Gardening for Dummies

Sunday, July 29, 2012 – Gardening for Dummies 

What's that tall thing in the center?

Many of my Facebook friends regularly post photos of their beautiful gardens.  I’ve oohed and aahed over pictures of their daylilies, hydrangeas, and every sort of flower imaginable.  I always click “like” when I see the photos.  At the same time, I always have to suppress a twinge of guilt that those photos arouse in me.  Mon jardin, my very own garden, bears absolutely no resemblance to the photos Marie-Claude, Teri, Jean, and others so proudly display. 

I freely admit that I have absolutely no gardening talent whatsoever.  Oh, occasionally I get lucky and one of my plants flourishes, at least for a while.  Most often, this applies to houseplants, however.  Decades ago, when I lived in Boston, I had a rubber tree named Esmeralda.  I kept Esmeralda alive for a number of years and sorrowfully gave her up for adoption when I moved to France after my marriage.  Perhaps my success with Esmeralda gave me a false sense of hope for my gardening future.  I now suspect that she was one of those immortal plants that is impossible to kill. 

At the present time, I have a couple of fairly indestructible houseplants that, like Esmeralda, cling stubbornly to life.  See Exhibit A (below), known affectionately as the plant that would not die.  I believe this specimen is also called a cast-iron plant for its strong constitution and ability to withstand over-watering, under-watering, etc.  It was a hand-me-down from a teaching colleague who retired many years ago.  Exhibit B is a spider plant that started from a sprout contributed by friend Heidi in Philadelphia.  It is nearly as old as my younger child, who is twenty-five.  

EXHIBIT A

EXHIBIT B

These, however, are the exceptions in my history of houseplants.  More often than not, I’ve liked my houseplants, but they haven’t liked me. 

Let’s play a houseplant game I call “Good Plant, Bad Plant.”  Here is a photo of two of my houseplants, orchids of some kind.  Look closely at the photo; then identify the good plant.  Sure, the one on the left has petals, but the one on the right is a fine example of plant minimalism, with no fussy flowers to detract from the pure beauty of the line.  

Which is the "good" plant?

Before we move on, I have a question for those of you who are plant experts:  Is the plant on the right dead, or it just taking a rest before blooming again?  As you have probably guessed by now, I just don’t understand plants.  Maybe it’s because I’m too committed to equality.  My belief in equality extends to all living things, including plants.  I gave these two orchids equally (in)attentive care, and you saw the results.  Perhaps the answer lies in plant genetics, a subject I will not address today, as it’s time to venture out of doors for a look at mon jardin. 

It’s outside that my lack of gardening ability is most apparent.  If you were here for Elliott’s 100^th birthday celebration, you may have noticed planters brimming with blossoms beside the front doors and colorful impatiens gracing our front yard.  Weren’t they lovely?  Don’t thank me.  My only contribution was buying the plants.  It was Ziba who actually put them in the ground and watered them daily while she was here.  Just look at them now after several weeks of record-breaking high temperatures.  If they look a bit parched, there’s a simple explanation.  Local officials told us to conserve water, so I was just following directions.  

My former impatiens

However, some outdoor plants seem to thrive under my benign neglect.  See the photo below for evidence.  I don’t recall planting this hearty specimen to the right of the house number.  It just appeared one day in the front yard, peering over the groundcover and shrubs.  I don’t know its name, but it obviously falls into the “good plant” category.  

I have no idea what this tall plant is.

I won’t mention the grass in the front yard because there isn’t any.  Suffice it to say that whatever is growing on the ground there is mostly green. 

Now let’s take a look at my herb garden, which I plant annually.  Even my herbs are reluctant to grow, although I give them plenty of sunshine and occasional water.  The herbs live (for a while, anyway) in pots on the back deck.  This year, I planted some basil and thyme.  The chives and oregano surprised me because they are survivors from last summer who spontaneously popped up again.  One of the basil plants is beyond salvation, I’m afraid, but this year’s herb garden isn’t a total failure. 

The backyard is a better reflection of my approach to gardening.  I do everything in my power to keep it in its pristine sylvan state, which means I basically do nothing.  If a limb or branch falls from a tree, I leave it on the ground.  I’ve cultivated an appreciation for the profusion of thorny vines, velvety moss, and towering trees whose leaves turn brilliant shades of gold, orange, and burgundy in the fall.  For a few months in the spring, wild azaleas provide a burst of color.  Plus, there’s no grass to mow. 

Despite my lack of gardening talent, I haven’t given up on plants, either the indoor and outdoor varieties.  An important reason is because they serve a very useful purpose, namely as subjects for art.  Over the years, I’ve portrayed plants in several of my paintings, pastels, and drawings.  A portrait of Esmeralda hung in my Boston home.  And during a month-long house sitting adventure for our friend Joel, when he lived in Valbonne (France), I did scores of pencil sketches of various tropical plants in the garden.  We still have fond memories of Choukri, the gardener, who gave Elisa and Matthew wild rides in the wheelbarrow. 

Thinking back to that splendid garden in the South of France, I fantasize once again about having a “real” garden, like the ones you see in Impressionist paintings.  On second thought, I bet Monet had a gardener, and Renoir, too.  Otherwise, how would they have had time to do all those paintings?  So, to all my gardening friends, thanks for all your hard work and please keep those photos coming. 

Down by the Bay: 24 Hours in Annapolis

 

Friday, July 27, 2012 – Down by the Bay:  24 Hours in Annapolis

We got back around midday from a mini-staycation (only 24 hours) in Annapolis, Maryland.  The travel time from Fairfax is just over an hour, but it involves driving on the Beltway (anxiety level rises) and crossing the Potomac.  We met up there with Marie-Claude, Peter, and Darren, who drove down from Baltimore for the day.  They also brought Tyler along since he’s staying with them this week.  Despite the schvitz*-worthy weather (I was drenched in sweat within seconds of exiting the air-conditioned car), we spent most of the day walking around the campus of the NavalAcademy.  Our first stop was the museum, which had exhibits on the role of the Navy in American history.  In addition, the museum had a collection of model ships, including one made of animal bones, which was carved by French prisoners of war in the early 1800s.  Interesting, if you’re interested in that sort of thing.  

Tyler, Peter and Elliott at the Naval Academy

The campus itself was quite lovely.  Since it’s the summer, the only students on campus were the “plebes,” whom we viewed drilling formations – please help me here – my knowledge of military terminology is abysmal.  Basically, there were lots of new navy students in white uniforms marching in lines.  I think they have to do this everyday before they can go to lunch.  And speaking of lunch, we were hot and starving after our museum visit.  So instead of seeking out more interesting options (crabcakes, anyone?) on the waterfront, we ate in the visitors’ cafeteria on campus.  Throughout my 20-year teaching career, I’d avoided eating a single meal in a school cafeteria.  The cardboard pizza and iceberg lettuce salad I ate at the Academy yesterday confirmed the wisdom of that decision.  I just hope they’re feeding our future military officers food that is more nourishing and tasty.  

After lunch, Elliott and I tried to stay in the shade on our walk across campus to see the Levy Center, with its Jewish chapel.  The building was completed in 2005 and the pale stone structure is a beautiful and serene oasis.  Inside, the sanctuary, designed to accommodate Jewish students of all levels of observance, contains a rather unusual cylindrical ark where the Torah scrolls are kept. From the exhibits in the Center, we learned a lot about Commodore Uriah P. Levy, for whom the center is named, and about other Jewish naval officers.  Outside the building, there is a meditation garden, where we might have stopped if the weather hadn’t been so blisteringly hot.  

By mid-afternoon, we’d reached our limit for walking in the heat, although I must say that Elliott tolerated the hot, humid weather better than I did.  We made a brief stop by the dock to hydrate (ice cream for Elliott, iced coffee for me) before we sought out our hotel on nearby West Street.  Somehow, we managed to get a tiny bit lost on our way there, so we were especially glad to check in and cool off for a couple of hours.  O’Callaghan’s is part of a Dublin-based hotel chain, so we were treated to a warm Irish welcome upon our arrival.   

After resting up, we ventured out in the early evening in search of real food for dinner.  Even though the sun was low, the temperatures were still in the schvitzing range, so we didn’t want to go far.  Fortunately, just a few blocks from the hotel, we found a restaurant called Level, whose innovative menu featured small plates using locally sourced ingredients.  Unfortunately, I left my camera behind, so I’ll try to give you a cursory description of the meal we enjoyed:  a small platter with goat gouda, tapenade, and pickled cherries, accompanied by crispy flatbread; tender grilled calamari with crispy fried capers; sautéed veal medallions with mizuna greens and fennel; a bubbling hot mini peach cobbler served in its own tiny cast iron cauldron.  I'm not quite sure how my glass of wine, a shiraz from Australia’s Barossa Valley, qualified as local, but it paired so well with the cheese.

Our plan was to do an early morning exploration of the historic area on Friday before heading back home.  The temperatures were already climbing dangerously when we set out around 9.  The free Circulator trolley dropped us off at Church Circle, the site of St. Anne’s, an Episcopal Church that dates back to colonial times.  Also at the circle, Elliott pointed out the Maryland Inn where he stayed with his parents in 1914 – when he was two years old!  We strolled down Main Street, with all of its restaurants and shops, to the dock area with all of the boats.  It’s definitely a quaint and scenic area.  Since the stores weren’t open yet, Elliott didn’t have to fear that I’d acquire any souvenirs of the trip.  (I admit that I show signs of being a shopaholic when I travel.)  Elliott has his own travel-related obsession, namely looking at real estate.  Whenever we passed a real estate agency, we’d stop and look at the listings in the window.  At one agency, which was open early, we even went inside and asked for some information.  Don’t worry – we’re not moving to Annapolis, at least not yet.  

Elliott in front of the Helle Hansen store on Main Street

*I’ll end with a Yiddish lesson:  The word schvitz is a verb that means sweat.  Don’t think of sweat in the delicate sense of a polite sheen of dampness, but a profuse, uninhibited outpouring.  It’s a word often used by Jews of my grandparents’ generation, but it’s clearly been incorporated into the vocabulary of Americans of all ethnic backgrounds.  Case in point – last Sunday, I was listening to one of my favorite programs, Car Talk, on NPR, with hosts Tom and Ray, both Italian-Americans.  One of them made the comment, in a thick Boston accent, about the hordes of “schvitzing tourists in Hahvuhd Square.”  So schvitz is one of those linguistic gems that has gone from ethnic to mainstream.

Cool Morning, Hot Date

 

Wednesday, July 25, 2012 – Cool Morning, Hot Date

We decided to take advantage of relatively cool temperatures and humidity levels this morning and set out at around 9:00 A.M. for romantic Vienna – Vienna, Virginia, that is.   One of our favorite walks is along the W&OD Trail in downtown Vienna.  As we walked that part of the trail today, I learned that the Washington and Old Dominion Railroad dates back to 1860, that service was discontinued in 1968, and that the current trail stretches 45 miles from Arlington to Purcellville.  The trail gets a lot of use, even on weekdays.  There was the usual contingent of joggers and bicyclists, but what caught our attention today was the number of people pedaling past on three-wheeled vehicles that look like recumbent bicycles.  The riders were all colorfully decked out in helmets and riding gear and their bikes had tent-like coverings to shield them from the sun.  Hmmm, I think I have an idea for Elliott’s next birthday present. 

And a question for my gardener friends - I noticed this plant as we were walking and I was fascinated by the shape of the leaves.  Do you recognize it?

And speaking of birthdays, we celebrated again today since another month has passed since Elliott turned 100 years old on May 25.  Why wait a whole year when you can celebrate on the 25^th of every month?  Elliott likes my idea, but I’ll have to explain to him that he’ll be sharing his birthday in December.  Our mini-celebration didn’t feature a cake, but something else that Elliott actually prefers:  a delicious triple cream French cheese called Le Délice de Bourgogne (courtesy of Trader Joe’s, of course).  

By the way, his pain level is still under control, i.e. it remains tolerable.  We’re off to Annapolis tomorrow morning for a day of touring the Naval Academy and strolling around the harbor area with family members from Baltimore and Yorktown. 

Exciting Medical Breakthrough

 

Monday, July 23, 2012 – An Exciting Medical Breakthrough

After several days of suffering, Elliott has achieved a medical breakthrough in the campaign against pain. According to a highly scientific study conducted by Drs. Elliott and Robin Thompson over the past 24 hours, a combination of two prescription pain medications administered in conjunction with a large hot fudge sundae results in a significant decrease in pain.   In fact, this treatment regimen was so successful that I went out earlier today to replenish our supply of hot fudge sauce.  (There’s still plenty of Haagen Dazs vanilla and coffee ice cream in the freezer.)   From now on, I will insist that Elliott consume at least one hot fudge sundae per day. 

Our little research experiment calls to mind some words of wisdom that my mother, a non-apologetic lover of hot fudge sundaes, shared with me when I was a child.  Katie used to tell me that ice cream was good for the soul.  Now I can confidently say that it’s good for the body, too.  So remember, when experiencing pain, don’t forget to take your daily dose of ice cream, preferably with hot fudge sauce.  If you don’t believe me, just ask Elliott. 

In non-medical news, my friends Judy and Maya came over on Sunday for a lesson in gazpacho making.  Judy is a fairly inexperienced cook (and Maya is actually her 4-legged housemate) but I assured her that the Spanish soup is very simple to prepare.  The key is getting ripe, tasty tomatoes, which are readily available at this time of year.  I showed her how to peel the tomatoes and remove their seeds before putting them in the food processor.  The machine does the major part of the work for this recipe.  We also chopped up cucumber, red pepper, Vidalia onion, garlic, parsley and cilantro.  After processing, add some olive oil, red wine vinegar (just a bit), and salt and pepper.  Put it in the refrigerator to get nice and cold.  While it’s chilling, drink a good summery wine and nibble on a variety of cheeses and whole grain baguette slices.  When you eat the gazpacho, the tastes of a summer garden will fill your mouth.  

Finally, I just realized I’ve haven’t yet performed an important annual ritual, i.e. the ceremonial shredding of my AHS parking permit.  I’ve always done this over the summer as a way of symbolizing the conclusion of another school year.  When I was teaching, I always looked forward to getting a new one in September because we got a different color every year.  Sometimes it was fiery red or juicy orange, bright yellow or grass green.  The permit that, until yesterday, was languishing in the console compartment of the car is a lovely shade of blue, sort of tropical lagoon blue.  I brought it inside to dispose of it, but as I held it just centimeters above the hungry metal jaws of the shredder, I hesitated.  This is my last AHS parking permit.  Maybe I should frame it, or incorporate it into a collage.  Since I couldn’t make up my mind, I granted the permit a temporary reprieve.  In all likelihood, it will end up tucked away in a drawer or box, only to be rediscovered when I’m cleaning out the house at some future point in time.  

Back to Bamian

 

Saturday, July 21, 2012 – Back to Bamian

In yesterday’s episode of Traveling with My Tummy, we found ourselves in southern India, via the Woodlands Restaurant.  Today, we’re off to a remote area of Afghanistan, via a local Afghan restaurant named Bamian.  Actually, Bamian (the restaurant where I had lunch, not the town in Afghanistan) is in a densely populated and highly congested area of northern Virginia where Arlington, Falls Church, and Fairfax meet.  The occasion was a get-together with my friends Debra and Kathy, both of whom previously taught ESOL at Annandale High.  Debra chose the restaurant, and I was eager to try it.

The name of the restaurant conjures up memories of a trip I took to Afghanistan with my parents, way back in 1977.  They were living in Tehran at the time (for my father’s work) and when I came to visit, we all took off for a little adventure.  I remember Bamian quite well.  We traveled there from Kabul by taxi (our amazing driver took us everywhere).  The distance wasn’t great, but because of road conditions (mostly unpaved) and frequent encounters with herds of sheep, we bumped along in an old Russian sedan for several hours before we reached our somewhat desolate destination.  It was dusty and quiet when we arrived, and a soft golden light washed over the sheer cliffs rising around us.  We received a warm welcome at the Kuchi Hotel.  (The word “hotel” gives the wrong impression of the extremely simple establishment where we stayed.)  We ate our meals in a nearby yurt (large tent) set up in the courtyard.  The food wasn’t fancy, but I remember something called aushak, a sort of ravioli, being especially tasty. 

Of course, my parents and I didn’t venture out to Bamian for a luxury resort experience.  The main reason for our visit was to see the immense statues of Buddha carved into the rocks in mountainside caves.  (Note to self:  find Afghanistan photos and digitize them ASAP.)  At the time we were there, no one ever imagined that the Taliban would blow up these important works of art.  A significant part of the world’s cultural heritage, that had survived hundreds of years, was destroyed in minutes.  Another chapter in the terribly sad story of this region.  

with Kathy and Debra

Bamian restaurant in Virginia

So, having seen the “real” Bamian several years ago, I wasn’t expecting a restaurant with such a lovely décor.  Tablecloths, cloth napkins, and window treatments were certainly not part of our dining experience in Afghanistan thirty-plus years ago.  Tribal textiles, cushions on the floor, and brass lamps were what I expected to find, but I quickly adjusted to the elegant surroundings.  And I’m glad so Debra and Kathy are adventurous eaters who share my preference for mostly vegetarian cuisine.  We ordered a variety of dishes:  sambosas filled with chickpeas and herbs, a vegetarian platter (consisting of 3 delicious sautéed vegetable dishes – eggplant, pumpkin, and spinach), leek-stuffed aushak (ravioli), and an Afghan salad of tomatoes, cucumbers, and red onion.  The bread was pillowy soft whole-grain naan.  At Debra’s insistence (official excuse – we were still celebrating my birthday), we indulged in two desserts.  The pistachio flecked baklava and rice pudding were delicious, and neither was overly sweet.  The coffee was strong and dark.  I bet Elliott would be happy here.  (He’d order lamb kebabs.)  

Sambosas

delicious spinach, pumpkin and eggplant

leek-stuffed aushak with vegetable sauce

Afghan salad

Naan

rice pudding with pistachios

baklava with pistachios

Anyway, when I was with my mother a few days ago, I mentioned that I was going to a restaurant named Bamian and asked her if she remembered our trip.  She gave me a confused smile and a tentative nod, as I knew she would.  I don’t know why I continue to torture myself this way.  I guess it’s impossible for me to give up hope that her memory will return, as unrealistic as that seems.  I’ll go look for those old photos.  Maybe if I show her the pictures, she’ll be able to access some of the memories that are buried deep in her brain. 

A Rainy Friday

 

Friday, July 20, 2012 – A Rainy Friday

Help!  It’s the Tree Monster!  Just a few hours ago, I confronted this ugly brute standing there at the entrance to the woods, staring me down and blocking my path.  Since he clearly wasn’t going to shift his menacing stance, I summoned up my courage and made a swift detour around him.  It’s a good thing I was armed with my camera. 

I guess I wasn’t paying enough attention to the weather report this morning or I would have skipped the walk.  After last night’s thunderstorms, temperatures were indeed cooler, probably in the 70s.  I didn’t consider that the humidity levels were still up in the stratosphere when I made the decision to take a brisk morning walk to the post office.  I was simply thinking that I could burn up some of those calories from last night’s birthday cake.  My mail and I were a tad soggy by the time we reached the post office, and I was even soggier by the time I returned home.  Oh, well.  It was nothing that a shower couldn’t cure. 

Warning:  if you’re not a foodie, you can skip the next two paragraphs.  I met my friend Janet for lunch at Woodlands (aka Dosas to Die For).  It turns out that the restaurant has a new owner, new décor, and a slightly different selection of items on the buffet.  Even with an increase in price, it’s still a terrific value at $7.95 per person.  A group of Indian women dining at the restaurant gave us informal lessons on how to eat some of the less familiar items on the buffet.  I now know to punch hole in the little crunchy puff, fill it with potato-chickpea mixture, drizzle on tamarind sauce, and then dip the whole thing into some spicy coconut water before I pop it into my mouth.  Yum!  And that cute little donut shaped thing that’s actually made out of lentil flour?  You put it in one of the small metal bowls and ladle some sambar (a chunky vegetable soup) over it.   It’s called sambar vada, and it elicited another enthusiastic yum! of approval.  There were some new vegetable combinations to try as well as some old favorites, like the heavenly masala dosas.  The same held true for the dessert offerings:  familiar carrot halwa alongside an innovative mango rice pudding.  

It was a delicious lunch, and on the runny-nose scale, it rated 4 tissues.  Why is it that I never see Indian people with runny noses when they’re eating hot and spicy food?  Is it genetic or cultural or maybe developmental?  Is it something children learn at home, a family secret passed down from one generation to the next?  I’d love to know because I’ve been eating Indian food for years, and I still routinely stuff my bag with tissues before I go out for an Indian meal.

Maybe it’s the big lunch or maybe it’s the rain (actually it’s just one drop every ten seconds or so) that’s making me feel so drowsy this afternoon.  When a cup of real coffee didn’t snap me out of my tired state, I decided to turn to a new cure, something I call a “sky break.”  All you have to do is go outside and look up at the sky.  Do a wide-angle scan, all 360 degrees, which will take at least 30 seconds.  Take a few deep breaths, open your eyes really wide, and pay close attention to what you see.  Sometimes it’s colors, other times it’s the movement of clouds, or the way the sun illuminates certain parts of the sky.  If you’re still feeling sleepy when you come back inside, give yourself permission to lie down for a nap.  That’s what I’m going to do.  A rainy Friday afternoon is a good time for a little self-indulgence. 

Celebrating with a Celebrity

 

Thursday, July 19, 2012 – Celebrating with a Celebrity

This morning, Elliott put aside all thoughts of pain, dressed entirely in black, and hid his gorgeous blue eyes behind sunglasses when we went for our workout at Lifetime.  Even in his international man of mystery disguise, he was recognized by some of his many fans.  Such is the life of a celebrity.  As the world’s sexiest centenarian, he can’t escape all the attention. 

We ignored the weather (still hot and humid) and spent a major chunk of the day driving around northern Virginia to do errands.  At our first stop, we ordered frames for three beautiful landscape photographs taken by longtime friend Frank Di Perna.  Then it was lunchtime, so we stopped at the aptly named Celebrity Delly (yes, that’s how they spell it here) and filled our bellies with deli sandwiches.  Elliott’s had pastrami and corned beef, cheese and coleslaw, all on buttery toasted rye; mine was a vegetarian Reuben.  They were so messy – and oh, so delicious.  We should go there more often.  Next stop was the bakery in Alexandria, to pick up my birthday cake.  Our final destination was the pain center for Elliott’s new painkiller prescription.  (At my urging, he finally got in touch with the doctor earlier today.)

There was barely time to caffeinate, set the table, and start preparing for dinner.  Inspired by thoughts of chicken curry, I decided to try cooking some fresh summer vegetables in the new coconut oil that I recently purchased at Trader Joe’s.  Although the waxy-looking white stuff in the jar looked a bit off-putting, I went ahead and decided to experiment because when it comes to food, I’ll try almost anything once, as long as it doesn’t come from an animal that walks.  First, I used it to fry the very thin slices of onion until they were ultra-crispy.  Then I put a little more in the pan to sauté the zucchini and yellow squash.  I used an Indian spice mixture to season the vegetables while they were cooking, and stirred in some chickpeas.  Right before serving, I topped it with crispy fried onions, chopped cilantro, and toasted unsweetened coconut.  The verdict – extremely tasty, and a perfect complement to the mild and creamy chicken curry.  

The salad was somewhat experimental as well.  I wanted something different, something that combined a variety of textures, flavors, and colors.  Plus, it had to get along with the chicken curry and spicy vegetables.  I started with Trader Joe’s mixed greens, a super-healthy combination of baby spinach, baby kale, and baby chard.  To that, I added very thinly sliced fennel, radish and Granny Smith apple.  At the last minute, I sprinkled in crumbled goat cheese and walnut pieces.  I tossed the salad with a mustardy white balsamic vinaigrette.  Success!

We were all pretty full by then, especially since we commenced the evening by nibbling on an array of hors d’oeuvres provided by Pam and Ellen.  But we couldn’t skip dessert.  The lemon mousse cake with raspberry filling was the perfect finale – light, moist, not overly sweet, and beautiful to behold.  This was a birthday celebration worth waiting for.