Pacific Street window boxes

Someone near the top of Pacific Street where it ends at Henry, keeps these wide flower boxes filled. There are ferns and white and pink Dicentra eximia, and hostas and now some annuals tucked into the empty spaces. Mainly it looks after itself, because of the perennials, which have been well chosen. Someone in the building behind them knows and loves plants.

Shadblow in my kitchen

Well, the plant has so many common names...

I headed for The Noisest Park in the World, between the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges, to see if the Juneberry bushes there still had some berries. My Edible Brooklyn berry writing and cover picture last June may well have had something to do with the fact that the trees at Pier One, just south,  had clearly enjoyed some human attention.

On the way, however, having taken a slightly different route, I was surprised by an unexpected grove of Amelanchier trees, dripping with fruit. In its winding green depths I stumbled upon another forager, a lady with white hair and red lipstick - me, in 30 years time - and a sackful of purple fruit. She said she hadn't meant to stop but then realized that her umbrella bag would be perfect for holding berries. Such is the forager's thought process. Her bicycle was parked nearby. At least, I think it was her bicycle. It was orange. I didn't ask more questions, but should have. She, too, knew that Pier One berries had been Discovered.

I now have a decent haul, and pie is in our near future. These berries are riper than some I have collected and the very dark, near black fruit taste like cooked apples. I know that the seeds, when heated, will release their marzipan flavour. Perfect for dessert. The Frenchman almost wagged his tail when I mentioned pie. That will be for tonight.

If you come over, I'll save you a slice.

Drama up top

We had a sky just before 4pm yesterday afternoon. I dislike the humid, clinging summers on this coast, but clouds are a huge compensation. These reminded me of the mammatus of June 26th, 2009.

Other islands

We took the R subway to Whitehall, crossed New York Harbor on the ferry, and then hopped onto the Staten Island subway, which is hardly sub-: it is above-ground (views of stand-alone houses with above-ground swimming pools which I took to be hot tubs). Two stops from the end of the line we got off and walked into the woods.

This is state forest land. Vince had been here twice already, on his own. He had seen osprey with fish in their talons.  He had seen a yardlong snake. He had seen ground hogs. In short, he had seen all the game that this city has to offer, and then some. I could not believe that he was this excited about Staten Island, site of the notorious Poison Ivy Incident of 2009 (no surface had gone untortured).

But he was enthused. We packed bread, some sausage, some cheese.

We found puffballs and mushrooms of unknown genus and species. We saw bunnies, little brown ones, quite unafraid. We heard squeaking frogs which shrieked before they plopped into the duckweed covered ponds we passed on our way to the water.

We saw a blind man who had ridden the subway out with us, being led by his son, walking at a clip through green fields. We saw a tattooed man with long hair holding the small hand of his small daughter: We saw a bunny! they told us. 

We saw dogbane and dog roses and cinquefoil and a mulberry treed bowed down with fruit. My heart broke when it proved insipid. 

We photographed a shrub I did not recognize, with acacia-like leaves, blooming in the sand as a huge blue tanker passed on its way to open water, and at the end, on our circle back, we found a field full of milkweed, in bud. 

On our walk to the station Vince led me past the ground hog burrow where three young ones eyed the traffic, in turn. We passed dense stands of knotweed hacked back from the road; half naked men barbecuing on a porch above a muddy driveway; washing hanging on a line above long grass.

We felt a million miles from home.

The orange ferry returned us, packed among tourists doing the free round trip on the water, from whom we seemed no different. Manhattan appeared in a grey haze. The tourists strained and fretted about the Empire State Building and Statue of Liberty. They hissed at their failing batteries and the lack of clear light.

We were rather quiet. We had seen the other side.

Giant Mexican hyssop

I have loved growing agastache for some years, now, and am trying to remember where it all started. It may have been on a plant-buying trip out to the North Fork of Long Island, back in the day, when I was designing gardens for Holly, Wood and Vine. I do remember stopping in my tracks in a sea of blue and lilac flowers. I used agastache often in designs where grasses were a  feature. This SoHo terrace was the first, and then another followed.

Black Adder became one of my favourite cultivars on my own terrace, blooming late into the season and always besieged by bees. But this spring it stopped growing. It is a late perennial to wake up after winter, but for some reason it seemed stunted. A recent excavation revealed dead roots and a partially dead crown, perhaps the result of too much moisture. This plant requires impeccable drainage on top of full sun. So I repotted what was left, in hope, and went and found compensation in the form of this lovely Agastache mexicana.  Because the terrace edge is cluttered with pots I need something tall but airy to lighten things up, or it would look claustrophobic. Giant Mexican hyssop - its common name - fits the bill.

It is described as smelling lemony but is in fact very pepperminty, indeed. And bees found it as soon as I set it out on the stone table. It is hardy to Zone 7 but for some reason the label has it listed as an annual. So we shall see.

Picnic on the east bank of the East River

Penstemon digitalis

In the metallic pre-evening Vince and I headed to Pier One with a picnic and a paper bag. I was worried about missing the juneberries slash serviceberries slash Amelanchier. Last year I collected them two weeks later, in mid June.

Amelanchier x grandiflora

The tree closest to home and farthest from most human traffic was quite empty of fruit. Either foraged by someone who knew what they were doing, or picked at by passersby. Closer to the Fulton Landing their branches still hung heavy with the red and purple berries. Sweet as apples. I picked a small bagful. The park has become busier as more people have found it, and I can't help feeling self conscious, collecting fruit that otherwise drops to the ground.

Sambucus canadensis

The elder flowers were profuse and sweet-smelling. No wonder I like St Germain at this time of year. Essence of...

Meatballus vietnamesus

I had made last-minute meatballs, spiked with finely chopped lemon grass, fish sauce and scallions. A mango and avocado salad with a little bottle of fresh lime juice, hot chiles, sugar and fish sauce, shaken and poured over on site (I appropriated the pretty little jars, then containing honey, from my mom's hotel room when she was here in April. Perfect for picnic vinaigrettes and sauces.)

On the blurred water yachts and tourist party boats and barges and taxis went up and down. On the slipway a few feet beneath us photographers came and went - this is a favoured view of Manhattan, over the flooded pilings. As the light fell, wharf rats scampered down to the water. I drew my legs up under my skirt.

On our walk back we saw a night heron glide down to the tidal basin and perch on a rock. Above and beyond the bird we saw billowing smoke black against the bright nightline sky and strobing emergency lights on the Brooklyn Bridge. Behind the chainlink fences where one day Pier Five will rise from the wasteland, a long-furred feral cat with missing ears slunk upon its business. We tossed leftover pieces of duck liver pâté sandwich over the fence. Instead of coming closer, the cat bolted, used to being chased. Near home, at Pier Six,  in the thick syringa hedges and berms planted with rudbeckia, crickets were singing.

Early summer evening

The new Abraham Darby rose, bare root and apparently lifeless when it arrived from Texas in a box at the end of March this year, has opened its buds.

I spent the evening rearranging pots on the terrace edge, rescuing tiny volunteer impatiens from the gravel of the terrace floor, providing affordable housing for them in small pots on the braai (when it is not in use, naturally), and planting the new Mexican agastache. St Germaine and sparkling water accompanied me. 

Then I packed a picnic tray to be hoisted to the roof. (Yes! those are our strawberries...)

Up there,  the man, the cat and I spent a happy couple of hours.

Happy weekend, happy June.