Leaf cutter bee

No, really, help yourself.

Misrepresenting Saramago

It took me days to find the bloody quote, which was at the beginning of the book, not the middle, as I'd thought: he didn't say good and evil do not exist; rather, that neither exists in themselves, each being merely the absence of the other. Quite different.

Nearly done with The Gospel According to Jesus Christ. It's very funny. I had this huge resistance to beginning a new author, though I'd read one of his novels a year or so ago. It's almost a kind of hostility, or revulsion: once one is in the current of someone's writing, and has been there for weeks, changing to a different stream - temperatures, flow - is daunting. And changing from Lit Lite Patrick O'Brian - pure escapism, I needed it almost the way I needed Moby Dick in winter/summer, depending on one's continent, both, then, of 2003 - to Saramago, which is proper escapism (impure? or are they the other way round) seemed unpleasant at first. Constanza said, I tried to read that book about the convent and the people building the flying machine, and couldn't! That's Baltasar and Blimunda. Not so bad because I was just going a century back from Maturin and Jack's travels, to 1711 Portugal. It's funny, writing. Patick O'Brian's portraits of history are very light and yet quite detailed and entertaining. One can't marvel at his sentences or imperceptibly start to recognize the things he likes, because they keep appearing. Or be seduced by his rhythm or how he says something. His characters do sometimes say something which is worthwhile on human level, though, dogearable...Could I reread them? But they do provide accurate trivia which gave me conversation tonight when I had no one to talk to but a plump and pleasant television producer who films a program (nonfiction reality TV, he said, verbatim) about a bounty hunter, yes, that one - and where I could tell him that there were parts of London in the 18th century which were havens for fugitives from Justice. Now I just have to remember which parts [JAY???].

But now that I'm in, I'm in, which is great. There are a lot of Saramagos to go.

The tallest lily, Silk Road, I think, has fallen over in the rain. So, too, a Formosa. I cut them and put them in the galvanized watering can, which is full of rainwater. My hands are orange with pollen and the scent from the terrace fills the apartment and met me at the door. I can't put them inside. They will overpower us, and the firemen will find the bodies of a white woman and a black cat, asphyxiated by 6 foot lilies.

Fifteen Candles

Constanza gave a reading at the Chelsea Barnes and Noble ie books for the masses ie she has arrived.

She wore high black heels and jeans and looked yummy.

She read in a serious voice.

I now know that Bogota thinks in shades of grey.

I bought her book and left it in at the restaurant where we drank wine and ate quesadillas.

She told the assembled writers that the passion of my life was a cat called Estorbo.

They were all Spanish-speaking...

She didn't mean it like that, but understood why I was mortifed and knows she owes me.

So she told me a secret at Robin du Bois later.

And in a fit of sharing I told her one, too, and now we are both wide-eyed.

Tomorrow I must find the book.

Night Moths and Conspiracy Theories

The moon has just risen to the left of the church steeple that belongs to the Catholic church on Court Street. From here it is a greened copper spike in the sky. Last night the moon rose to the right of it. The top side of it is missing and Nasa wants to go back and visit it. The whole moon, not the top bit...One sometimes wonders if they ever went in the first place. It's about time humans did something simply and understandably spectacular again. While Mr Gates looks for a cure for AIDS.

Just watched the Good Shepherd. I managed to take in no press about it and so went in blissfully unprejudiced. One of the most sensitive and fine things about it was the casting of Edward's son: having to embody both the teeth of Matt Damon and the sylphe (new word) of Angelina Jolie is an apparently impossible task. But achieved. Most impressed.

Lilium formosanum. True species lily. On cue two nights ago, when just one Formosa was open, a moth flew through the lily stems, appearing and disappearing in the light through the bamboo blind, and watched by Estorbo, whose stare alerted me to its presence. What he actually said was, Hey! small bord, flyeen' ad nighd. The worl' ees endeen'... That may be true Estorbo, I said, but I think it's just a moth...

In the spirit of July Fourth, dinner was fried-ish chicken (actually baked, but tasted crisp and yummy anyway. Secret: ground coriander, chile flakes, lots of salt and pepper in the flour; and lemon on the chicken before it is dusted), and tomorrow is a fireworks party from Paulo's roof in the Village. At some point terrorists - or whatever they are: the organized ones, I mean (one wonders) - are going to put July 4th and another Big Bang together. Can't say it's my favourite day to be riding the subway.

Lazy Dayzzzzz

This is a relaxed cat. He's been sleeping late in the mornings. Thank you, Jesus!

Formosa lilies

Now, a few hours after this picture was taken, some have opened. Their perfume bears no resemblance to the overpowering, stifling scent I used to associate with lilies. The Scheherezade, true to its name, has a heavy, cloying scent like that. But these are so refined, so light, so delicious. It is something I hope wafts down from this fifth floor and to the street below.

Sometimes I walk through currents of scent in Brooklyn and the city - it happened a month before the Tilia trees bloomed, I could smell it occasionally at intersections, even though the flowers were still tight buds. I wax lyrical.

My mom told me today that an old family friend, who has leukemia, has asked to go home, and away from chemo. I am very sad. Marita was the first person to put the idea of garden design into my head, when Iwas a little girl. I walked into their dining room one day, it was dark and the wood of the table was dark, too, and cool. Spread on it were coloured sketches and reams of paper. What's that, I asked. A garden design, she said. And I knew that was what I wanted to do. It just took me a while...

Somehow the lilies, perhaps because of their associations, are very poignant to me. Their beauty is so undeniable (I mean the Formosa, now), that they are directly linked to, and conjure up, what is their opposite. Saramago says that good and evil do not exist. That one is simply the absence of the other. The lilies are on my terrace, white and perfect, and somewhere else there is pain. But they bloom anyway.

Dolma with No Lamb. Sniff.

After reading Jose Saramago's The Gospel According to Jesus Christ this morning, and only getting as far as Joseph and Mary's trek to Bethlehem, I got a craving for dolmades. Mrs Joseph, in faroff Bloemfonten, taught my mother to make them, with lamb, and fresh grape leaves from behind their house, against the koppie. The Josephs were Lebanese (no one eats dolmades on the Saramago trek - only bread. Forever bread). So off I went to buy grape leaves and lamb, but the Inn was closed. My Moslem butcher had shut up shop, though the light was still on...when does one have to pray, as a Moslem? It was 4.30...Anyway, deciding to forego lamb from the Los Amigos guys on Smith Street (I am loyal to them, but not for lamb: not at three times the price - hmmm, as I type a gentle zephyr from the terrace brought a whisper of Formosa scent to me...but more about that later, or earlier, as this blog works). So, no lamb, and I decided to do the "cold dolma" Claudia Roden writes about in The New Book of Middle Eastern Food. Very simple: one cup basmati; one onion very finely chopped (actually it's better to grate it. Mrs Joseph was right); two tomatoes finely chopped; a handful parsley from the terrace, finely chopped; ditto mint (Claudia called for dried mint but I had none); a shake of cinnamon; a shake of allspice; salt and pepper. Oh, and I added a garlic clove finely chopped. Seemed wrong not to. Mix in a bowl.

So then, after soaking your bottled, alas, vine leaves in hot water for a while to de-pickle them, spread them flat and do this. Or that, up there. You're going to flap the sides in one by one over the little heap; then flap the front bit over, away from you, then roll over the last and furthest flap till you have a little log. Don't make the log too tight- remember the rice will expand when it cooks. Go out of your way to find fresh vine leaves though. They are incomparable. It's like eating tortillas made in Mexico and tortillas made not-in-Mexico. No bloody similarity whatsoever, just a sad, dusty echo. If someone has a grape vine pick the leaves in May or June, blanch them in boiling water and freeze them in packs. My mother used to and they lasted very well. Esoterica, I know.

There they are all neat in their pot. They are laid on the scraps of vine leaves left over. I covered them with two cups of chicken stock (cheating - Claudia said water and olive oil). Cooked about 45 minutes of medium-low heat.

I then cheated again and made avgolemono sauce. Cup chicken stock, three egg yolks, one lemon. Whisk and heat, beating, but not making into scrambled eggs. Pour over.

Frankly, I could just have had the avgolemono, which was delicious (real stock) as soup for supper. These dolma did not rock my world. In fact they were damn boring. Add two cups ground lamb; cook over lamb bones; grate the onion.

Viva Mrs Joseph. I wonder where she went and when.

Footnote: you know what it might be? The tomatoes - too bland. "I remember when tomatoes tasted like tomatoes..." Actually, I don't. When I was little and we grew them, I hated them. They made me want to throw up. But looking at these ingredients, there's nothing wrong with them. It should taste good! I think it was the vine leaves. They were leathery, when I remember them being soft and delicatey ripping in the teeth. We will revisit these things. They are a comfort food for me.