The evil American lawn

At the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens.

I'm all for vegetables (I just can't bring myself to say veggies...it's not a word) and kitchen gardens, but the current anti-lawn fascism promulgated by Lawn Nazis - who probably only exist in the super-alert cybersphere - is disagreeable.

I remember many good things about my childhood garden. And lawns and vegetables are tied for fondness. There is nothing, nothing, I say, as good as green grass for running over or rolling on. And the smell of freshly snipped zucchini can't compete with the green dampness on summer nights of a lawn exhaling after its weekly mowing.

Let the lawns live.

Irish Hunger Memorial

Late on Friday afternoon, finding ourselves in Tribeca, near the Hudson, Vince and I decided to carry on to the water and down along Battery Park, before hiking over the Brooklyn Bridge and the East River, and home (oh, and beers at the yacht basin).

Still in Battery Park I pointed out the oddly-shaped futuristic mound of the Irish Hunger Memorial. I had seen it under construction, and had been underwhelmed. But we went in, through the corridor of illuminated quotations and rather deranged music, through the shell of a stone house and emerged into an emerald isle in the sea of skyscrapers. I was quite speechless.

There is apparently a stone here from every Irish county.

The simplicity of the plantings was poignant and arresting. There are roses along all the walls, so May must be afroth.

This was the same night we had potatoes for dinner. I only just realized...

I saw a bird in the upper meadow. I was the only one who saw it. It was large, about 12" long, with short legs, and a pale browny-gold colour, with dark stripes over its tail. A long pointy beak and narrow head. Very beautiful. It was startled, and after almost falling to the grass it took off, wheeled, lost, landed again and then headed towards the water and the nearby trees. It may have been migrating, and have dazed itself on one of the many surrounding skyscrapers.

Potatoes for supper

A bag of autumn potatoes, paper-thin slices of pancetta, and a handful of sage leaves. Roasted. And topped with a poached egg and sloppily-snipped chives.

Now off to the farmers' market to look for some plums for jam. We are fast running out of red currant and black cherry for breakfast.

Atlantic Antic

Tomorrow is the street fair that shuts Atlantic Avenue down from Hicks Street to Fourth Avenue.

Most street fairs in New York are tawdry, generic things with the same tube socks and roast corn, and awfully inauthentic. At the Antic, I managed to eat, three years in a row, my best schwarma of the year, and also the best one ever. Succulent cubes of lamb marinated in yoghurt, cardamom and many other unidentified spices, stuffed juicily into pita with thick, garlicky yoghurt. I spend a year looking forward to it.

Last year I could not find it, and I was crushed. It may have been there, but not outside the usual restaurant. But. Outside La Mancha, the Spanish bar and restaurant round the corner (from us, since we're so close to Atlantic) I found...fresh-grilled sardines! I brought these home and they made the cat very friendly.

So this year we will look for the sardines.

If you're in New York, it's worth a visit. Last year the sardines were between Henry and Clinton Streets, north side. The lamb might be on the same stretch, south side. The presence of many Middle Eastern eateries along the strip guarantees good food.

The gate at Pier 6 will be opened for what the Brooklyn Bridge Park Developement Corporation calls a 'sneak peak at the premiere destination playground in Brooklyn.' I guess there'll be a convergence of bugaboos and Maclarens. The stuff of nightmares. And the New York Transit Museum will be giving rides on vintage buses as part of the fifteenth annual Bus Festival. The childrens' section of the fair is between Smith and Boerum Place.

Proceed hopefully.

If that's not your scene, and you want to brandish your lute at someone, head up to Inwood, to Fort Tryon Park, where the Medieval Festival is in full swing.

Autumn crocus

Colchicum.

These were growing in the crepe myrtle allee at the BBG. I'm not sure what to think of them. They are always a big surprise, and perhaps that is their greatest virtue. But it takes some talent to plant them well, and I preferred Fort Tryon's effort amongst the lamb's ears.

The previous night's rain had sent them sprawling, like drunk girls on prom night.

Scuppernongs

Just a few days after discovering that there is a native American grape with more bona fides than the Concord (hailing from the 19th century and fruit of the efforts of Ephraim Wales Bull), and consequently one that I want to include in the new park's design - to hide the ugly chainlink that will be at one corner - I walked into Wholefoods and found...scuppernongs!

Muscadines.

Vitis, in short, rotundifolia.

Said native American grape.

So I bought a box and ate them all in one go.

It's research.

Apparently only the green ones are called scuppernongs. The black ones are called muscadines. Though the scuppernong may be a sub-category of muscadine. Hm.

About the same diameter as a quarter (a 25c coin to some of you), pale green with bronze spots, they're funny-looking things. The skin is tough, so I took to slicing off their tops and sucking their insides out. It was a noisy half hour. The taste is reminiscent of Catawbas or Concord, the pulp much firmer, all of a piece, with a pleasantly tart kick. I liked them.

And cannot wait to plant them.

Simple pleasures

Uncomplicated cosmos at the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. They were planted in amongst climbing, rambling roses on a south-facing slope.