blocks at random. The day of the subway shooting? Not a great day to hear that damn car.

Fat floor pillows will move in, now, the suitcase will move out, and the bay window will be a place for humans to spread out, lie on their backs, and look at the ceiling. It's remarkably therapeutic.

On Gardenista, you can see how our terrace wakes up, as the bedroom empties out.

b255o? - I see you

There is an empty park a few blocks from where we live. Its beds have been bare for as long as I have known it (just over three years). It has benches, but it is barren. 

It could be a place where pollinators and people feel good. Some bee-watching and butterfly therapy. Maybe a hummingbird or two.

It is a fact of never-ending wonder that New York City's mayoral budget allocates less - less - than 1% to the NYC Department of Parks and Recreation. It's closer to 0.5%. And it's not just about plants and greening: the department oversees sports facilities, playgrounds, tarmac stretches of basketball courts, community centers, lifeguard training. The list is endless. Plants come last.

Pandemic budget cuts have left everyone deeply backlogged and worse-off than before. Nobody has time, staff, or money. Yet where did everyone go, flee to, during the last two years? The parks. For classes, for exercise, for meetings, for work, for birthdays, for school, for everything.

Parks are green jewels in this populous city's crown. Privately-funded conservancies shoulder the burden of keeping iconic spaces like Central Park and Prospect Park (and so very many more) in working order. But small, incidental parks like the one in my hood fall between the weedy cracks unless someone takes a keen personal interest in them. 

I discovered (that sounds quick, it was a meandering process) that this little park has an identity, but no name: it is b255o. It is a "sitting park". There's just not a lot of incentive to sit here. The fresh layer of wood chips may have been spread during its last inspection (December 2nd, if one looks it up). While I have approached the parks department and a stewardship program to see how we can formally initiate the procedure of adopting a park it will be a long time (I think) before I hear back. I did this all over ten years ago in Manhattan for a much larger, locked space; and that shuttered park is now an open, thriving space, but times change. It will take longer for the un-greased wheels to begin turning, in 2022.  

So we're going guerilla. For now.

I'm holding my nose and jumping in. Which means I ordered 30 Allium bulbs and a sign to explain what's going on. Hoping it will attract some (welcome) attention and discourage dog owners from letting dogs in the beds. Making a commitment helps motivate myself, too. Two friends-through-my-walks have already offered their labor.  

Now we just need, well, plants.

The demands on city plantings are high. They range from drought, to compacted or poorly draining soil, to pollution (dog pee and poop, salt, heavy metals), to theft by humans who want the plants for themselves, to old-fashioned stomping and crushing. So plant choices matter, and after that fingers must be crossed once they are in the ground.

The plants must tough enough for the climate, obviously (USDA Zone 7b). That's the easy part. But they must also be resilient enough to be able to grow without more than the occasional presence of a gardener, and especially, no supplemental watering: new plantings are vulnerable. So I expect setbacks and some teeth-gnashing.

As I think out loud here are some wish list plants that will hold up and become self-sufficient. Most are North American natives, but some are not. I'm thinking seasonal interest, benefits for pollinators and birds, and even some edible plants (in case someone is in desperate need of fennel fronds for their fish stew). 

The space now is sunny, but in summer will be a mix of high, dappled shade, thanks to the plane trees nearby. The corner above will have direct sun. The choices below will evolve and will be influenced by what is available where, and when - these will hopefully be donations. Holler if you have some spare shrubs lying about. 

B2550 Pollinator Garden

Shrubs:

2 Serviceberry (Amelanchier spp) - question mark; early flowers, midsummer fruit, vivid fall color

3  Black chokeberry (Aronia melanocarpa) - spring flowers, late summer fruit, beautiful fall color

3 Clethra/sweet pepperbush (Clethra alnifolia) - late summer flowers, scented, butterfly magnet

3  Dwarf fothergilla (Fothergilla gardenii) - mid spring flowers, vivid autumn leaves

3  Oak leaf hydrangea (Hydrangea quercifolia) - early summer flowers are a bee magnet, flowers persist through early fall, beautiful bronzing leaf color through fall

3 Rosa but what form and cultivar? - 'Knockout' is the municipal standard but the barren flowers provide nothing for bees

Perennials:

30 Alliums (ornamental, no-name brand) - tall, striking, disliked by squirrels, bee-magnets; acquired!

10 Anise-scented goldenrod (Solidago odora) - early fall flowers, pollinator-magnet, edible leaves and flowers

10 Bronze fennel - tall, gorgeous foliage, flowers for pollinators, leaves for butterfly larvae, self-seeding

10 Foam flower (Tiarella cordifolia) - early spring flowers, bees love em. Native (I have babies that will make babies)

6 Hyssop (Agastache foeniculum) - long-blooming, bee-favorite, scented foliage

3 Milkweed - (Asclepias - not sure what species, yet) pollinator magnets, lovely flowers, showy seed heads

6 Ostrich ferns (Matteuccia struthiopteris) - sculptural, makes many babies, sequesters heavy metals

6 Thimbleweed (Anemone virginiana) - early summer flowers, attractive seed heads, disliked by pests

6 Mountain mint (Pycnanthemum virginianum) - fragrant, edible leaves, pollinator magnet-flowers in summer

12 Violets - spring optimism, fragrance, weed-smothering, self seeding

Annuals:

Jewelweed  (native Impatiens capensis) - attractive to hummingbirds, bumblebees, self seeds

Nicotiana (N. sylvestris) - statuesque, scented, attractive to hummingbirds

Papalo (Porophyllum ruderale) - people-pleaser, purely to make neighborhood Latinex cooks and eaters smile

Perilla/shiso/sesame leaf (Perilla frutescens) - self seeds (too freely), tall, striking, fragrant and edible leaves, drought tolerant, appealing to everyone

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My Spring Classes at the NYBG

Into the snow

We have had heavier snowfalls in New York City, but the most recent one was exceptionally beautiful. It frosted every branch on every tree and shrub, catching delicately on any extended and horizontal surface. So of course we went to the beach. The Frenchman to run, me to walk and explore and take pictures.

This drive-by photo was snapped as we passed the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. To think that once, long ago, both my parents cruised beneath it, the massive Queen Mary 2 barely fitting in (I included that link because the ship's website shows exactly that perspective), on her maiden voyage. They stayed in SoHo and we ate out and explored and walked and it all seems impossible, now.

The edges of Brooklyn looked like a fairytale as we were about to cross a channel of Jamaica Bay onto the narrowest, sandiest, least diverse portion of Queens. Breezy Point is a conundrum, waiting to be solved. But that's another story.

And Fort Tilden, at last. Part of the Gateway National Recreation Area. These back roads behind the beach are one of my favorite places to walk, in any season. 

The sense of emptiness is emphasized by the deserted tar roads, remnants of the military base here that tended nuclear warheads. Cold War days. And we don't seem to have progressed, much.

The thickets include native trees and shrubs like black cherry, serviceberry, sumac, bayberry, eastern red cedar, and pitch pine, as well as privet, those Nanking cherries that we only captured in full fruit last year, and strangling tangles of honeysuckle, bittersweet, and multiflora rose.

The snow on sandy, colder-than-tar paths showed footprints of earlier adventurers. I saw two people. The other 8.8 million were elsewhere.

And the dunes above the beach. Grasses and hedges of beach plum and bayberry. Somewhere on the low tide beach the Frenchman was running. 

Grasses still upright and not a snowy owl to be seen. (But you can spot some gorgeous Long Island owls on the Frenchman's site.)

Back in Imbaleki (our electric VW; she replaced the beloved Ntini, the little gray golf), the little enigmatic church beside the soccer fields. 

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Prepare to Forage and Plant

May Day

On Saturday we walked in the Manhattan woods. It was May Day. A lovely group of people. A picnic in my backpack.

Joan is a founding member of my forage walks, and has been following my erratic botanical routes over hill and through dale since 2014. At last she was rewarded appropriately (at least in foraging terms): morels! And she ate them for supper in a cream sauce, atop a croissant. My kind of people. We kept spotting this elusive springtime mushroom, and our timing could not have been more lucky. Enough for everyone. In New York City. Whaddayagonnado?

The fleeting green intensity of mid-spring still surprises me. Just two months after snow cover and skeleton trees.

After our walk we picnicked. Deviled spring eggs; ramp leaf, sumac and lamb meatballs (unusually - most picnics tend towards vegan or vegetarian, depending on peoples' preferences) with garlic mustard and ramp leaf dipping sauce; lavash stuffed with ground elder and spicebush leaves; carrot and Japanese knotweed tartlets in mugwort pastry cases; and lemon-spicebush tarts with strawberries, for dessert.

Later, the Frenchman and I sipped drinks on the terrace. It is our best time of day.

Supper salad: highly unseasonal tomatoes (I cracked, it happens), with ditto cucumbers. But at least those were tossed with slivered ramp leaves and common milkweed vinegar! Kept company by scoops of dense and lemony labneh.

The terrace, these May evenings, is caught by light from the western sun.

And it is still light when we sit down to eat, sometime around or after 8pm. Above us, the newly-returned chimney swifts execute aerial maneuvers and are gathering in number. First one, then three, now six. Where do they nest? We don't know.

But we nest here. Even if we have not flown south in a long time.

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Forage, Harvest Feast - A Wild-Inspired Cuisine

Happy snow daze

Before it melts, I should share our snow.

The second significant snowfall in a week brought wet, fat flakes to settle softly on every twig and branch in Brooklyn. The first snowstorm had been just that: a blizzard blowing sideways, piling in angry, wind-packed drifts. This one was different. And it had that earlier foundation to build on. 

We walked into it through our neighborhood streets and stood like tourists, serially and then permanently amazed. Behind our masks our mouths were often open.

The lake in Prospect Park was iced over and snowed on into a sense of endlessness.

The Boathouse (from which no one ever boats).

And snow people proliferated. This one, with beech leaf eyes, was my favorite.

The trees were breathtaking, and the forest paths other-worldly.

From the silence we emerged into the circus. There was not an unhappy person, anywhere.

We do.

The sky began clearing gently halfway through our nearly three-hour walk, and then lifted in time for the sun to improve on what already seemed perfect.

I wish Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert B. Vaux could have seen their park on this day, in this unimaginable age. 

One of the walks of our lifetime.

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The winter wilds

Inbetween rainy days the Frenchman and I made our first 2021 visit to Mt Loretto Unique Area, the state park on Staten Island that is a regular escape for us within the city. It's about a forty minute drive from home and almost always offers us something interesting. Then again, we may be easily pleased: Even rabbits and groundhogs amuse us. But not in January. We could almost hear the groundhogs snoring. 

The spirit of my friend David Burg walked with us - he knew and talked a lot about this place, which he helped conserve. He died suddenly last summer. One of the many shades of 2020.

We walked to the beach, a rocky and eroded shoreline, equal parts crumbling infrastructure, New York Harbor detritus, pebbles and seaweed. 

We settled on some low tide rocks to picnic, and just as I had poured our steaming soup (borscht) from a Thermos and opened the container of flaky pastry oyster mushroom rolls, the Frenchman, always scanning the water, spotted splashes, and quivered. Soon, we could see a seal.

Then more seals, who found rocks exposed by the low water, and basked. We watched for a happy hour.

Near our feet a gull spent at least half an hour trying to dive for something, very unsuccessfully, too buoyant, it seemed to get deep enough. But then triumph. A nice, fat clam, which was soon dropped from a height to shatter, before being picked clean. (The gull asked us if we had any hot sauce but we couldn't help.)

We walked back to the car through the wet fields, and drove home to Brooklyn, counting deer along the way before crossing the Verrazano Narrows Bridge and ending our Saturday holiday. 

Now, on a rainy Sunday, we are working, and sorting photos, and tidying away the old year, so that nothing clutters the new. Who knows what it will bring?

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NYBG Class, 21 January 2021