late season blooms

I came across a healthy zucchini vine growing on the chain link fence on the corner of Propsect and Terrace. I wonder if I will ever catch that gardener in action, I've been admiring the plot for years. Anway, it's good to see a squash plant so healthy, this time of year many of them wither with some sort of fungus the family seems very susceptible too. I have a gourd plant in my front yard, a vine carrying many mature water jug gourds that is now practically leafless having been ravaged by some kind of disease, and the trellis itself is far worse for wear after the hurricane hit. I find it scenic and evocative, but I'm afraid my neighbors may beg to differ.

Merry Christmas!

Happy baby solstice sun! One strange thing I've learned lately, there are directions within directions, and seasons within seasons. So maybe this is the spring of winter?

Incandescent

I can't remember where I was recently when I came across a small tree barely holding onto a few last leaves, the small and papery lance-shapes hung straight down from petioles barely attached to their leaf axils, each leaf gradiating from the palest yellow at the base to the slightest wash of pink. Each leaf hanging in that windless moment promised to disperse as delicately as a breath calmed by peaceful sleep. These last leaves that fall now, the ones the wind keeps corralling in front of my door step along with people's discarded tissues, plastic bags and cup lids, heave down in tons of the most delicate sighs, the last sigh of the season, a sigh that feels loaded with the pain of heaving back towards so much beauty.

saturday evening

There's a meadow across from the dog beach in Prospect Park, one of only 2 feral grasslands in the park I think. The other is the butterfly meadow on top of Lookout Hill. This one's off limits, clearly distinct from the ball fields across from it. You can stand on the periphery and wonder what goes on beyond the civilized zone, especially when the low light cuts it half. It seems like times no one can remember.

mugwort tea

Good for the stomach!

ashes ashes

On the West side of my street grow many ashes. The ones closer to my house have leaves that turn yellow, and most of these trees have lost their leaves already. Farther down the ashes are still thick with petticoats of yellow leaves while the leaflets closer to the crown are sun caramelized to a deep red. To see these trees' flaming bleed once every year is worth the wait.

Around Kensington

A few practical matters: A lot has been going on around Kensington; jazz concerts in the E. 4th St. garden, a new wing of Jaya Yoga recently opened, and more is to come soon. In particular I'm looking forward to the Sean Casey Halloween Party on Oct 31 from 12 - 5, and the Kensington World's Fair, this Sunday Oct. 24 from 11-4 featuring live music, dance and food from around the world.

headlight

Goldenrod adds another light to the rocks of Two Lights, in Cape Elizabeth, Maine.

still under the spell

marigold going strong

Shopwindow, Manhattan

36 W. 17th Street, a shopfront I walk by often on the way to work. The business is called Barry Hard to Get Items. Last time I walked by I believe I saw a "for rent" sign on the window. No surprise really, what's surprising is how long it remained as above, one of the most lovely aleatory installations I've seen.

bastard saffron

So called because the tint derived from Carthamus tincturus, or what has been called safflower, carthame, or safranum, is 2nd rate yellow. When Carthamus is not 2nd rate yellow, it's 1st rate pink, and then it's Pink Saucers, Rouge, Rouge Vegetale, Chinese Rouge, and Carthamus Pink, the strangest gouache I've come across, a pinkish-red goo smelling like cloves and cinnamon with a stain so powerful it can never be successfully overpainted. It's hue changes with the light, sometimes more pink, other times more orange, the tiniest trace tints water a luminescent rose through which orange threatens to break at any moment. This tincture known also as Natural Red 26, once mixed with chalk, became the French's rouge and the blood red of Geishe's lips. From the Pigment Compendium:

Dyes were produced from fresh flowers, which were collected during the morning shade and dried on muslin trays before storing in bins. Other methods of producing safflower dyes included collecting the heads of flowers before they faded on the plant and removing the yellow corollas. The yellow dye could be extracted by washing the corollas for three to four days in acidifed water, which made the pigment dissolve. The principal color is carthamin.

In a description of the properties of Fuchsine, a magenta pigment that became Carthamin's rival when it was invented in 1859, color was described as a resonance dependent on a chemical's molecular geometry. That's a thought to hide in one's pillow.

Comes in Like a Lion

A gallery of feline marzipan courtesy of the first week in March. Sophie's is the cute one. Mine is the one at the bottom with cataracts. Not the waterfall kind.

Got the marzipan at Keyfood for $6.99, I'm not sure how that price compares to elsewhere. Anyhow, it tasted a lot better than playdough. Thanks to Nancy Minty and her crafty cake making for the inspiration.

on the counter

How about more yellow? How about some more trees? Sorry, this is the only yellow tree! How did I let the august Tulips get by me?

Onward March

Thanks to Anthony of 17th Street, my most gregarious neighbor, for the marigold seeds. He said they'll grow into bushes, not like the squatty store bought ones. I'm supposed to plant the seeds one to a hole, no ganging up. Meanwhile my composter is already half full and I've only been using it for a month and a half. Let me remind myself that it's the magic of the cycle that's the point, not the quantity. I love adding the scraps to the pail, it makes me feel sane, and I'm no stranger to the generosity of soil and the sweet smell of its breath.

So far the composter has stood up to the local fauna, except on one occasion when I found the top had been tossed aside. We'll see what happens when the weather warms up.

fortune

This was the first cookie to ever make me cry. Yes, life is beautiful, so beautiful, a beautiful disaster. How we manage to cobble together one future out of all the possiblities, choice by choice, with all the elements holding us up and grinding us down at once, is too much to consider.

Once I get over this bummer of a cold I think I may get my sense of humor back. But no promises. In the meantime you can always click the word yellow below for a little winter warm up, or check out the starlings' beaks, now sunny for courting season.

all smiles

Yellowthroat

On Sunday I was sitting on the sofa folding laundry, as I pretty much do all the time, when through the window I noticed a bird on the overgrown rosebush in front of the house. I was expecting sparrow but instead saw something with unmistakable yellow parts. It had a black mask over its eyes, Zorro style, (which was kind of hot) and greenish grey wings. It flitted around in a crisp and mesmerizing way for a while as if it were looking for something. Thinking I might be able to get closer without scaring it away, I found myself crawling on all fours across the living room, worrying it might think I was a cat. I got close enough to see it scarfing down something leggy.

So glad nature came to see me that morning when I was particularly wretched. It was like looking at birds in their "environments" at the zoo, except clearly I was the one detained. I wonder if it saw me, and if so, did I look like some ratty old taxidermied thing? Did it notice all the self pity I'd built up from being sick all week? I don't think it had much interest in that.

Too bad I don't have a picture of the li'l bandit. How about some more mustard seeds?

4th Avenue Traction

Don't Fear the Reamer

But I expect you wouldn't, unless you happen to be a lemon.

I heart my reamer. Even when sick and mired in a torpor of self pity and discomfort, I find I willingly rouse myself due to the extreme satisfaction of mixing hot water, the juice of a freshly reamed lemon, ginger and some of the manuka wildflower honey I bought at Dub Pies recently.

I used to strain the grated ginger out before drinking the brew, but now I just leave it in. I guess I have fewer issues with pulpy fluids than I used to, isn't that special? Or maybe I'm just so mad for the stuff I can't be bothered with the fussing over the fibery strands. When I get to the bottom of the cup, oh, it's so sad, but my sinuses and chest usually feel quite a bit better.