Saturday night

It is a clear 51 degrees, dropping to 43 overnight. On the stove is a slowly reducing ragu of veal from the osso buco, its sauce and vegetables, added to the quick pseudo Sauce Espagnole of fine onion, bacon, a little flour, red wine, and veal stock, that I began around 6pm.

A basket of tangerines is on the table, apple pie is in the oven, and tomorrow we will tramp through the woods of Prospect Park, searching for things to eat. We were told to bring lunch which means...picnic! Yes! I have rolled white asparagus in soft white wonderbread with a slick of mayonnaise (Hellman's), and tomorrow will fry bacon for the wholewheat focaccia we found, warm, at Sahadi's. With thin slices of onion and arugula, a cube or two of feta, and some Kir secreted in our backpack, we will have a fine lunch.

The haul from Sahadi's this afternoon: wild boar saucisson, Greek (hi Ellen) and French feta; Labneh, which is incredibly delicious; powdered almonds for Ajo blanco; oats and dried cranberries for granola; cornichons for the saucisson; and loquats for old times' sake. They are fine, but not nearly as sweet as the ones I stole from Mrs du Toit's tree in Paul Roux Street when I was little.

Coney Island

Mr Mounier returned from a trip to Coney Island with some memorable images. I culled the cat, but there are more. Click on any of the images there to start the slideshow - they really must be seen fullscreen.

Where the wild foods are

Pic: Marijke Honig; Brooklyn Bridge Park.

I had always thought I was alone. The outsider. Isolated. But then I started to read more blogs and realized that there were Others. Fellows. Masters (or Mistresses), in fact, of the art.

Of foraging.

I didn't know it was called foraging when I went with Marijke to the park in DUMBO, with the train roaring over the Manhattan Bridge, and gathered amelanchier berries for jam and pie. Or even when I was looking for mushrooms under the pine trees in Tokai in Cape Town. Or stopped for shaggy ink caps growing on a suburban lawn, to eat later on toast.

But after I read Euell Gibbons' well known book, I realized I needed to learn more, in the, er, field/s.

Desire is not enough (though it sure makes the engine go). Knowledge is needed.

To that end, I will be following 'Wildman' Steve Brill on Sunday in Prospect Park, as he leads a late-season foraging expedition. There is one in Inwood tomorrow too. Please visit his website if you are interested.

Prospect Park promises to deliver sassafrass roots, persimmons, and possibly...this is what I'm hoping for with last night's rain: enoki and oyster mushrooms.

And when spring and summer roll around I will definitely be tagging along again.

The boy in the giraffe suit

I don't link to other blogs' posts too often, but have to send you over to Thomas' A Growing Tradition for a happy story...

This little boy is going to grow up in a wonderful garden, with wonderful parents.

Osso buco

I have been making an effort with polenta, since the lovely husband loves it. I have only come to it lately, and usually only at Al di la, with the rabbit. Last night's attempt, about the fourth, made me happy.

It's been years perhaps, since I made osso buco...I'm not sure that I will again. I like the marrow bones very much, but perhaps I'll stick to just roasting them and having them with toast, salt and parsley with lemon.

Roast chicken

Below: burned my wing tips there...oh dear. Truth is, I like crunchy wing tips. Perhaps there's a support group for that. Give me the wings, some skin and the oysters, and I'm a happy chicken. Yup, that's the other thing. My mother calls me Chicken. The potatoes above were under the chicken (not me) while it roasted, and you can see that the inner circle is quite white (er...does that reflect our society too???). While the chicken rested (not long enough, should have sat a full 12 minutes, I reckon) I popped the cast iron pan back into a 500' oven and crisped them up.

I made pan gravy out of the scratchings, some water, and a little cream and demi-glace I had hanging around. It was comforting, brown food.

For Germaine

Roses from May.

With much love.

Germaine is Vincent's mother. On Sunday, Germaine's mother, who was 98, passed away. Germaine was with her.

Our mothers are loved.