Hors D'Oeuvres and Human Rights

Recently the great love of my life and I had the good fortune to be together to witness an historic event. We watched Melissa Etheridge and others in discussion on Logo with leading Democratic presidential candidates on the subject of LGBT rights in America, and in particular gay marriage. The painful and seemingly hopeless struggle to be together faced by same sex bi-national couples (such as ourselves) was mentioned at least once; the upshot of that unprecedented public acknowledgement of our long and lonely struggle brought about large salty tears which added a splash of seasoning to my thinly sliced sourdough bread topped with Vermont goat cheese, smoked salmon and dill. Not that salt was needed of course but what would an historic little banquet be, I ask you, without the odd tear or two in the hors d’oeuvres.
If I may meander in my thoughts at this point; the great love of my life and I are not asking America for the right to marry. We simply ask for the right to be together long enough to watch one season roll fully on through another. Long enough to attend to much needed repairs in our little house in the woods and, for that matter, in our hearts where they have become worn down by too long spent apart. Oh and how we would love to attain the right to watch each other grow old. Freely and without fear of being torn asunder.
Now where was I? Ah yes , my hors d’oeuvres and a relative newcomer to the kitchen of my soul; dill! While I love the liquorice-like hit offered up by the crunchy dill stems (here the large and much loved black aniseed balls of my childhood!) I am enamoured with the featherlike leaves; the ones that seem as suited to tickling one’s skin as they are to eating! The journey of this herb across my palate begins as a burst of clean green grass and thence follows splashes of anise that fall like summer rain, awakening and animating all in their presence. Oh how dill makes salmon dance and far be it for me to understand this glorious mystery! But it is fitting, in my opinion, for little hors d’oeuvres and all that embellish them to dance upon the palate at such an historic televised event. Should we not all join in the dill and salmon dance wherever and whenever human rights are championed?!

Swathes of Wild Lilies

winding pathways to my door.

I am here!

Oh the joy of rediscovery!

Wild raspberries just beyond my kitchen window. Swathes of wild lilies winding pathways to my door. The wildflower seeds I scattered three years ago in bloom here and there and though sparse and bedraggled providing the first glimpse I have ever had of the fruits of my past labour. It has always been my dream to create a woodland garden here for the great love of my life but this will not be achieved without considerable handwringing, not least because I am here in America so rarely! Long distance love is one thing but long distance gardening quite another!

And in my kitchen? Omaha steaks gifted to me by my love. I adore American beef. It tastes vastly different (and dare I say superior?!) to New Zealand beef. In New Zealand our cattle graze outdoors all year round on lush green pasture. But the grain-fed cattle seem to me to produce a beef that is far more complex and satisfying in flavour. When I first arrive I love the wild days and nights of rediscovery - ferreting through my cupboards for all that I left behind all those long long months ago. Dark brown Canadian Lake wild rice. Quaker Oats. Organic brown rice pasta. Popcorn grown by the Amish communities of upstate New York. I am told by Americans who eat in my home here that my cooking is "restaurant quality". Anyone in New Zealand who knows me will know that I simply cook in the style common to all my New Zealand friends. In New Zealand my cooking is seen as everyday and rather average.

Rush On By

People do rush about so! Perhaps the sensation of excessive speed is to be expected when one drives a car but even when I walk others rush past me on foot!! I am perplexed by all this hurrying. It doesnt seem to me that the world is a better place for it. Of course things will speed up even more for me soon when I arrive in New York! "Leisurely dining here in this city" I commented once to my American friends "is eating walking along the street rather than running!" When I fly back into New Zealand from America it seems as if someone has slowed the pace of the world down several notches. But even here there seems undue haste. Still, I tell myself, this works in my favour as I never have to jostle for position in my botanical gardens to watch a droplet of dew swell from the tip of a leaf and cut a path through the smokey autumn air as it falls to the silent earth. No. There at such events I am always alone.

Late One Night

It was my intention to tell the pictorial story here of how I steamed New Zealand greenlipped mussels in white wine and saffron. But regrettably I became caught up in the fervour of the moment and before I knew it one dozen mussels were all gone and there I was ~ alone and reeling from the succulent pleasure of it all!

Thank You

Photo By Helen
Today I said a long lingering farewell to my botanical gardens. Without this place I would hardly have been able to bear this prolonged period of exile from the great love of my life.

Flawless

To begin with just knowing you were there in my fruit bowl was pleasure enough. There was no need of touch. For days I wanted nothing more than your heady orange presence. There was always going to be that moment though when I would reach for you.

And so it was. Finally. And in the eating, you were so many things. But most of all, you were willing. It was as if you wanted to hasten your own emptiness. You melted easily onto my teaspoon. I remember you creamy yet like a finely grained custard with mellow tropical overtones. Less than sweet with a faint tropical fragrance. Your touch on my palate was so light as to feel almost a tease. I can barely tell where discovering you came to an end and being forever devoted to you began. It matters little. All you need know is that, as flawless persimmons go, you were my first.

Orange Coloured Memories

Autumn in New Zealand is always a whirlwind time for me. There are a flurry of celebrations and photo ops that I must attend in my botanical gardens. But now winter is upon us and in the ensuing silence it is only my memories that are orange. One such memory is of a single perfectly ripe persimmon which I consumed just a few weeks ago. I posted the evidence here on my blog. The glistening persimmon shell. That I did not comment on this at the time and that I barely had time to post the photo indicates what a whirlwind time that was. One breathless orange celebration after another. I try always to pen a note of appreciation after such events but this persimmon was overlooked somehow.

And persimmons, being the sort of fruit they are, do not care for being overlooked. And so I am busy right now. Writing my belated thank you note to that empty persimmon shell.

Frozen Fog

Winter is only just upon us here in New Zealand and already I have cabin fever. Not the kind that I have experienced during past winters in New York when I was snug inside my little cabin in the woods with the great love of my life. No. That's a different kind of fever. The kind I have today makes even cinnamon chasers grumpy! The guest list is long and growing longer. It began as frost and ice. Then came sleet, hail, snow flurries, snow, blizzards. And then a newcomer to my winter guest list here in New Zealand. Freezing fog. Freezing fog? To the uninitiated (as I was barely five minutes ago) this is a phenomenon seemingly associated with the nearness of bodies of water such as rivers or lakes. Well that may be but to me frozen fog sounds more like a summer desert I might lick from the back of a spoon whilst reclining in the adirondack chair I painted so carefully last year. The chair that sits waiting patiently for me on the deck of my cabin in the American woods. The chair that went through a whole winter without me and might even have a dragonfly or two sitting on it as I write this, and a hummingbird hovering overhead. Waiting. Waiting.

Condiments for the Lonely Heart

I seem to have developed a fetish for condiment making. I get like this when I have spent too long away from the great love of my life. I begin to make things. Edible things. In my fridge are jars of chutney. Lots and lots of jars of chutney. Date chutney. Spicy apple and walnut chutney. Pumpkin and smoked paprika chutney. Apricot and orange chutney. Each sets itself apart from the next by the company it keeps. My apricot chutney likes to share the platter with plump English sausages. The pumpkin chutney has designs on my popped open pita breads and some fresh rocket! The spicy apple and walnut chutney is content in the company of a good English cheddar and a New Zealand Chardonnay. And the date chutney? Well actually that is a great worry to me. My wayward child so to speak. One day I might know more about the company it prefers to keep. But for now I simply worry.

Persimmoned!

You take my breath away

Sunrise Thursday 31st May 2007.

The Writer

Mostly I live on the east coast of New Zealand, not too far, in fact, from the opening moments of each new day. And sometimes, though not nearly often enough, I spend time with the great love of my life in a house in the woods, somewhere on the east coast of America