Summer Time and the Eating is Easy

Strawberries - buy one get one. That's a no-brainer.

Seeing them at the market and heading off to a birthday party down in Long Valley at the weekend, I had the inspiration to make a strawberry glacé pie. I had not made one this season. It is super easy and perfect summer food.

Well... then I got sidetracked with a trip to the farmers market and making gazpacho so I didn't get the crust and strawberry goo made the night before. I figured I'd get up early the next day. And I did, BUT, well, by the time I had coffee and emptied the dishwasher and thew in a load of wash, and finally finished pa-diddling around and read the recipe for the crust; I realized it so wasn't going to happen. I was planning on a buttery tart crust. It needed to rest in the fridge for a few hours before I could roll and bake. And, of course, the glacé needed to sit overnight to firm up.

While pacing the house in a funk considering and rejecting the yellow spongy cakes next to the strawberries at the store as well as angel food cake (which really is a good alternative), I hit upon actual short cake. I hadn't made them in years.

I pulled out the Silver Palate cookbook, actually sifted the ingredients, cut in the butter and added heavy cream instead of light (Seriously light cream? What is the point? If you are cutting calories then you should not be having cream at all.) The recipe calls for a 3 inch rounds; I used a wine glasses. Close enough. They only took 10 minutes to bake. I cut and juiced the strawberries while they were baking.

I would say they were a hit or at least there was nothing left. The only thing better would be to have the cakes hot, split open with some butter before the berries and whip cream were shoveled on.

Steaks on the Barbie

Does anything scream summer more than steaks on the grill?

I love entertaining at my house anytime of year, but summer is fabulous. There is no chance of snow (the worse that would happen is that we have to retreat indoors from the mosquitos); the yard looks terrific with all the flowers blooming (we have had a lot of rain this year); the kids can run around the yard exploring the flowers and bugs (There was much excitement over a Monarch butterfly) and the parents can relax with a glass of wine and catch up.

The theme for dinner this time was herbs. (You know I have a weakness for themed dinners.)

Tomato basil bruschetta
Grilled mini pizzas with choice of toppings.
Ribeye with Chimichurri sauce
Parsleyed new potatoes
Cesear salad.
Homemade vanilla bean and mango ice cream

Yum.

Flowers in the long light

I love taking pictures of just about anything in the long light of a perfect summer evening. On a walk around around the flower beds in the front of the house, I was entranced by the light.



Towering Yucca blossoms

Variegated Phlox that has reverted back to its wilder self.

Flaming self-sown Butterfly Weed

Mahogany Lilies glowing in the sun.

Ah, summer.

1st Day of Summer

The French door stands open. A finger of flavor lurks just outside, beckoning, teasing. Stepping out onto the deck, I inhale the sweet summer scent of tomatoes and basil and meat sweeten with milk. La Nonna, who lives beyond the living screen, has been stirring sauce for hours; long enough that the aroma wafts through the neighborhood. Even the children stop their games to sniff the air before bouncing their basketballs again in the street. The tinkle of glasses and the rumbling bass drum of laughter filters through the hedge. Her boys must have come for Sunday dinner. I wander nonchalantly, hands behind my back, to examine the flowers in the backyard, stopping to peer through the thin spots in the evergreens. Long tables are set with white cloths, thick red crockery and small vases of Evening Primrose. Her family sits on folding lawn chairs; glasses of red wine in hand, nibbling on olives and slivers of cheese. The aroma tickles again, carried on the breeze. La Nonna stands at her backdoor looking out with a summer Sunday smile. I wander back to the house intent on thawing out some pesto for my own Sunday supper.

Come take a Walk with Me

It has been raining on and off (mostly on) for 2 weeks. Today the sun is peeking out, so I dashed out to get some weeding done since it is going to rain again for the next 3 days at least. sigh. C'mon. Let's take a walk around the house to see what we can find.

You know I live on a mountain in the woods, right. This is a photo of the back yard, looking up the mountain. All of the tall shrubby stuff at the top of the yard, is native Mountain Laurel.

And the short shrubby stuff is low bush Blueberry. These are the tiny native variety. Alas, native things eat them too, I have never seen any ripe.


Listen, can you hear the lilting song of the House Wren, the chatter of the Robins and the burr of the Chipping Sparrow? Sounds like everyone is happy to see the sun. This year a pair of Wrens have take residence in the Wren House that Uncle Mel built. They flit around too much for me to get a photo of them, but I'll keep trying.

When I was stalking the Wren, a flash of orange caught my eye. I don't know what they are, but they look kinda of snacky to me.

Let's check the fern bed since we are up here. Japanese Painted Ferns are one of my favorites. I'll do a post on all of the ferns later. I started collecting them since the deer won't touch them.

And speaking of collecting and the deer not eating; I also LOVE Allium. But it's in the front of the house out by the street. Let me show you.

There are lots and lots of flower beds at my house, I promise I won't make you look at them all or at least save some for another time. One last shot of a perennial Foxglove. Hardy to zone 4 and the deer won't touch it. Digitalis, don't ya know.

What's happening in your yard?

Block Party

I am really not good with mail. I do not get it everyday, so it sorta accumulates in the box. When I do stop to get it, I usually throw it in the car and only dig around for it when it is time to pay bills. But a few weeks ago when I got the mail, I actually flipped through it. Among the bills, catalogs, and weekly newspaper, I was surprised to find a notice for the annual block party.

The block party is always at the other end of the street 3 blocks from my house. I do not know anyone down there and for years was not invited. Wait, that sounds harsh. Overlooked might be better. In 8 years, I have only been down there once. Image my surprise to be included. Should I go? I scrutinized the flyer and its list of things to bring. I could bring a salad or "specialty dish". I noticed that they were also looking for burgers, soda, ice. I could cop out and bring 4 bags of ice. But I have a wonderful Thai cold noodle salad that is light, sparkling with a touch of heat. Buuuut, maybe not. Maybe something more normal like baked beans. I hedged. Did nothing. Then it rained and the party was rescheduled and I forgot.

Last night I came home from the birding festival to find the street filled with cars. Perplexed, I squeezed past. It took me a few blocks to realize that I had missed the block party again. Fiddlesticks! Oh well, there will always be next year. If I am invited.

Summer drink

The quintessential summer drink, a gin and tonic is very refreshing in the dog days. But even though there is always a bottle of Boodles in my freezer at all times, I never have one in the winter or colder months. Do you?

First Harvest

Good thing I am only growing for one.

Wordless Wednesday

Mulberry Fruit

For the record, mulberries are edible.

Having arrived early for my writing class and not wanting to wait in the hot car, I decided to explore a nearby park on the Hudson River. Three young boys with ball gloves hanging from their handlebars pedaled past me as I walked along the shaded road. Drawn by the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle, I ambled over to a copse of trees. I stood in the dappled shade taking in deep lungsful of the sweet smell trying to make an olfactory memory for the long winter months ahead. Looking up I saw that the trees supporting the vines were mulberry and that the fruit was ripening. Reaching up I pulled off a few berries, rolling their sweet-tart flavor around on my tongue. I fell back in time to my youth when we ate the warm berries from the trees and used their rich purple juice as “lipstick”.

The boys came back up the street obviously disappointed from whatever mission they had been on. One of them saw me plucking fruit from the tree and shouted “Hey lady, you can’t eat those, they are poisonous.” I looked over at them. “No they’re not,” I shouted, “these are mulberries.” Curious, they rode over to look at the tree. “How do you know?” I plucked ripe berries from the tree, putting the purple fruit in their sweaty hands. They watched carefully as I ate some more then nibbled on the berries. Surprised, they looked at me like was I wise woman, sprung from the ground. ”They’re good!” One boy play-punched another, “You said they were poisonous.” I took the opportunity to talk with them about eating things in the wild and being careful to know exactly what it was before putting it on their mouths. We talked about mulberries, examined the leaves and the fruit. They pedaled off, their hands and mouths stained purple. Smiling, I walked back toward class with purple “lipstick.”

Nature walk on the first day of summer

I walked down a path strewn with wildflowers.
Warblers, vireos, and cuckoos were singing and carrying caterpillars to feed their insatiable young.
An Eastern Kingbird peeked out barely visible as she sat on her nest.
A fuzzy baby Baltimore Oriole shrieked until a harried father popped a juicy black tidbit in its mouth.


Stopping to watch a Dung Beetle roll his heavy load,
I noticed hundreds of minuscule brown toads the size of my pinkie nail hopping frantically out of the way of lumbering feet.
A small Northern Ring-neck Snake darted off the path into the grass and a large black rat snake lay curled in a tree like an inner tube tossed for spite.


Dragonflies darted like glittering jewels of blue and green.
I would need to bring a backpack full of field guides to identify the abundance of nature that surrounds us.
Happy first day of summer.

Wordless Wednesday

HHH

Ah, the 3 H’s--hazy, hot and humid. My 3 favorite words. Apparently, I, alone in the universe, love the heat. Summer is my favorite season. I love lying on top of the covers with the window fan blowing cool night air over me. I love summer’s warm embrace as I walk outside after work frozen from my chilly office. I love the hot blast of air ruffling my hair as I drive down the highway with all the windows down and the music blaring. I love sitting on the back deck with a sweating glass of gin and tonic listening to the tree frogs. I love watching the bats flutter through the air snapping up the biting insects on warm summer evenings. I love getting up before the heat rises and watering the garden in my housedress and that the neighbors think it’s OK. I love the cool feel of the tiles on my bare feet. I love a big bowl of icy watermelon for lunch. I love the sun on my head. There is nothing about the heat that I do not like. (Uh, well, I do not like sunburn. And I do not love sweating. And you have to make sure to dress for it. And I did think I was going to suffocate once in Managua.)

But having said all that, remember, I live on a mountain where it never gets hot enough to need A/C but every room has a ceiling fan. I leave folded comforters on the foot of the beds, because you will need to pull them up in the dead of the night, even in July. We often sit wrapped in blankets late on summer evenings around the fire pit roasting marshmallows or passing a bottle of Hypnotiq. It is never too hot to eat outdoors and the cold waters of the lake are down the road. Summer on the mountain is fleeting, but spectacular.

Earth Day Thoughts

Go Outside and Play.

How many times did you hear this from your parents? If they were like mine, it must have been thousands, right? My sister and I with our friends rode our bikes everywhere, we explored the creek and back roads, we dug caves in sand cliffs (stupid, yes and I almost got killed, but that is a story for another time), we learned about trees and flowers, practiced doing cartwheels on the lawn and captured grasshoppers and lightening bugs in jars. We played kickball in the street and freeze tag on all the neighborhood lawns. We played in everybody’s yard not just our own. No one yelled. No one sued. No one cared.

But times have changed. Now there is talk about Nature Deficit Disorder. But I postulate that this is not just for kids but adults too. While adults may not be afraid; when may I ask, do we have time to go out and play? I seem to spend endless warm sunny days, cleaning the house, doing laundry, and working in the yard. Last year I instituted only cleaning one floor per week. But on the upstairs week, I ended up cleaning the downstairs anyway. So, that never really worked out.

I want to have a personal relationship with the woods and fields. I want to go birding and hiking and riding my bike. I encourage you to join me. Find the time to get out there. If by some miracle you come upon me, stop and say hi. I might have just seen something cool and am dying for someone to share it with.

I'm Gonna Go Where it's Warm

I slid down the mountain this morning, riding the brake the whole way. The ABS shuddered more than once when I hit a patch of ice, black and scary. I clutched the wheel and grimly steered through the skid.

I am so over this winter thing now. I have been a snow-weenie and proud for years. Last May I went to Alaska and vowed to embrace the cold, the snow, the dreaded wintry mix. In Anchorage I bought some extremely cool gloves and hats and some leopard print silk long johns; ready to be stylin’ this year. I even bought a thick luxurious coat in Chicago in early December. All, to no avail. It didn’t happen. I am well turned out, but still hate winter.

And February is always the worst for me. Hints of spring are everywhere. The birds are surprised to hear a tentative spring song come out of their throats. The air occasionally has a hint of warmth to it. The weak sun melts the last of the mounds of snow. But it is all a tease--a joke from old man winter and the groundhog.

Well, I’ve had enough! I am going where it’s warm. I leave next week for South America. Where, may I add, it is summer. I’ll be in Argentina, Uruguay and Brazil. My arrangements are made. My bag is half packed. I have my visa.

Now, if only the snow would only hold off until I fly….

Wordless Wednesday

The sounds of summer

Lawns mowers on a Saturday mornings.
Crickets in the cool dark nights.
Tree frogs signing for all they are worth.
Come August it will be the katydids shrieking through the night.
The splashing of the neighbor kid in the pool.
Firecrackers
The plong, plong of a basketball against blacktop
The tick of a sprinkler
The dawn chorus

For me, the ultimate sound of summer will always be the insistent call of the Whippoorwill. I await the first call in the spring. Never knowing if they will come back to my mountain or may go elsewhere. After I hear the first one, sometimes, distantly at first, then I know that they made it safely back from their winter sojourn. They usually arrive by mid-May. This year they were late.

They were quite loud last night on the mountain. I first heard it while I was in the basement. I looked up and paused….listening. It was only the “will” part. I came upstairs and opened the back door. It seemed to be coming from the front of the house. I walked through the foyer and opened the front door and the sound exploded into the house. It was somewhere in the trees across the street. Really close. I quietly opened the door and went out to sit on the front steps. Any movement I made and the bird stopped calling. Maybe it was in the new damp mulch in the flower bed by the street....

I sat like a statue and listened to the calling for a long time. Then I heard other answering calls coming from the woods. I counted 4 birds. My bird was suddenly silent -- gone. I never saw it fly.

I came back into the house covered with mosquito bites but full of the sound and happy, ready for bed.

I surfaced from sleep to the call of the Whippoorwill at 4:15a. He was settling in after a full night of bug hunting. I rolled over to join him for another 40 winks, before I started my day.

"Háwê." Hekaya'tí háwê. ökwënöhtö' ne' N-awëníyu' huwênö' kayásöh ukëistö wíyú. Kanyu' hatháha' ne' wai nê shô hutênút. Kakwékö nae ne yöëtsate' ne'hu wai nê shô N-awëníyu' huënö'. Ne' n-áyönishe't kës ëötënúta'k ne' khu ëyöëtsaték, ne' khu nê hëkâhkwë'sék, ne' khu kës ne kê' ne kwë'kúnyë' ëwötwënôta'k. Nêkê wênishæte' ne' nae n-utyênu'kta'ö he työhe'.

"He said." To put it simply, he said. We know that the voice of God is abundantly beautiful. His speech is only song. The whole world is nothing but the song of God. As long as his song (orenda) lasts, the earth will continue, the sun will always set, and the whippoorwill's voice will be heard. Today is the day of creation.

Genesis 1:27 translated from King James into Mingo by Maris Pierce 1835.

Wordless Wednesday

"Look, what I brought you!" A gift of summer from the girl across the street.