Out to the Island of Long

I had not intended to choose echinacea when I went out shopping today, but there they were. Exciting colour: not your grandmother's echinacea. I tweaked the plans in my head a little and tomorrow they will be planted with a lot of other, very cool perennials, shrubs and small trees.


Below, click on the picture to see the worm better. The seed cones of the flowers are a good food source for birds, too, later in the season as they move south again ahead of cold weather. I like to make gardens for birds.

Below, Clematis integrifolia, quite lovely, as it is very delicate and not at all as in-your-face as some clematis can be. It tends to be sprawly rather than twining.

Clethra - known as spicebush. The air was filled with its scent. A native, it does well in dappled sunlight.

One of my carts. The stripes are an Iris ensata cultivar. It's been a week of arguments about stripes and spots and variegation. Some silver-spotted pulmonaria we planted last week must come out, which is sad, as they were lovely and very happy. Out, too, comes the Solomon's Seal and a lightly striped carex. I think they - spots/stripes etc can be wonderful in the right place. Not everyone agrees. I think these iris are gorgeous.

The bright chartreuse up front are a dwarf campanula and a veronica. The garden, on the Upper West Side, will be planted on a long, narrow terrace with sun one one side and shade on the other. I can't wait to get it planted. With various bureaucratic hold-ups it has been a year in the planning.

Our carts. Parked.

A good day after a rough start. We saw bunnies and butterflies and chipmunks. And birds and bees.

Where'd he go??

Well, the sore throat has gone. The pain in the neck has (almost)gone. And Vince has gone!

His mission of mercy could not have been better timed. I had been seriously close to losing the proverbial It. As he said, sometimes your body just tells you to stop, and I'd been ignoring its little yelps. How do you stop when everyone wants a garden, anyway? So one thing at a time, new motto. And I always have a black furry shoulder to lean on. Not as broad as Vince's, but still comforting.

There was eating and drinking and a memorable trip to Hell, I mean Coney Island, all about which, later. For now, he flies West, and for now he remains the most loved and welcomed visitor that Estorbo and I know.

Oh. And for the security people who confiscated this afternoon Vince's one jar of redcurrant and other of black raspberry jam - they are SO not liquids, dudes! I hope you are eating them. I did not make them to be thrown away. Local fruit, local labour. Ay. Could you not at least have fed a spoonful to a test beagle to see if he would have blown up?

Imini emandi kuwe!

[ http://www.figo2009.org.za/photogallery.asp]

Happy Birthday, Madiba!

From Long Walk to Freedom, Nelson Mandela, 1994:

"Almost from the beginning of my sentence on Robben Island, I asked the authorities for permission to start a garden in the courtyard. For years they refused without offering a reason. But eventually they relented, and we were able to cut out a small garden on a narrow patch of earth against a far wall.

The soil in the courtyard was dry and rocky. The courtyard had been constructed over a landfill, and in order to start my garden I had to excavate a great many rocks to allow the plants room to grow. At the time, some of my comrades jested that I was a miner at heart, for I spent my days at the quarry and my free time digging in the courtyard.

The authorities supplied me with seeds. I initially sowed tomatoes, chillies and onions - hardy plants that did not require rich earth or constant care. The early harvests were poor, but they soon improved. The authorities did not regret giving permission, for once the garden began to flourish, I often provided the warders with some of my best tomatoes and onions.

...

A garden was one of the few things in prison that one could control. To plant a seed, watch it grow, to tend it and then harvest it offered a simple but enduring satisfaction. The sense of being the custodian of this small patch of earth offered a small taste of freedom. "

Goodnight

...from the terrace.

Tonight three people I love are in the air. My parents are flying to London, over Africa, and the Frenchie is flying across this continent, to me.




I think the blog will be quiet for a while, :-)

Sweet dreams.

Lillet and green figs

Quite unexpectedly I found perfect-looking punnets of green figs at a local supermarket. The early Mission figs have been arriving from California (?) and they are not much to write home about. I bought these green ones thinking that the bottom layer would surely be squishy and syrupy - not the way I like figs at all. But no. They were perfect, firm, sweet. And I ate them all in one sitting, with small glass of very cold Lillet, out on the terrace.

I love figs. And I can't help thinking of my friend John holidaying on a Croatian island where he says the boat docks right at the market were one buys perfect and cheap figs. To me, that must be heaven. An island, sea, figs.

There have been memorable figs in my life. I climbed our big tree in Bloemfontein to pick the fruit - it had a lime green, thin skin and was pale pink inside, a long stalk, and pear-shaped body. Large. Sweet, but not syrupy.

I had a boyfriend in Cape Town whose mother owned a huge old Cape fig, at least I have never seen them anywhere else, and I think of them as specific to Constantia. It had dark green skin striped with purple at the plumpest points, and the fruit (OK, flower, fine) inside was a brilliant, sticky, deep ruby red. And sweet with an under layer of tart. They would always split a little at the tip and this remains one of the most beautiful things I have ever eaten. When we broke up the worst part was losing access to the old fig tree.

In New York, my friend Molly and I drove up, or were driven by her driver, Carmine (she was performing in a Broadway show, the brilliant Cabaret, at Studio 54, and Carmine was one of the perks), up to Arthur Avenue in the Bronx. It took forever. Once there though we found a fruit stand at the back of a market, which had whole trays of figs, each fruit nestled softly in its own cardboard hollow, wrapped by tissue paper. By New York standards they were absurdly cheap and we bought two trays. Later, while she was singing and dancing I turned her lovely roof garden into a sort of pasha's paradise, sans the virgins, I'm afraid, for an after party, with porcelain plates of the figs, as well as Muscat grapes from Italy, lolling from bowls, and sweet slices of melon in dripping apricot-coloured pyramids. There were candles and jugs of flowers and lots of wine in baths of ice. And the figs, we ate and ate and ate.

And last summer here, plump little brown figs, white inside, from my little tree, the one I had carried home on the subway from the Union Square farmers' market; picked still sunwarm, and eaten with silky-thin prosciutto and a glass of cold wine.

Thursday evening terrace

A gaggle of lilies looks down at the stone table - they get points for longevity, and, come Fall, I will be ordering more for clients' terraces: L. Dunyazade. Of course I will not be able to restrain myself and will also order, according to the types of gardens, some other lilies, the more delicate, subtle ones, though I favour turkscaps with their graceful, upturned petals. Lilium henryi and Madame Butterfly will be on the list.

The last of the Silk Roads to open. It has weaseled its way into my heart.

The fig. Trying again.

A tall spike of liatris, beloved of bees.

A closer look.

And I have allowed some basil to make flowers for the bees. It's supposed to turn the leaves bitter but I can't say I have ever noticed.

Chicken therapy: roast chicken

When the going gets tough, I take it out on a nice little organic, free range chicken.

A small wedge of onion with some terrace herbs (tarragon, thyme, parsley) inside, the juice of a lime squeezed over, liberal salt and some pepper on top, some potato cut up around, popped into a hot oven: About 420'F (210'C) for somewhere between an hour and fifteen minutes to an hour and a half. At some point I instinctively add a slosh of water to keep the juices going in the cast iron pan, but otherwise I don't even look at it. The skin is perfectly crisp, the meat moist, the juices caramelized, sticky and slightly tart. You can deglaze with some water when it's done, or wine, but often it's not necessary.

The chicken drug. I recommend it.