The view from here

My digital image folder for our terrace is arranged by year and by month, with various category-folders for each month like Citrus, Sunny Pots, Shade Pots, Ramps, Birds, and Table. There is also a small folder for each month called, View. This is the view.

It's not much probably. But it's also a lot. It's not the ocean, or mountains, or Central Park. But when I saw this apartment for the first time, I knew enough about views in New York City to know that this was A Good View. Why? Because, instead of house-windows staring right back at us at the end of the lots below, or a massive building blocking the sky, there was a long northern view across a lowslung rooftop, relieved by old, industrial  skylights. And beyond that, mature trees in the gardens one block over. They were in leaf, that August. Very green. On either side of the skylit roof, were - are - more expanses of empty, low rooftop, all sheltering a laundry empire whose parking lot beside us houses fastidiously parked white trucks that are washed squeaky-clean every Sunday (I didn't know that, then).

These low, wraparound rooves (roofs, for Americans) gave us two things, no, three precious things, in terms of hyper-urban life: light, sky, and privacy. You jump on that when you recognize it, and I jumped. While we lost a marvellous in-ground garden, we also lost the ever-present sense of living in a fishbowl (as well as a bonkers upstairs neighbor). 

It is inevitable, in a city where there is a dramatic shortage of housing, and where fortunes are made in real estate, that this view could not last. But it's something I have made (some) peace with. At some point a very large building will rise all around us. Before it rises, the existing structures will be demolished. And then impressive holes will be dug. New and massive foundations will be laid. Ours, 100 years old, will shudder. 

I am not sure where we will be, when it happens, but not here. 

In the meantime, I will add more View folders to my monthly collections as the year unfolds, and we will watch the light on the skylights and rooftops,  the hawks and the woodpeckers in the old catalpa, the trees beginning to leaf out, and the occasional raccoons rambling on their twilit errands. 

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My Gardenista Column

Yuzu syrup, sort of

Every winter I make yuzu syrup. The question is, Every winter since...when? I'm struggling to identify a year. Our yuzu tree arrived in 2020. But had I only made yuzu kosho before that - the intense condiment made from unripe yuzu and green chiles? Did I make yuzu syrup from the ripe fruit later that year? I need to dive into the archives.

The fruit in the photo above came from Flavors by Bhumi, a grower in New Jersey that also sources fruit from California. The trees, Citrus junos, are relatively cold hardy but still require some protection here, in USDA growing zone 7b (-ish). Container-grown trees should still come indoors for winter.

And these are not yuzu, but bergamot. Yes, the same bergamot that is in Earl Grey tea. The same bergamot that inflects many perfumes, including the cologne my father wore, Penhaligon's Blenheim Bouquet. I have a tiny bottle of it, that I took from his bathroom cabinet after he died, in 2018 (the same year my second book was published, which was in the same month we lost our previous lease, and the same year my one brother, Francois, accused me of stealing a fortune's worth - apparently - of Kruger Rands from my father, who had dementia and lost track of things, and who was convinced that he had lost them. The same year my other brother, Anton, stormed into my mom's room hours after my father had died, and pulled me out physically, demanding to know the whereabouts of said Kruger Rands. Threats.

After my mom's death last year, Anton realized, at last, that I had not, in fact, taken them. That was a surprise. But Francois had slipped up. He doesn't often, and when he does it's helpful. Anton got in touch with me the day my mom died. It was the first time we'd spoken since my father died. He hadn't got in touch with me weeks or days before to tell me my mother was gravely ill (a carer called me on a Thursday to tell me my mother was "unwell." I landed in Cape Town on Monday evening, and she died in my arms just after 4am on Tuesday. I did not get there in time for her to know I was there. Not something I will ever forget.)

The day she died, I got that brotherly call, not to commiserate but to demand the whereabouts of the missing gold. I hadn't slept in three days. But it brought to light the slip-up: Some years ago Francois messaged me and sent me a picture: a pile of shiny Kruger Rands, apparently missing quite a few. He had arranged them on the cover my first book, which I thought was an interesting choice. Look what I found! he said. I asked where, and when he said, In the safe (that multiple people had searched, many times), I knew. Huh. The surprise was that he had never told Anton. His buddy. He had counted on the two of us never speaking again, and fanned the flames of animosity as required. And now, fast forward to 2024, they were apparently gone, again! But at least the blame had shifted from me. And if I am looking over my shoulder, it was only out of fear of one brother now, not both. 

I learned, that early morning after my mother died, that Francois and his wife had arranged about a week earlier for an undertaker to be ready to fetch her body when the time came. Then they went on vacation, leaving her. She never regained consciousness. Three days after her funeral Francois arranged a meeting to dissolve a family trust. I was on a plane to Brooklyn.

There's a tiny amount of liquid left in the Penhaligon's spray bottle. A quick spritz into the air and it summons, immediately, my father, as though exiting our Brooklyn bathroom (where he never set foo), close-shaved, sillage in the hallway, a crisp collared shirt, cufflinks, suit, shining, leather-soled shoes. Tie pin.

You can make this fermented syrup with any citrus. The sugar and fruit sit together in a jar, the granular sugar dissolving rather quickly into a translucent, aromatic syrup. Left longer, the sweetness evolves and becomes more complex. The fruit slices become gradually crystalline and soft, and very edible. 

The recipe for yuzu syrup (or any-other-citrus-syrup) is up on Gardenista.

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Winter Walks and Picnics

The Cold Edges

In January the white throated sparrows do not sing. Their song is high and sweet, and pierces the heart, somehow. When they do sing, you know that winter is leaving. I saw this one perched among bittersweet berries on the frozen edges of Jamaica Bay.

I was hoping to see snow geese, and testing an injured foot (how funny that you don't think of your feet until you realize that without them, you are lost).  There were no snow geese, but the usual mockingbirds were in residence, swallowing juniper berries and hunting for the last rosehips. Rosa multiflora is as rampant as it is on the East Coast because birds find the hips delicious. 

Canadian geese and seagulls perched on the ice, with downtown Manhattan rearing beyond them.

At home, on the dormant terrace, we see the same birds. Mockingbirds come to eat the blueberries I put out for them, and the sparrows, shelled sunflower seeds. Little juncos share the seed, and woodpeckers visit the suet feeder. Sometimes a raptor strikes, and feathers fly. The geese and seagulls are above, crossing the wide sky. 

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Gardenista: Pistachio-Fir Cookies

Outside

The late summer terrace, under a faintly wildfire-sky. The little bergamot tree has three fattening fruit, and some more small ones to follow. In the windowboxes, the African basil has grown so lush that each box requires twice-daily watering. It is besieged by bees who work through the twilight, while the chimney swifts and giant dragonflies swoop overhead. 

Bee balm

It's bee balm time again. I have grown Monarda fistulosa in pots but find that it is happier, in-ground. With a breeze and some grasses for company. In a tony patch of soil in front of our building a hot pink-flowered cultivar is very happy alongside agastache and fennel. (And yes, that entire four-ish square feet is vibrating with pollinators.

The stems, leaves, flowers, and seed heads can be used as a powerfully fragrant herb. Think oregano. But different. And cold-hardy.

Time for that summer caprese salad again. Recipe over on Gardenista.

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Endurance and Recovery

On the western side of our little terrace, African basil lights up as the sun dips.  It seems to be the most heat-tolerant of all the basils I have grown. Most really prefer some shade. But its windowbox still needs twice-daily watering.

Leaning across the laundry-roof void are Lilium 'Madame Butterfly' (I must buy more, they are reliable, graceful, and long-lasting as cut-flowers) and Graham Thomas.

Liatris just opening, and the source of the most scented rose petals, ever: Bolero. I layer the petals with palm sugar in a jar, crush, and forget. When you open the jar the sticky, amber syrup inside is essence-of-rose. Very good stirred into a long, cool drinks, and drizzled over chilled cubes of watermelon.

This is the first flush of roses since the shrubs were parched during a 10-day absence. We left the day after every single one was in full bloom, and came back to crisped leaves. A month later, they have recovered well, and are handling our week's heat indexes of 100 degrees Fahrenheit better than I am. 

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My Books

Picnic like you mean it

It has been a picnic-y summer, so far. This one was at Rockefeller State Park Preserve, after a walk I led, hosted by the New York State Department of Parks, Recreation and Historic Preservation. Our focus was on invasive edible plants, in the ongoing and evolving conversation about how to control them. There is no simple answer. 

Two focaccias (focaccie), featuring apricots and mugwort, a pea and fava bean spread with field garlic, cream cheese drizzled with lilac-infused honey that I made in Maine, tartlets filled with serviceberries, and a very delicious strawberry cordial - my favorite thing this season. It can be made with any soft fruit and a herb; so far, I have used ground ivy (recipe here on Gardenista), mugwort, and bergamot/bee balm.

Muggy, wrap-around humidity has arrived. The only good thing about our tropical summers is...chanterelles. We're going a-hunting.

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