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Union Square Farmers' Market

I stopped by the farmers' market this morning to pick up some Shasta daisies to fluff up the garden that was being photographed by the NYTimes this evening. And did a little shopping for myself, too. This time of year is a little overwhelming in terms of produce: you suddenly want a huge kitchen, a table that seats twelve and a nine course dinner to plan: there is so much and it is all beautiful.

If you would like flowers, there are flowers.

Gorgeous pink cosmos and dahlias.

Orange zinnias.

Pink zinnias...

Pigs? They have organic pigs: High Hope Hogs.

Fruit. Ah! plum jam! I forgot! That will have to be this weekend's project.

White peaches...

Of course there is corn.

And every kind of tomato:

My modest purchase was two of these. I want to make a salad inside of one, with bits of bread, and onion, and the tomato itself, and sherry vinegar, a bit of sugar, salt. Tomorrow.

Green stripey tomatoes.

Ratatouille and stuffed aubergines and cacik, and cool soup, just waiting to be made.

These are the size of quarters, as in 25c. They are cucumbers. I bought chanterelles from this stall.


And the weather? Just unbelievably nice. September stuff. A big garden is going in next week after a two year wait for a renovation to be completed, so I hope it holds. Four maples, three cherries, a magnolia, a lilac, roses, boxwoods and almost 200 perennials.

For more farmers' market news take a look at the blog To Every Meal there is a Season , which is hosting a Farmer's Market report.

Picnic on the Great Lawn

A picnic, last evening, pretty much in the middle of Central Park's Great Lawn. I haven't been there for a long time, and we arrived just after seven to find the baseball diamonds loaded with uniformed players, the thwack of the bat against ball, white, which would fly up against a sky turning sepia at the edges, while an outfielder rushed beneath it, capped head turned upwards, arms readying for a catch, feet fast in the rich green grass.

Like many other gardeners I have gravitated towards the less-grass, abolish-the-lawn attitude: mostly for environmental reasons. Just thinking about golf courses makes me itch. All those phosphates leaching into water tables, streams and lives. All those dead zones in the ocean. All those strip mines.

But I have to say: Grass is nice.

It was plush, and soft, and smelled good. We sank into it. A group of guys playing tag frisbee hovered around us like a peripatetic flock of racing pigeons, their movements precise and wild. The baseball players finished up and went home, looking happy. The buildings on Central Park South lit up in the sinking sun and later twinkled with lights. A cool and then cold breeze (in August!) moved up from the trees on either side and when we left, at last, the grass was thick with dew.

Marlene, who has known me, as she said to a concierge last night, since before I was born, has been in town for just over a week from Cape Town and has possibly seen every painting in New York.



Menu:

Chilled celery, scallion and yogurt soup
Serrano ham with Mission figs
Foie gras mousse
Wild boar cacciatorini
Vegetables with dipping salt 'n pepper
Robbiola Due Latte (a cheese that may as well be butter)
Baguette from Sullivan Street Bakery
Champagne grapes
Oyster Bay Sauvignon Blanc

Lilium "Black Beauty"

The last of the lilies to bloom - in fact a good three weeks after the Dunyazade, which it resembles in all but size: Black Beauty is small. Here it is with the plectranthus in the background. Estorbo had something to say about it after it arrived from the Pacific Northwest, earlier in the year.

Coincidentally, the New York Times ran a story on lilies which I have just now read - in their picture captions they managed to scramble their lily names, calling the Black Beauty a Sandhill Fire Lily and vice versa. But I have to be nice as they're doing a story on one of our gardens this week for the September magazine...still, a little polite note will suffice.

Terence Hill's Beans

I decided to watch My Name is Nobody again. It's weird. Escapism was needed, I love cowboy movies, and the pleasing combination of Terence Hill's laser blue eyes, constant grin and dish(es) of beans seemed perfect. Centvingt had prepared me better for the beans this time. He said, Watch how Nobody eats his beans at the end, shoveling them, while Henry Fonda daintily spoons them in...

But first: I needed beans. I had a packet of red kidney beans from New Orleans that our Learned Leader had given everyone at work a while back, and while I toiled away at the office that day, a cup of the beans soaked. When I got home I sauteed scallions, a little garlic, and several slices of pancetta. The mission? - depth of flavour.

And added the beans (drained of their water), plus 2 Tbsp of tomato paste, half a good stock cube, water to cover, two whole cloves of garlic, squashed, for luck, some terrace thyme and parsley, and let it all simmer, occasionally adding water when it made that molten-lava bubbling sound that means it's beginning to stick to the bottom. They were tender after about an hour and a half, and then I sloshed in some red wine and let that cook off. I don't think Terence's (or Mario's) beans had red wine. But, hey. Oh! Stupid: I also added two small poblanos that had soaked in hot water, seeds and all. Very important ingredient - they are smoky, a little sweet, and obviously a little hot, too. And the movie was shot in New Mexico, or much of it was.

And there you have it. Terence Hill's Beans. Exceptionally good with fresh baguette loaded with butter. He didn't have that, either.

Apparently he prefers steak. And lives in Massachusetts.

Alternative means

Quite often in our lives words are inadequate.

That is when one must resort to firewater and, while it is slicing coldly down one's throat, silently send a thank you into the evening. It splits two ways, 8,000 miles to the south east and 3,000 to the west, heading to my mother and father in Cape Town, presumably asleep under the dome of Table Mountain, and to a wave-lapped shore in British Columbia, where the sun has not even begun to set. So, to the three of you, thank you. And right now to one especially. Dankie Pa.

I drank a gin martini, because two of you don't like vodka, and I know that Number Three is game for anything. Once.

Edible Weeds

On my walk down Union Street, on the distinctive block between Smith and Baltic, where the gardens are in front of the houses, not hidden behind, I photographed these "weeds". The amaranth (Amaranthus cruentus) is probably a hybrid, and I hope the home owner/tenant knows that it can be eaten, too. Also known as pigweed, Chinese spinach, callaloo. And do they know about the fat hen/lambs quarters (Chenopodium album) growing in front of the amaranth? Even better tasting. I saw a lot of fat hen in the park, too, and was tempted, but too self conscious, to pick some.