Persimmon Update

photo found here

There is now one cup of fresh-squeezed persimmon pulp sitting in our freezer.  The Thanksgiving dream of turkey with persimmon sauce is one step closer to reality!  (What am I talking about?  Check out the second half of this post if you feel like you missed something.)

In other news, we went rafting Saturday at the US National Whitewater Center.  Yes, we went swimming again, but this time everyone went in the drink, including the guide!  I'm all dried out by now, but carrying a bruised bum as a reminder.

Re-run: Do You Remember?

This is a post I wrote two years ago, as I noticed fewer and fewer people were making a conscious effort to mark the events of 9/11.  Of course, on the tenth anniversary, the media are trying to make us feel like we're there again.  But in some, unconscious way, many of us carry it with us every day.

I did not lose anyone on that dark day.  But I came too close to ever forget the feelings of fear.  And having family ties to the city, having visited the towers and Manhattan many times, the extent of the physical and emotional damage for all who were involved that day is beyond comprehension.

All I can say from the heart is what I wrote two years ago.  Please remember...for those who are not here.

I remember clearly that it was a Tuesday. I was living in Mobile, Alabama at the time. It was my turn for night on duty at the school, so I had the morning off. I slept fairly late, got dressed without tv or radio on, and was headed to the gym in my car before I heard the news story. I thought it was a spoof; like an April Fool's joke. Ha ha. It sounded way too "out there" to be real.

Planes, crashing into a building in New York City? Please; the likelihood of that level of mechanical and human failure happening in the middle of one of the largest metropolises in the world? Not hardly.

I didn't think about the failure of human minds and hearts.

At the gym, I was on the elliptical machine watching the news on tv when I saw that it was real. That something was gravely, horribly wrong. I don't remember when the word "terrorist" first rolled across the screen (do you remember when we still thought it was just an accident?). My first concern was for my uncle Paul, who had worked for NY Bell and was part of the repair crew on the Towers in 1993.

But he was long retired; surely he wouldn't be down there.

And then a moment of sheer terror: I had completely forgotten that my brother worked there, somewhere in lower Manhattan, not in the Towers, but I didn't know where. As the story spread, the towers collapsed; ash and dust coated the entire area and I finally panicked. I grabbed my water bottle and towel and ran to the car.

How odd; nobody around me seemed moved or concerned. They had no connection to this news story unfolding up there in "the corner." But my dad's family is from New York; we had all visited the Towers one summer when I was ten or twelve. I had been there; I knew what it was like, the sheer enormity of the place.

And my brother was there now.

As I drove home, I called his house in New Jersey. Busy.

I called his cell phone. All circuits busy.

(Do you remember how the phone lines on the entire east coast were tied up that day?)

Tried his home again. Still busy.

Tried my parents' down in Georgia. Busy.

Finally, I noticed the voice message icon on my cell phone. It was from my father; they had heard from my sister-in-law that my brother was ok. He was trapped in Manhattan (remember how they shut down all car traffic to and from the island?), but he was safe.

I called my father and finally got through. My brother had watched the whole thing from his office in the Traveler's building, two blocks from the World Trade Center. He was on the phone with my dad, watching the first tower burn, assuring him that they had been told to stay where they were, everything was fine.

Then the second plane hit.

My brother said, "I've got to go," and hung up the phone. That was the last my dad heard from him for the rest of the day. I never did talk to my sister-in-law that day, but I knew there were vastly more important calls that needed to get through.

My brother was the recipient of some of the amazing generosity that bloomed that day. He walked tens of blocks north, and was given shelter by a friend's sister, or something like that. Her landline was the only way he was able to call his wife that day. I don't remember how he got home, or when. That day, it was enough to know that he was alive. (Do you remember the confusion; the "Missing" fliers plastered on every vertical surface?)

He worked for Citigroup at the time, in their International Treasury division. He spent the next weeks at an emergency backup site in New Jersey, working 12- and 14-hour days to ensure that his small part of our financial system remained functional. (It didn't sound all that impressive back then, but after 2008's financial meltdown, I'm a bit more respectful.)

When I finally got to talk to him about it, weeks later, he wouldn't. He wanted to put it behind him and move forward. He had lost colleagues and neighbors. He had watched people leap to their deaths rather than face hell on Earth. That detail was the only thing he would say about it, and he said it angrily: "You don't understand what it's like."

No, he's right. I don't.

Less than six months later, in February 2002, I flew up to visit. (Do you remember how brave you had to be to get on an airplane again?) My brother took me into Manhattan, and we visited his office. Two blocks down the street, there was the raw wound, the huge square of nothingness. "If they had missed the Towers, our building would have been the next one they hit."

So every September 11th I fly the flag for many reasons, but mostly to commemorate the innocents who lost their lives that day. The ones who were in the wrong building. Who weren't lucky enough to flee, covered in ash, panicked and cut off from their loved ones, but alive. Who ran in the other direction, into danger.

I fly it in the hope that it will keep the memory alive another year. To remind myself of the inconceivable tragedy that still should haunt us. To remind myself to be grateful that I still have a brother, no matter how little we may agree sometimes.

My nephew Ethan was born in 2002.
My niece Keira was born in 2006.
My sister-in-law is not a widow.

I know that by the time Ethan's and Keira's children are in school, this will be just another date in history. A bunch of people died. They'll learn the definitions of "isolationism," "nationalism" and the names Bush, Hussein, Al-Qaida, Desert Storm. And it will mean as much to them as Pearl Harbor meant to me growing up.

That's the nature of history; as it retreats further into our collective past, it gathers dust, a soft coating that makes it difficult to see clearly. It's inevitable. Over the years, plenty of other, more immediate crises will push our country this way and that. Yet, for the time being, I'm doing my part to keep the memory alive and distinct.

I don't know anyone who actually died that day. But my flag, this post, and my tears are for their memory, and for the ones they left behind.

A whole family, June 2011

Gathering

Ok, I’m ready to accept it: I have a green thumb.

Ever since we moved in to Flartopia Manor, I’ve been working various beds, both vegetable and flower.  Miss Chef tends to build them, I tend…to them.  Sort of.  Everyone who sees my pictures of fresh, happy vegetables or bright flowers comments on how they thrive.  No, no, I insist, notice these are all close-ups!  You don’t see the bed next to it, overgrown with grass, or the half of the garden that’s dried up and dead.

There’s also a tradition at the office that every new employee gets a cutting from a pothos plant in my supervisor’s office.  It probably started as an attempt to cut it back, but today at least half the desks in the office have a plant on them.  And people frequently comment that mine is the most healthy and pretty.  No, no, I insist, it’s just that I bought a pretty blue strawberry pot to wrap it around, so it looks big and full.

But now, I’m ready to believe that I must have some extra talent with growing things, because of these:



Just a handful of green beans, picked from the garden.  Not much, but let me tell you two details:

1. I haven’t tended the garden since we got back from the Big Trip two months ago.  I’ve watered it twice, and 7/8 of the space is overgrown with grass.

2. I didn’t put a single bean in the ground this year.

These are what Dad calls “volunteers.”  We often have tons of tomato volunteers, and sometimes dill (which isn’t called “dillweed” for nothing!).  But three bean plants came up late this spring, all on their own.  Two of them just happened to spring up right next to where I’d put in the tomatoes.  And when those delicate fruits began to pout from neglect and putter out, the beans were happy to take their place on the poles.

All I had to do was recognize the seedlings as bean plants (grudging thanks to Mom and Dad), and not pull them as weeds.

So, okay: my name is Flartus, and I have a green thumb.

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Now, here’s a blast from the past for those who’ve been reading for a while.  A couple of years ago, I stumbled upon a food I’d never tasted, seen or really ever heard of before: persimmons.  They grew on a tree in our neighborhood common area, and I had never seen it fruit before. 

If you happen to know persimmons, there’s a good chance these are not the same: most persimmons sold in the States are an Asian variety (bigger, sweeter, easier to clean seeds out).  This is a native variety, which I suspect is fairly rare.  I wasn’t sure why the tree fruited that year; maybe we had a wetter than usual spring; maybe the wind blew in just the right way to aid pollination; maybe Tinkerbell moved into the neighborhood and sprinkled fairy dust on it.

Sadly, the tree did not fruit last  year.  I was afraid Tinkerbell had moved out.
But this year, it’s back again!



Aren’t they beautiful?  Ok, there aren’t many, but they are kind of a pain to harvest.  There are a couple of reasons.  First, they must be absolutely ripe, or they are incredibly tart (or so I’ve read).  That means they have to feel like a sac of gel, and be ready to fall off the tree.  Which they’re more likely to do, than to wait for you to come by and pluck them gently from the branch.

Secondly, this particular tree grows at about a 45-degree angle over the pond, at the base of a steep bank.  Which means Flartus has to clamber out onto the trunk and try to reach out her short little arms in all directions without falling in!  (I took my mom with me one time, and watching me made her as nervous as she used to get during my horseback riding lessons as a teenager.)

I’m hoping to get more, enough to freeze and do something with.  Last time Miss Chef had wanted to make a sauce with them for our Thanksgiving turkey, but…well, since I’m in a confessional mood…we didn’t freeze the pulp in time and it went bad.

If we manage to make something of these, I’ll be sure to share it.  In the meantime, click here to read about the harvest and processing from two years ago.  Really, I could have re-posted it; it was almost the exact same experience today!  And there were more pictures then.

…and then I walked happily home in the dusk…and straight into a giant spiderweb.  Gaaahhhh, spiderweb dance!

French Lesson

You may not remember, but Miss Chef and I took a big, fabulous trip this summer.  And you may not remember, but I never finished telling you alllll about it.  There’s still a partial day in Paris and a day in London to tell you about.

As I look through my last day’s worth of Paris pictures, I remember that it finally struck me that I should probably get a few shots to use in class.  So I thought I would go ahead and prepare you a crash course in some random French vocabulary.

le vin (“luh van”)  the wine

Oh, but wait a minute…I’m getting ahead of myself.  I can’t forget our last night in Paris.  It was after our memorable day at Giverny.  So, to put you in the mood for your lesson, I’ll tell you a bit about the new wine bar called O! Château! we went to that night.  It’s kind of aimed at English-speakers, but it’s a unique place where you can taste really excellent wines by the glass, that normally you can only order by the bottle at a restaurant. 

I didn’t take any pictures, sorry.  I was busy.  Drinking.  Wine.  In fact, why don’t you go get yourself a glass to fully enjoy this post?  Go ahead, I’ll wait.  This post is a little long, you may need refreshment.

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So.  We opted for a “flight” of three reds and three whites.  You can even choose your pour size; I think we went for the 3 cl size.  (Not sure, it may have been 6 cl; for some reason the details are a bit fuzzy…)  We also ordered some dishes off their small menu, and were blown away at the top-notch quality.  Often the food at wine bars is an afterthought.  Turns out their chef is a woman from California!  I seem to remember a sort of mini-club sandwich and maybe a cheese plate.  And some wine.

Um, so, yeah, the wine was faboo.  I actually did note our impressions on the back of a couple of receipts, but I didn’t get the full names, vineyards, whatever.  The whites were Alsace, Sancerre and Chardonnay; the reds were Corbières, Côte Roti and of course Bordeaux.  I was excited about the Corbières, but it was too harsh for my taste.  The Bordeaux was quite good, and I re-confirmed that I like Sancerre. 

Oh, looking at my notes, I see it wasn’t a cheese plate, it was a charcuterie plate.  Also, “muddle mint w/Tabasco bottle” and “raspberry mojito.”  Hmmm…

Whatever was going on, the fact remains we drank lovely wines, ate delicious food, and even chatted with one of the owners for a good twenty minutes.  Lovely.  Miss Chef had an even better time than I did.  We didn’t get there until close to 10:00 and were among the last customers to leave.

And then, I had a special plan for our walk home.  It involved this:

Oh la la!  Le Musée du Louvre la nuit.  (Wow, the Louvre Museum at night!)

And these…

Eiffel Tower and the Arc du Carrousel

Le Pont Neuf (“New Bridge,” which is the oldest bridge in Paris.)

L’Assemblée Nationale from the Pont des Arts

I had been wanting all week to stroll by the Seine at night with Miss Chef, but we were always too tired or already home by dark.  It made it extra memorable to enjoy it on our last night, so I’m not sorry it took so long.  No matter how the city may adapt to modern times, Paris has not lost its famous charm.
So do you feel ready now for your French lesson?  Here we go!  (Remember, if you want to see any of the pictures larger, just click to biggerize.)

la gare (“lah gar”) train station

The Saint Lazare station was under construction, so this was as much of it as I could capture.  This is where we took the train for Giverny.

les boissons (“lay bwa-so(n)” swallow the “n”) the drinks

The rest of these pictures except for one were taken steps from our building’s entrance.  I told you it was a great, fun neighborhood.

le métro (“luh may-tro”") the subway

I love the Paris metro.  I can’t really explain it—I mean, yes, it’s crazy convenient, there are stops everywhere and it’s quite easy to navigate.  But there’s something about the look of the tiled ceilings, the flow of the crowds, the screeching sounds of the rails, even the mysteriously sweet burnt-wood smell that makes me smile like an idiot whenever I rediscover it.

The orange/yellow shop in the background is the “bakery around the corner” where we got our bread and croissants.

le café (“luh cah-fay”)  place where people drink coffee, read, and watch passers-by

One morning early in our week, as we left on our daily adventures, I saw some newly-arrived Americans sitting here eating breakfast in a totally jet-lagged daze.  It made me grateful that, arriving from London, I didn’t have to go through that adaptation for once!  (Check out the French grafitti in the background—yeah, I can’t read it either.)

les fruits de mer (“lay froo-wee duh mare”) literally, fruits of the sea

I took this snapshot in the window of a restaurant as we walked to the wine bar.  I didn’t catch the name, but I think it was a seafood restaurant.  Or maybe it was a lemonade stand with a seaside theme.

le supermarché (“luh soo-pair-mar-shay”)

Tired of my stopping every ten feet to take pictures of metro stops and cafés, Miss Chef goes to stock up on water.  She developed a real preference for Vittel.  (Check out the little old lady inside the doorway stocking up on toilet paper.) G20 is actually a lower-end grocery store; there was also a Franprix on the other side of our entrance.

de l’eau minérale (“duh low mee-nair-al”) some spring water

des jus de fruits (“day jyus duh froo-wee”) some fruit juices.

Ouais!  Du fromage!  (“Way! Doo fro-maj!”)  Yeah! Some cheese!

Om nom nom nom!  In high school and college, when people asked me why I chose French over, say, Spanish, all I could think to say was “the cheese.”  True story.

du poulet (“doo poo-lay”)  some chicken

Yup, chicken nuggets are everywhere.  Wonder if there are French children who eat only these and la pizza, as in the States?  Miss Chef and I lost each other as I got distracted taking photos in the grocery store.  I was waiting for someone to kick me out for being just a bit too weird, but no such luck.  I’ll spare you the pictures of the various kinds of meats.

des vélos (“day vay-loh”)  some bikes

Paris has a program called Vélib, where for a very reasonable price you can pick up a bike at one of these stands, wheel away to wherever you wish, then deposit the bike into another stand at your destination.  We never used it, as it seemed a bit confusing as to which American credit cards are accepted, and oh yeah, Miss Chef isn’t very comfortable on a bike.  I didn’t think Parisian traffic would be the place to work on that!

la rue (“lah roo”) the street

This is the street we stayed on, named after the “King of the Franks, Emperor of the West.”  This was also my last picture in Paris.  I took it as we were eating lunch at the restaurant at the base of our building.  A bittersweet meal, as it was in fact one of the best we had, and there were, for once, no other Americans within earshot.  Le Bistrot des Compères

After this, we grabbed our bags and took a taxi to the Gare du Nord for our Eurostar train back to London.  Au revoir, Paris, et à bientôt!

Since this post is so long, I’ll save our last day in London for a separate one.  Bon week-end!

It’s What’s for Dinner

To answer my own question from my previous post….

Stir fry…it’s what’s for dinner!