Fefe's Fund

This is the Eastern Cape, in South Africa. I took this picture when the Frenchman and I drove through that beautiful region years ago. 

If you follow me on Instagram you may know this, already, but the brief explanation is for anyone who does not. Last week Fefe passed away suddenly after what seemed like a brief illness. The details are still unclear. 

Fefe was Nolufefe (which means Grace in isiXhosa) Tatoba, and she worked with Tipsi, my mom's housekeeper and companion, in my mother's Cape Town home. She was a kind woman, and pretty, and young. Her death is a shock. Then last weekend Tipsi fell very ill, and tested positive for COVID. She is in bed, not out of the woods, but receiving care and stable. My mom has tested negative. 

I am raising funds to help towards funeral costs for Fefe's laying-to-rest near her mother's ancestral home in the Eastern Cape. Her mom, Lillian Tatoba, looks after Fefe's three children. 

Once donations have been received I will send them via Xoom, a PayPal subsidiary, directly into Ms. Tatoba's bank account, to disperse as she sees fit. (When you access the Donate button below you will see Wild Edibles - that's me.)

Thank you so much to those of you who have already expressed an interest in donating. You are making a difference.

 

Update: Donations are Closed - Thank you for your Generosity!

Saffron in the house?

What's going on here? Confined crocus? 

It's just me, gardening by the seat of my pants. 

I planted saffron crocus corms in the last week of September. Unlike their cousins, the sweet harbingers of spring, saffron crocuses bloom in late fall slash early winter (when exactly does winter begin, anyway?). 

I last grew them at 1st Place, in-ground, in the last row of the vegetable plot, where I hoped they'd suck up the last inch of diminishing autumn sunlight. Those crocuses flowered (in early December), even though they lost the sun altogether. And I harvested their lady-parts. The famous red saffron is the pistil and style of Crocus sativus. 

But these pots are an experiment, like so much in my gardening life. More of a what-if than an I-know, although it often turns into an ah-ha. 

At first, the pots lived on the terrace all day and night, covered with some wire against the dastardly, digging squirrel. Then the leaves filled out and the squirrel gave up. Wire came off. Then the sun dipped, as it does, and swung south of its eastern summer rising, as it also does, and the terrace now sees only an hour of post-dawn sunshine. And the squirrel returned. 

So first the wire enclosure happened, and then the carrying indoors during the day to bask in the bedroom's sunlight. At night out they go to get a good nip of cold. Since Sq. Irrel wakes up earlier than I do I did not want him/they/her digging before the pots could be moved. Angry start to day.

So! I have no idea if this will work. Warm, bright days, dark, cold nights. Just like their Eurasian homeland, I keep telling them.

We shall see. 

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Just leave (s)...

The leaves all fell overnight. I had a funny feeling they might. But I have never noticed this phenomenon, before. Is that what they do, after an initial, exploratory flutter? 

Look at those oak leaves, up there. I wear a size 11 boot (if I didn't, the nearly six feet of me would fall over). Those are 14-inch leaves.

I may be walking more than before, too. Every day. So you see every little, interesting change. Your neighborhood is overflowing with surprises. The more you see, the more often you see, the more you...well, see.

If we thought the week before the votes were counted was bad. If we thought the last four years were bad. How about these days? 

So we walk.

These - above - are cherry leaves. The native Prunus serotina.

Ginkgo biloba. Ancient tree of the dinosaurs.

Japanese cutleaf maple. Acer palmatum var. dissectum, and probably a cultivar called 'Something' in single, inverted commas, as cultivars are. Cutleaf maple was one of the first trees whose botanical I name I learned, long ago, working at a Manhattan nursery while I recovered from whooping cough. It is a knee-jerk nursery staple. The trees at Green-Wood are mature and gorgeous, and have won me over. 

Sweetgum leaves. Liquidamber styraciflua. Native to North America.

                            Magnolia leaves. But I don't know what kind.

And more oak. Quercus. Pointy tips, so in the red oak group (white oaks have rounded lobes). Dozens of oaks are native to North America and I still have a lot to learn about them.

I am planning  a picnic menu for a very rare forage walk this Saturday. It's the first picnic since March. And before we are locked down again. We will walk in shoreline dunes with fresh breezes. The walk sold out in hours. Everyone wants out.

It looks like this:

Quails eggs with fresh field garlic salt

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Persimmon and mugwort focaccia

Field garlic goat cheese spread 

Beach plum and autumn olive drizzles

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Ginkgo sticks

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Roasted carrot hand pies with pine honey, juniper, elderflower vinegar, and sweet white clover

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Pine honey madeleines

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My Book

Forage Walk this Saturday

Forage On - Fort Tilden

14 November 2020, 

11.30am - 2pm

It's the one - it's the only - forage walk of the season. Thank you, virus. But here on the breezy beaches and backroads the sea air will blow it away.

"Forage on" has become something of a battle cry for me, this year. It means persist. Keep going. Keep paying attention. And find the foraging fun wherever it may be. 

This late in the season we will be meeting and identifying the weedy (like autumn olives and mugwort) and native (like bayberry and juniper and pine) edibles in their late autumn clothes. Knowing what plants look like at every phase of their growth and death is key to knowing where to find them when they are in their prime.

There will be some nice surprises, too. And there will be a picnic, with hot toddies! 

Masks are mandatory and please bring your own hand sanitizer to use before we lift a hot toddy to toast the good things and dispel the bad.

SOLD OUT

This day

On Saturday near midday I cycled to the market at Grand Army Plaza. I needed fish. I rode fast, feet flying. Sky was blue. Sun shone. The lockdown pots and pans were rattling and banging again (see my Instagram @66squarefeet to hear) and car and truck and horns were honking. Bus drivers waved out their windows. Strangers whooped at each other. Everyone was laughing. You couldn't see them smile, because...masks. 

My bicycle bell rang all the way.

I needed to cross to the middle for the fish. But it was partiness all the way. Pure joy. 

My bicycle was dressed with flags I found at a dollar store. The proprietor had to fetch them from the basement. He asked why I wanted so many. It's a good day, I said. This is everybody's flag.

 I rode home in the autumn light. My third historic election witnessed and voted in. Mandela, Obama, and Not-Trump. Yes, I am old. Very old. 

And very happy.

The tourist

On the day after the election, while the votes were being counted, I played hooky, escaping in the afternoon to see the Battery Conservancy Garden at the southern tip of Manhattan. I wanted to visit the gardens, salute the Statue of Liberty, and sit in the sun under a perfect blue sky.

Then I walked. North, and then east across the island from the Hudson, tracking Google maps on my phone to Eataly, determined on a whim to buy an escapist dinner. At the foot of the soaring One World Trade Center a new building's skeleton was being pieced together. It seemed beautiful. I took a photo. Google maps buzzed and told me to walk south. So I did.

                                          When I looked up again I saw this. 

One World Trade Center Station. A rail hub, essentially. 

I knew about it. I had read about it. But I hadn't seen it in person. I drive on the nearby West Side Highway quite often, but this is nestled at the foot of the new bright glass buildings that are scattered like fresh glitter at the feet of the shattered towers of 9-11. I avoid the place. It is usually jammed with tourists, like sightseers at a battlefield.

In the middle of the empty street I stood and stared, the only tourist in New York.

The grace of it. The lines. The light. 

Whalebone, backbone, shell. 

Earthbound, free. 

Such a thing. An immense presence. The Oculus, by Santiago Calatrava. It is exquisite.

On this day, in this light, at this time, it was the most beautiful thing I have seen.

I could hardly bear to leave.

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Blewit feast

In the last wet weeks I have been lucky to find huge fairy rings of blewit mushrooms. Their wide circles in the grass are quite perfect. 

These beautiful and edible mushrooms are violet when young and slowly turn cream as they widen and grow. 

Many of their caps are cinched by a root of grass. 

They have come up in response to weeks of foggy nights and days, and a lot of rain. They are very good to eat.

My basket overflows fast.

After spore printing every mushroom overnight (their spore pints are a very pale creamy-pink), I cook. 

And the first thing to make is mushrooms-on-toast. Good bread, good butter, salt.

So that even when the world is falling apart, lunch seems certain.

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Forage, Harvest, Feast - A Wild-Inspired Cuisine