Baki is going to day camp for a week and a half, so we have an early morning walk to the bus. It is a nice time to be out, because it is quiet in the East Village in the wee hours of the morning, and the air is still relatively cool. I have always loved being out in the city before things really get moving.
Yesterday, I happened to look over as we were waiting to cross the street and I saw this healthy, happy cucurbit, growing at the foot of a tree. It was such a lovely surprise. Who planted the seed and tended it so well, I wondered.
Coming to the city from the garden, it is easy to think that I would miss being surrounded by plants, but the truth is, I still am. On another short walk with my mom, we saw loads of beautiful plants, not to mention the stately trees that line the city blocks.
This is perhaps the opposite of the plucky cucurbit, but seriously, hats off to the person who tends these guys.
And these clematis growing by the garbage reminded me of the Chinese imagery of the lotus as a symbol of purity because although it grows in the mud it rises above the water and its flowers open. (My lotus back home is probably flowering right now.)
And that was in just 15 minutes of walking. Although I miss my garden, I meet lots of great urban plants every day I am here.
We arrived in NYC without incident, in the end, and now all we have to deal with is the disorientation of jet lag and the tummy turmoil that the boys are suffering in the aftermath of the trip (and the less said about that the better for you, dear reader). I guess I always knew they would behave, but I try not to expect miracles from them. That way I am always grateful when they pull through with one.
While I was laying in bed on Friday morning (it seems impossible to me that this was just yesterday), staring into the dark and wondering how the trip would go, I was reminded of all the times that I have initiated journeys from my parents’ old house in Istanbul. I recalled one time in particular that I woke up on the morning of a trip to Tbilisi with a cold knot of dread in my tummy. I listened carefully to the house and heard the sound I had been hoping for — the steady, rhythmic creak of my father’s maple rocking chair coming from the top floor. I went up the spiral staircase and sat on the couch and we talked, and I felt the anxiety ease away. (My bus was stopped by highway robbers on the way to Tbilisi on that trip, but that is a story for another day.)
My father had a wonderful gift for dispelling fear, putting things into perspective, listening when that was what was needed, or dispensing calming hugs. I very often turned to my mother when I was upset, but if I were in a real state, she would always send me to my dad, and it was always the right thing to do. I even remember crying in his arms because I was waiting for a boyfriend to write me and my father hushed me, saying, “Journalists don’t write letters, love.” What was it about my irascible father that made me feel so grounded and secure?
He looks like a slob in the family photo above, but he was usually quite into his clothes. He loved to wear sarongs, a habit he picked up during his days in Indonesia back in the 50s, and he always delighted when he found himself in a locale where he could wander around at will in one. Our family vacations in Mombasa always involved standing at wooden counters in dimly lit shops as a salesman unfurled colorful lengths of cotton pulled from tights stacks that lined the walls. Later, when my parents traveled to Myanmar, they brought back beautiful silk sarongs, and my father, ever the clothes horse, delighted in wearing them when he had guests.
In the final weeks of his life, my father’s hospice nurse, Dan, showed me how to steady him in his trips from the bed to the living room or the bathroom by pulling his sarong tightly around him and holding it firmly at the small of his back. I held the cloth, tethering him to me, and we marched slowly from place to place. Yet even when he was helpless as a child, he remained to me a giant of a man.
He died four years ago today, here in New York City.
Tomorrow, the boys and I will fly to New York to visit my mom. We’ll be away for two weeks, and Ali will be holding down the fort. Yesterday evening as we watered, I thought about how different the garden would be when I returned. The cicadas will be chanting, and the garden will be a summer garden. I will miss out on some of those transitional pleasures- the early tomatoes look a week away from ripening, and the peaches will get properly sweet and juicy while I’m gone. A gardener has no business leaving at the height of the growing season, I’ve been reminded, sternly.
This morning saw me pulling up bolted lettuce for the chickens and cutting down the peas (it feels like just yesterday that I put that trellis up for them) since Ali won’t pick them while I’m gone. I’d planted tomatoes and cucumbers under the trellis, and they’ve gotten a bit leggy waiting for their moment in the sun. We’ll see how they recover.
This evening I canned some peaches with a swig of brandy for a reminder of warmer days come winter. They weren’t very ripe, but I can’t face winter without my brandied peaches. And a neighbor brought over a great big sack of apricots because Ali had transported his goat in the back of the truck, so I cooked them and puréed them; I’ll make fruit leather with the purée when I get back, but for now it waits in the freezer.
Then I packed. This will be Kaya’s first long plane journey (it’s a 10 hour flight), and I fully expect the absolute worst, as is my custom. Baki is a marvelous traveler, so I’m not so worried about him. But Kaya? Well, let’s wait and see.
Peel them if you like, and cut them up. Put them in a pot with water to cover and sugar (or honey, or stevia) to taste. Toss in:
Herb flowers- these are oregano. They grow wild in the garden and are a great favorite with the butterflies.
Simmer for five or ten minutes and let it cool. Compote is nice chilled- it’s quite refreshing on a summer day. Bits of cooked fruit in a light syrup- it goes down pretty easy. It might seem like food for invalids, but since an invalid would require comforting, nourishing fare, perhaps that’s not such a bad thing.
Thyme flowers would be nice, in fact that’s what gave me the idea: I was reading a book called Mes Tartes by Christine Ferber, whose book, Mes Confitures, is my current favorite jam book (although the titles are French, these are English translations, by the way).
Her tarts are quite intimidating sounding and I have not attempted one yet. (I’m sure I’ll do it when my mom is with me in the kitchen this summer.) She had one tart, though, involving apricots and flowering thyme. That thought stuck with me.
When Ali brought a handful of the last, almost overripe apricots from the tree at the bottom of the garden, I mixed them with peaches from the tree by the kitchen, which have been falling even though they are slightly underripe (the whole kitchen area smells like peaches now,as the fruits ripen). I thought the result was quite tasty. The flowers taste like oregano, of course, but there is also a distinctly flowery flavor to them as well. It has made me curious about other herb flowers. I’ve not cooked with lavender much, for instance, but I’d like to.