Spring-into-summer is a celebratory parade of gastronomic gateways. Nettles, ramps, fiddleheads, asparagus, rhubarb,… So many seasonal ingredients and tastes. And now it’s radish time!
Ready for Radish Time? (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
These early French Breakfast Radishes are almost impossibly delicious. Crisp and spicy. Uniquely refreshing.
The French Breakfast Radish (Raphanus sativus) is [an] early summer classic — and perennial staple of Rosslyn’s vegetable garden — [that]… tends to be mild (less “spicy” than other standard radishes) if harvested and eaten early…(Source: French Breakfast Radish)
Ready for French Breakfast Radish time? (Illustration: Geo Davis)
Perhaps four years living in Paris account for my preference, but these early season benisons — as enticing to the eyes as to the tongue — beguile me year after year.
Radishes (my favorite are French Breakfast Radishes) celebrate precocious summer’s spicy return with vibrant, bye-bye-mud-season colors, a super satisfying crunch, and tastebud reviving explosions of peppery sweetness. (Source: Radishes and Radish Greens)
Such sweet springtime seduction. Love at first crunch. New and invigorating each year despite familiarity and anticipation.
And that’s just the red and white taproot. To be sure, the tuberous vegetable is what we envision when radishes are on the menu. But they’re only part of the radish time rewards.
Radishes aren’t just crunchy eye candy for crudités. Radishes are nutritious. Especially the radish greens! (Source: Radishes and Radish Greens)
That’s right. The lush greens you snatch to lift a ripe radish from the soil are a delight themselves.
As with standard radish varieties, the “radish greens” of the French Breakfast Radish can also be eaten. Washed and tossed into a saucepan of olive oil (or avocado oil), garlic, and onion, this wilted green is a delicious accompaniment…(Source: French Breakfast Radish)
Whether wilted alone or mixed with spinach and shredded Swiss chard, these nutrient rich greens will improve your plate. And radish greens sautéed then puréed with cream (or nondairy alternative such as Macadamia milk) make a delicate soup as pretty as it is piquant.
Spring along the Adirondack Coast tempts us with plenty of enticing seasonal flavors, but a personal favorite is the sweet tart medley of local maple syrup and homegrown rhubarb. Although we’re still a little shy of rhubarb time, the maple syrup is standing by, and my imagination is conjuring up this springtime staple. It’s as perfectly paired with a steaming cup of morning tea or coffee as with grilled protein and a spring mixed green salad.
Rosslyn Rhubarb Time (Photo: Geo Davis)
The images in today’s post, rhubarb photos that I posted on Instagram back in 2021, were inspired when Pam thrust a healthy handful of rhubarb stems into my grateful paw one morning. They’re a pinch more poignant now because our rhubarb crowns were accidentally rolled under last spring and we haven’t yet propagated a new generation.
Now that I’ve dangled the palate puckering temptation of rhubarb sautéed in maple syrup I’m going to ask your forbearance as I take a brief detour. I’ll get back to the super simple recipe in a moment.
But first an amuse-gueule: rhubarb haiku.
Rosslyn Rhubarb Time (Photo: Geo Davis)
Rhubarb Haiku
Still chill, spring soil parts.
Green, red, unclenching, stalking,
sweet tart rhubarb.
When spring’s still inhospitable weather and clammy soil don’t seem to suggest this potent plant coming forth, just then, it does. Courageous and colorful. A fist unfurling from the earth, stretching out into impossibly lush, almost tropical, foliage. It is rhubarb time again.
Perhaps this tangle of tartness and sweetness, cool climate growth and tropical semblance, is the allure of rhubarb time.
Rosslyn Rhubarb Time (Photo: Geo Davis)Rosslyn Rhubarb Time (Photo: Geo Davis)
Rosslyn Rhubarb Time
Rhubarb was one of my first forays into homegrown edibles back in 2007. I transplanted several crowns from my parent’s Rock Harbor property. We did not yet own the acreage west of the barns, so I hadn’t even begun to conceive of the gardens and orchard that we’ve been fortunate to develop since acquiring the first portion of our backland from Greystone in 2008/9.
I propagated the transplanted rhubarb crowns directly to the south of the carriage barn within the stone foundation of a long gone lean-to addition to the barn that may have at one point housed animals judging from the fertile soil. Combined with sunlight and heat reflected off of the carriage barn’s southern facade, this proved a productive microclimate for rhubarb (and asparagus) in those early years.
When fortune cast her benevolent gaze upon us, allowing us to add +/-28 acres to Rosslyn, I transplanted the rhubarb (and the asparagus) to a new location about 100 feet west of the carriage barn, where the plants would benefit from plenty of sunlight. These hardy perennials served as reliable forerunners for today’s productive vegetable and fruit gardens.
Their propagation served another symbolic, if sentimental, importance to me. Both — Rosslyn’s rhubarb and Rosslyn’s asparagus — were transplanted from existing beds that my mother had previously transplanted from our childhood home (see “Homeport in Wadhams, NY”) to Rock Harbor a couple of decades prior. A continuity reaching back to childhood, a lineage of homes, and a meaningful association with my mother, the self taught gardener who exposed me as a boy to the uniquely fulfilling practice of germinating, propagating, cultivating, harvesting, preparing, and sharing homegrown food. A perennial interconnectedness.
Rock Harbor Rhubarb Time
Turning back the clock a dozen years to May 31, 2011 I posted about harvesting Rock Harbor rhubarb some 5-6 years prior. (If lost in the math, the following refers to the time when Susan and I were contemplating the still-unlikely possibility of moving from New York City to the North Country. Rosslyn was still more playful pipedream than reality.)
We walked down the road from the tennis court and stopped off at my parents’ house, still closed up for the winter. It would be several weeks before my parents arrived in Rock Harbor for the summer, and by then the asparagus would have gone to seed, so we picked enough for dinner and enough extra to bring back to the city for another meal.
I also picked a fistful of rhubarb to sauté with maple syrup for dessert. Susan disliked rhubarb, but I loved the lip puckering tartness. The taste transports me instantly to The Farm. (Source: The Farm)
Rock Harbor Rhubarb (Source: Geo Davis)
Much as our Rock Harbor rhubarb bridged time and place, Rosslyn’s rhubarb had become a seasonal reconnection bridge to a timeless tapestry of family, gardening, meals shared, and home oases.
Before I slide further down the slippery slope of sentimentality, I’d better get on with that recipe!
Maple Rhubarb Recipe
This maple rhubarb recipe may well be the simplest how-to you’ve ever come across. Sometimes the best recipes are the simplest!
Trim rhubarb ends to remove any leaf remnants (which are toxic to humans due to high levels of oxalic acid.)
Trim rhubarb ends to remove earthy bits.
Chop rhubarb into 1/2″ to 3/4″ pieces.
Fill a saucepan about halfway full of chopped rhubarb, and place on low heat.
Add a cup of water and a teaspoon of vanilla.
Cover the sauce pan and simmer for 15 minutes, stirring periodically to ensure even sautéing.
Once the rhubarb has begun to break down evenly, add a dash of cinnamon
Add maple syrup to taste.
Top this quick dessert/snack with whipped cream, vanilla ice cream, or a dollop of vanilla yoghurt. (If you’re dairy free, as I am, substitute your preferred alternative!)
The sweet tart flavor profile of sautéed maple rhubarb is so unique, so scintillating, so memorable that my taste buds are tingling as I write these words. Enjoy.
In my bride’s family birthdays are celebrated with endurance and fanfare. In fact, my bride’s late father preferred to think of birthdays as commemorative seasons, not days at all. Celebrating for anything less than a week was simply barbaric in his estimation.
Corn Cake Batter
So, over the last decade I’ve become accustomed to multiple birthday celebrations, abundant gift-giving and the family birthday dinner: game hens, artichokes and mashed potatoes or rice followed by birthday cake. For my vegetarian bride swordfish is substituted for a game hen, but few other exceptions are made.
Tradition is tradition. Comfort food is comfort food. These are the givens.
Most families enjoy revered meals steeped in nostalgia and embraced generation after generation. And yet my family’s most traditional comfort food, corn cakes and turkey gravy, provokes looks of bewilderment and lame excuses when I invite friends to experience meal.
Care to Try Corn Cakes and Turkey Gravy?
Conjured out of Thanksgiving and Christmas leftovers, neither holiday is complete without the lumpy griddle fried cakes and rich turkey gravy, thick with chunks of leftover turkey. Eaten for lunch or dinner, the meal is filling, tasty and a delightful flashback to the autumns and winters of my childhood.
Corn Cakes
Over the years I have introduced countless friends to this quirky combination of ingredients. And though most have been polite, few have devoured the meal or asked for the family recipe.
My bride’s recent phone call with her mother offers the typical response to my corn cake and turkey gravy invitations.
“Why don’t you join us for corn cakes and turkey gravy on Sunday,” Susan asked.
“Corn cakes and turkey gravy?”
“You’ve never had them? Oh, it’s a tradition in George’s family…” Susan went on to explain the dish.
“Hmmm, that sounds interesting, but…” It was clear to me that my mother-in-law’s interesting was akin to, “Are there any other options?”
So we ate steak with leftover mashed potatoes and green beans. Delicious.
Craving Corn Cakes…
Turkey Gravy
But on Monday evening I fired up the griddle and prepared corn cakes and turkey gravy. Leftover mashed potatoes, green beans and Brussels sprouts rounded out the meal (as did a mind massaging Chardonnay from South Africa.)
I got carried away and prepared enough corn cakes and turkey gravy to eat all week! Now, who can I invite over for the leftover-leftovers so that they can politely demur when I offer then seconds?
I suspect there’s a forgotten history explaining my family’s post-Thanksgiving and post-Christmas culinary comfort food, but I’ve been unable to ferret it out. Yet.
Time to Interview Mom
I’m pretty certain that the tradition comes from my mother’s family, so I’ll pose a few questions to the world’s best (and my favorite) mom, Melissa Davis.
Me: Is it fair to say that I inherited my appetite for corn cakes and turkey gravy from your side of the family?
Mom: Yes, I don’t know anyone else who ate them other than the Duvalls, so from my side via my mother.
Me: Do you know anything about the origins of corn cakes and turkey gravy?
Mom: No, just that my grandmother Lela made them. Or I thought she did. I suppose my mom could have made them up!
Me: Did you eat corn cakes and turkey gravy as a child or did the tradition start later?
Corn Cakes and Turkey Gravy
Mom: We always ate them the same way we Davises now do, following a turkey dinner (which for us Wellers was the traditional Thanksgiving and Christmas meal). We would also have them if we had a random turkey meal at other times of the year. I’m trying to remember if my Aunt Margaret Liggett (my granny’s sister who lived near us in Colorado) also made them. I vaguely think so which would increase the chances that they came from that side of the family. They were daughters of a union of a Swedish American and an Irish American.
Me: Did you actually enjoy corn cakes and turkey gravy the first few times you ate it?
Mom: I can’t remember the first time I had them, but I loved the meal always. For a while when I was little, I preferred them to the first meal of the turkey. I loved the holidays because I knew the corn cakes and turkey gravy inevitably would follow!
Me: When you serve corn cakes and turkey gravy to people for the first time, how do they tend to react?
Mom: Politely but without enthusiasm! Our guests on Friday were complimentary, but only one person ate seconds. Do you remember when I fed them to your college Christmas visitors? They were all polite, but I don’t remember anyone gobbling them up. I can hardly think of anyone to whom we introduced this fabulous meal who genuinely liked them!
Me: What do you consider the best accompaniment for corn cakes and turkey gravy?
Mom: Browned leftover mashed potatoes or hash browns (so you can add the gravy to them) and a green salad. If you like cranberry, it’s a good place to get rid of the leftover cranberry sauce. I don’t especially!
Me: Can you offer any special tips on how to prepare corn cakes and turkey gravy?
Mom: I have always just used the basic Joy of Cooking pancake recipe, cut back on the sugar amount and added canned corn. I’ve doubled it without problem and added a second can of corn. I use any leftover gravy from the main meal and make new gravy from the first round of “stocktaking” off the turkey bones. I also add lots of leftover meat if it is for our family. I don’t always make it as meaty for guests since the meat seems to be off-putting to some.
My mother’s brother, Uncle Herman, admitted an enduring fondness for corn cakes and turkey gravy while confirming the maternal family link, and he offered a possible clue.
I wonder if they were a Pennsylvania Dutch recipe Mom discovered. ~ Herman Weller
Perhaps. Or Swedish-Irish. Or just a creative way to get kids to eat leftovers?
It worked. I still love them! What’s your family’s comfort food?
Corn cakes and turkey gravy aren't the most elegant victuals ever laid upon a dining table, but they're deli http://t.co/iAALP5mR
Was it an indigo bunting (Passerina cyanea) I spied at our bird feeder?
Rather than whining through another verse of the Bali Blues on my harmonica, I awoke on my first morning back at Rosslyn in a fever to jump-start autumn/winter rituals. Top of the list was setting up the bird feeders in anticipation of Adirondack birding. A recent radio report on Vermont Public Radio had mentioned that October through April is the recommended bird feeding season. Sorry birds!
Set up (and filled) bird feeders for fall/winter/spring. Off to a gr8 birding season: bluejays, chickadees, cardinals and indigo bunting.
I hasten to add (for the sake of Ellen Pober Rittberg (@ellen_rittberg) and any other seasoned birders who I may have inadvertently mislead) that I’m not 100% certain I saw an indigo bunting. The size and general description in our bird books were spot-on, but the coloration was considerably darker than the flashy blue in the illustrations. And I realize that the beginning of November is late in the migration calendar for an indigo bunting to be spotted this far north. Perhaps this helps?
“It displays sexual dimorphism in its coloration; the male is a vibrant blue in the summer and a brown color during the winter months, while the female is brown year-round.” (Wikipedia)
Either the late date explains the closer-to-blue-black coloration of the bird I spied at the feeders hanging in our ginkgo or else I’ve misrepresented the fancy fellow. (All other suggestions are welcome in the comments below!)
In any case, kamikaze chickadees began dive bombing me while I was installing the bird feeders despite the fact that all four feeders were empty. At first. Until they weren’t. I stuffed them with black oil sunflower seeds. And waited. But the birds were gone! So much for Adirondack birding…
So much for squirrel-proof bird feeders. You've gotta respect our Adirondack "monkeys", no? #rossl @ Rosslyn http://t.co/H4nWLYYV
I’ve accepted that I’m not making any headway toward convincing my haven-for-wildlife-unless-they’re-predators bride that we should feed songbirds, not squirrels. Perhaps its time to swap Adirondack birding for Adirondack squirreling aspirations? Although, the latter conjures up the image of my bearded, red and black check wool coated, Daniel Boone hat wearing, shotgun toting alter ego trudging through the snow.
I suppose it doesn’t much matter if we feed the birds or the squirrels, especially since the latter inevitably results in considerably wilder window safaris. And yet I still have some misgivings.
The idea started logically enough. Sprinkle excess food on the stone walls, etc. so the squirrels will not try to “rob” food from the bird feeders.
Unfortunately, the squirrel population mushroomed last winter and the songbird population shrank. Are the wee feathered critters intimidated by the squirrels? I suspect the equation is a bit more complicated.
You see in addition to squirrels, my bride’s robust feeding regimen also attracted a healthy host of doves and pigeons. And crows. It seems that the density of big critters discourages the little songbirds, but I’m venturing into the land of brazen hypothesis here. With plenty of plump squirrels and pigeons waddling around, it was only a matter of time before savvy foxes and hawks got wind of the Rosslyn buffet. I suspect that it doesn’t take too many fox attacks and hawk attacks before the songbirds wise up and search for friendlier dining.
Stay tuned for further developments.
In the mean time, I’ll enjoy the abundance of songbirds that have been flocking to our feeders over the past couple of days. And the endless Canada Geese migrating south, many of which stop on Rosslyn’s waterfront to spend the night. There must have been three hundred geese standing along the shoreline and bobbing in the morning waves when I looked out my office window today!
After the rainiest spring/summer in years, the summer of 2012 appears to be one of the driest, and Rosslyn gardens have mostly profited. Time for an update on our mid-July veggies, plus an important question about squash blossoms at the end.
Lake Champlain water levels are plummeting (waterfront/dock/boating update soon) and lawns are either crispy, crunchy or perpetually showered by sprinklers. With the exception of new grass we’re starting as part of ongoing repairs to the damaged waterfront, we’re trying to minimize our environmental impact by letting the lawns dry up but drip, drip, dripping the vegetables, herbs and orchard.
Eggplant and Blossom, Rosslyn Gardens
It’s a curious twist of fate that we were just beginning to repair our waterfront from flood damage at this point last year, and this year we’re experiencing a sustained drought. But we’re taking advantage of the heat for lots of Lake Champlain watersports and Adirondack Coast bike rides. Life is good!
What about that mid-July veggies update I promised?
So far, the drought winners in the vegetable garden appear to be the zuchini and yellow squash (Are they are channeling their “inner tropics”?!?!), Imperial Star Artichokes, eggplant, peppers and tomatoes. Although I keep expecting the watermelons and cantaloupes to explode, they’ve been sluggish. Bizarre. Many years our seasons are too short for them, and yet when we blast them with dry heat day after day, they get logy. Why?
The leeks are also struggling. I suspect they need even more water than they are getting… Will try to keep them wetter this week. The pumpkins and cucumbers are also way behind where they’d normally be at this point in the summer. I’d hoped to trellis the cukes this year. Never done that before, but intrigued by the smaller plot and self-shade possibilities as well as the opportunity to keep the cucumbers up off the earth so they’ll be less vulnerable to pests. Unfortunately the plants are still so small I haven’t been able to train any of them up onto the cedar trellises yet. Soon, I hope!
Zuchini Squash Blossom, Rosslyn Gardens
The good news is that we’ve been devouring radishes (see French Breakfast Radish) and greens for over a month. Already finished with the first radish and lettuce patches and making good headway through the second patches. Will plant more lettuce this week along with beans and another squash crop. No more radishes. I think I’ve already hit my limit.
Why so much squash? Yes, we too get sick of squash, but each year I plan to harvest and prepare squash blossoms. But so far it’s never happened. This year I’ve vowed to learn several good ways to prepare squash blossoms. I have some interesting recipes, but would love to hear your favorite way to prepare squash blossoms. And I need to figure out the best way to clean the squash blossoms before cooking. Seems that ants in particular love to get inside. How do you prepare your squash blossoms?
Thanks to Sacha Marcucci for her tasty sounding recommendation:
@virtualDavis one of our favorite restaurants stuffs them with ricotta, then lightly batters and frys (fries?sp.) them. delish.
This morning I spied a Colorado Potato Beetle (Leptinotarsa decemlineata) or three in the vegetable garden. Here’s a fuzzy snapshot of one Colorado Potato Beetle contentedly munching away on young eggplant leaves.
Colorado Potato Beetle on Eggplant Leaf (Source: Geo Davis)
Do you see the yellow striped beetle? It’s approximately center frame.
Here’s a closeup of another Colorado Potato Beetle once I flicked him/her onto the ground.
Colorado Potato Beetle (Source: Geo Davis)
Despite the fact that these pests are aren’t questionably distractive to the vegetable garden, I find it difficult to kill such a beautiful creature. Somehow it’s easier to squish a slug that it is to crush this handsomely striped beetle.
Despite my aesthetic misgivings, I dispatched each Colorado Potato Beetle and made a mental note to doodle or perhaps watercolor one. Or two. (See above.)
This post, the latest installment in my friend or foe series, will endeavor to demystify Colorado Potato Beetle (Leptinotarsa decemlineata).
Description: The mature beetles are around 1/3″ long and their hard, rounded shell (think modern VW bug) is yellow with black stripes (body) and orange with black spots (head). Although I haven’t seen any yet, the Colorado Potato Beetle larvae “are plump orange grubs with two rows of black dots on each side of the body.” (Source: Great Garden Companions: A Companion Planting System for a Beautiful, Chemical-Free Vegetable Garden, Sally Jean Cunningham)
Damage: They defoliate potatoes, eggplant, tomatoes, peppers, etc.
Prevention: Straw mulch and row covers. Remove and crush larvae and adults.
Enemies: According to Cunningham, the Colorado Potato Beetle appeals to lots of predators including: “ground beetles, spined soldier bugs, and two-spotted stinkbugs, as well as birds and toads.” She offers plenty of additional options for gardeners interested in introducing/encouraging predators.
Companions: Bush beans ostensibly discourage Colorado Potato Beetle infestations, as do garlic, horseradish, “tansy, yarrow, and other Aster Family plants…”
I’ll start by hunting, doodling, and crushing. And then I’ll hustle up on installing our straw mulch (we’re WAY behind!) and adding some companion plants. Fingers crossed.
Imagine for a moment enduring many, many months without fresh, homegrown produce. Tragic, right? Especially for a passionate gardener who loves to prepare and share garden-to-table fare for family and friends. Now you can stop imagining because this next part requires no imagination… It’s Spargelzeit!
The word Spargel means asparagus and Zeit means time. The term Spargelzeit refers to the time of year when white asparagus is harvested in Germany (some call it Spargelsaison – “asparagus season”). (Source: GermanyinUSA.com)
Essex is a decent wander from Germany, but I certainly share their enthusiasm for the first harvest of homegrown asparagus. So whether we call it asparagus time (Spargelzeit) or asparagus season (Spargelsaison), let’s celebrate the first garden-to-table produce of the 2023 season.
Spargelzeit: Steamed Asparagus (Photo: Geo Davis)
Now, there is one little hiccup in my declaration of Spargelzeit, and that has to do with the color of the king of vegetables. But I’m getting slightly ahead of myself. Let’s return to Germany for a moment.
It’s that time of year again — the asparagus season has started in Germany! To say Germans love this seasonal vegetable would be an understatement… they absolutely adore it. Every year, the average German consumes roughly 1.5kg of the vegetable that is often referred to as the ‘king of the vegetables’.
Whilst the green variety is available all year round, Germans prefer the seasonal white variety that grows only during ‘Spargelzeit’ (asparagus season) which lasts from mid-April to mid or late June. (Source: Medium.com)
I remember discovering something similar while living in Paris in my 20s. Although the French considered white asparagus a delicacy, they looked askance at green asparagus. Too pedestrian, perhaps. Peculiar, say I. After all, the white asparagus has practically no flavor at all. But green asparagus, I’d like to suggest, is, in fact, the precise taste of the color green. Delicate, subtly bitter, and bursting with vibrance. The taste of spring… The taste of spring…
Spargelzeit: Asparagus for Dinner, May 6, 2023 (Photo: Geo Davis)
In the photo above the asparagus occupies place of honor in the middle of my plate. To the left, a simple grilled ground beef patty from Full and By Farm, and to the right some organic tomatoes I picked up in Vermont. Having spent the morning planting tomatoes in our high tunnel with Tony, I am hopeful, that soon — or at least far sooner than usual — I will be able to share photos of our earliest-ever tomatoes!
As a nod to Spargelzeit I tried to accompany my Rosslyn asparagus with other local food. Perhaps a sausage would have been more appropriate.
Traditional restaurants offer menus dedicated to this seasonal favourite, offering soups, salads and warm spears served with hollandaise sauce. It’s also served as a sort of add-on to other regional favourites, piled upon a schnitzel or a slice of saumagen (a haggis-like specialty from the Pfalz region), or stacked alongside a pair of hot, meaty bratwürste. When it comes to any plate of food in Germany, white asparagus is no exception: more is definitely more. That’s not a stereotype that will ever be crushed. (Source: The Guardian)
More is more, but I’ve decided to temper my overexuberance on this first day of Rosslyn Spargelzeit. I was tempted to serve myself a second heaping mound of asparagus, but I managed to exercise a modicum of restraint and placed them instead into the fridge for tomorrow’s lunch. Chilled asparagus with balsamic vinaigrette. Delicious.
As asparagus time begins yielding to rhubarb time (photo update soon!) I brainstorm asparagus recipes that I’ll lament overlooking once seasonality advances our homegrown ingredients. A vague recollection sends me filtering through old blog posts and then drafts of incomplete blog posts. I find notes started on May 14, 2014, and I know what my final garden-to-gullet asparagus recipe will be: green eggs and ham.
Asparagus Green Eggs
Although there are many tasty ways to concoct delicious green eggs (avocado, artichoke hearts, succulent spinach fresh from the garden,…) today I will alchemize the quintessential taste of spring — delicate asparagus spears bursting with their 100% unique tanginess — and hyperlocal, free range eggs from Full and By Farm.
Green Eggs and Ham: garden-fresh spring asparagus (Photo: Geo Davis)
Look at the brilliant yellow-orange color of the eggs! Almost too colorful to believe. And yet this is the signature of local, free range eggs. We consider ourselves fortunate indeed to enjoy a steady stream of organic eggs from Full and By Farm.
Green Eggs and Ham: farm-fresh eggs from Full and By Farm (Photo: Geo Davis)
Although at other times we might’ve been able to prepare pork from Full and By Farm (or another local farm) in this case I’ve used dulcedumbres, smoked ham from the Village Meat Market just up the road in Willsboro.
Green Eggs and Ham: deli sliced ham from Village Meat Market cut into strips (Photo: Geo Davis)
As the ingredients start to set up with a little heat, the yellow, green and pink are still distinct, three parts of a perfect medley.
Green Eggs and Ham: local ingredients and lots of love! (Photo: Geo Davis)
Cooked to perfection (overcooked, my bride would say), green eggs and ham, make the perfect breakfast, lunch, or dinner!
Dr. Seuss’ Green Eggs and Ham
I imagine that many of us, perhaps even most of us.) remember the book, Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss. If you’re needing a little blast from the past, enjoy this video.
Does anybody recollect seeing the Sherwood Inn‘s boathouse billboard as photographed above. It’s well before my time, but probably not too long before my earliest Essex memories in the 1970s. I recently reached out to our friend Cheri Phillips to find it what she might know about the photograph above. She generously gifted me the photo shortly after we purchased Rosslyn, but she no longer recalls where it came from. In terms of seasonality, it looks like late winter or early spring. March seems likely. And the abbreviated west end of the boathouse pier intrigues me. Perhaps that helps narrow down rough timeline? I’m hoping that one of our insightful readers will be able to help fill in the gaps?
Today bold signage no longer greets the eye in Essex, but the handprinted (I’m guessing) boathouse billboard must have been extremely visible on the waterfront rooftop just north of the ferry dock. It’s the most attention grabbing element in the photo above, but there are some additional details worth noting as well. For example, if you examine the left side of the photo, roughly halfway up the edge, you can just barely detect the roof of the long gone bathhouse once located north of Rosslyn’s boathouse and roughly adjacent to the remains of a crib dock that once reached far out into Lake Champlain. Also notable is the absence of trees along the waterfront. This and other images made in the 1940s, 50s, and 60s reveal a virtually treeless lakefront at Rosslyn and the other residences located south of Rosslyn: Sunnyside, and Greystone.
Sherwood Inn Signage on Boathouse Roof (Photo: Cheri Phillips)
In just a few short months it’s possible if not likely that we’ll be able to enjoy a similar perspective looking northeast from roughly Sunnyside. There will be considerably more trees, and most likely there will be considerably less ice and snow on the lake. And not boathouse billboard! Although it’s too early to guess, recent years have resulted in fewer and fewer significant freezes of the broad lake. Perhaps this year will be different? If so, maybe we can stage a now-and-then duet with Cheri’s vintage view of Sherwood Inn’s boathouse billboard.
Springtime is tulip time, a dramatic chapter in gardners’ succession blooming cycles. With snow drops, hyacinth, and daffodils fading, colorful tulip blooms take center stage. And this year’s tulip time does not disappoint.
Tulip Time (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
Signs of springtime are abundant lately. It’s asparagus time. Also ramps, apple blossoms, dandelions, fiddleheads, tulips, nettles,… And lily of the valley unfurling dramatically. An entire army of terpsichorean twirlers synchronized, slowly unfurling, mesmerizing. (Source: Lily of the Valley Unfurling )
With especial thanks to my bride Susan Bacot-Davis for her moody photos, I offer you three intimate portraits of our current tulip time. Like festive gala gowns these goblets of pigmented petals dazzle and dare us to imagine springtime maturing into sizzling summer soon…
Tulip Time (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
So much confidence and coquetry in these precocious summertime previews. And yet these blooms are delicate, susceptible to swings in temperature and downpours.
Tulip Time (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
The tulips make me want to paint, Something about the way they drop Their petals on the tabletop And do not wilt so much as faint… (Source: A.E. Stallings, “Tulips”, Poetry Foundation
It’s that remarkable season of reawakening, spring, glorious springtime! And more than all of the other blooms that announce the season of unslumbering, Dandelions remind us that nature is nourishing and vibrant and brilliantly colorful.
Routinely dismissed, even abhored, as an annoying weed, dandelions are for me a welcome harbinger of warming temperatures, greening environs, several seasons of blooms and fruit and vegetables. And yet dandelions remain mostly symbolic representatives of reawakening, vivid reminders of the abundance we’ll soon celebrate.
Friend or Foe: Dandelions (Photo: Geo Davis)
A decade or more ago Tom Duca introduced me and a gathering of Essex area friends to The Teeth of the Lion: The Story of the Beloved and Despised Dandelion by Anita Sanchez. His enthusiasm for her enthusiasm about dandelions made an impression on me that afternoon. I planned to read it, but it slipped off my radar. Until now. I’ve located a copy that is presently wending is way to me. So, soon I’ll be able to amplify my understanding (and presumably my appreciation) for dandelions.
But even before educating myself I’ll comfortably come down on the side of dandelions bring friends. Yes, I know that many might consider them an invasive scourge peppering the perfection of an otherwise green lawn.
Friend or Foe: Dandelions (Photo: Geo Davis)
But I do not share this disdain. Rather, dandelions evoke childhood wonder and enthusiasm for spring a perennially optimism inspiring season for me. Simply put springtime is seasonality’s metaphorical morning. And rambunctious riots of dandelions are one of the most exuberant symbols of the season. Persistent, yes, but in so many cases we’re able to recognize the merits of persistence. Why not dandelions?
We know too that dandelions are a forager’s friends, Nature’s nourishing gift of vitamins and minerals after months of hibernal stinginess. I’ve enjoyed tender dandelion greens in a spring salad mixes from the store, but I’ve rarely made the effort to harvest these spicy freebies from the yard. It’s an embarrassing oversight I intend to remedy. Soon. And dandelion wine? So many experiments to explore…
Friend or Foe: Dandelions (Photo: Geo Davis)
So for now, I’ll optimistically file dandelions as friend (and not foe) despite the proclivity of so many among my gardening aficionado cohort to vilify and endeavor to extirpate this sunny sojourner. If designation by and large comes down to bias, I’ve now made mine known. Caveat emptor. And once I’ve made it through Sanchez’s book I’ll be able to update this post with a meatier installment justifying my somewhat sentimental declaration that dandelions are our friends. Stay tuned…
I missed my mark — Earth Day, April 22, 2023 — with this post extolling the poetry of earth. It was germinal then, and it remains germinal today (albeit marginally more mature?)
Sometimes a seed germinates with exuberance, practically exploding into existence as if overcome with the glory of imminent bloom and fruit. Other times a seed lingers dormant — cautious or reticent or simply, inexplicably vigorless — for so long that its potential is overlooked, obscured by the foliage and flowers and harvest of its neighbors.
And through it all nature’s song endures. Just when we are lulled into torpid tranquility it swells in symphonic crescendo.
“The poetry of earth is never dead.” — John Keats, “On the Grasshopper and Cricket” (Source: Poetry Foundation)
Poetry of Earth, May 2, 2010 (Photo: Geo Davis)
Often a blog post is sketched out with a few simple strokes that distill the essence for what I expect to write about. A mini map yo I de ate my route. As I develop the post, filling in the voids, perhaps adding texture and color and context, I approach the anticipated narrative scope. Upon arriving at my destination I publish and share. But exploring a preliminary sketch or fleshing out a rough outline sometimes occasionally renders surprises. Wayward adventures lurk in the most unlikely places. I plan to take journey A, but I end up taking journey B.
And then there are the posts that linger dormant. A seed is planted, but it doesn’t leap to life. Perhaps the ground is still too cold, the earth isn’t sufficiently fertile, or the rain and sun remain elusive. A sketch, an outline, a map. Perhaps even a journey — or several journeys — but they are abbreviated and fruitless. False starts.
It is wise on these occasions to move on. Maybe circle back in the future. Try again. Or compost the effort that it might fertilize another seed. For this is the wisdom of nature and the gardener. This is the poetry of earth.
My mind meanders from Pollyanna printemps — nature reaching and bursting, reinvigorating all that withered and laid dormant these frosty days and nights of winter — to autumn’s harvest. Symphonic crescendo and resounding applause. Such success and such succession. Sweet reward and bitter decline. Decadence and decay.
This seasonal swan song’s poignance is the marriage of expiry and infinity, waning and immortality.
As when winter succumbs to spring’s tender caresses, thawing and refreezing, thawing and refreezing, melting into muddy mess, then gathering composure, turning etiolated tendril toward the sun begins to warm, to green, toward foliage and flower and fruit and… fall.
The poetry of earth is a consoling refrain. It is a reminder that beginnings end and endings seed new beginnings. Out of the mud, a sprout. From the sprout a life full of wonder and another generation of seeds.
“The poetry of earth is ceasing never…” — John Keats, “On the Grasshopper and Cricket” (Source: Poetry Foundation)
Keats’ poem delivers where I have come up short. Perhaps grasshoppers and crickets and birds lend themselves more willingly to the poetry of nature. Perhaps not. Perhaps this still muddled effort is destined for the compost where it’s decomposition will enrich a subsequent effort to compose this song of seasonality that so far eludes me. To convey the tragic beauty, and the profoundly consoling inspiration of the poetry of nature…
