Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘apple trees’

IMG_0987

If you’re ever driving through a town and the streets are lined with sycamore streets, it’s a pretty safe bet that you’re in an old town. Where I live, in an area built in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, there are lots of these beautiful trees. No one plants them any more because they’re considered messy trees; they drop bark and fuzzy mossy seed pods.
*
Same goes for apple trees, crab apple trees. I read a column a few years back that featured a question from a guy who was ticked off at the apple tree he inherited when he moved to his new house. He asked the columnist what he could do to keep the apples from dropping, short of cutting the tree down. The columnist politely suggested he go completely off the cuff and maybe eat the apples.
*
Every year I seem to lose access to another mulberry tree. The towns either cut them down or cut them back. People complain that they drop too much fruit. But last year I found several mulberries growing along a back road. I’ve noticed they tend to grow alongside waterways. And one magnificent old tree offered quarts and quarts of fruit last year, enough for me, enough to sell to my pastry chef friend, and enough for the geese to nibble at. One day I was picking the fruit quietly, up on a stepladder, while a goose family enjoyed themselves on the other side of the tree. A little gosling ambled by, eating, and didn’t notice me until I moved a bit, at which he squeeeeeeed and skedaddled to the other side of the tree.
*
When we were little we used to peel the loose bark from the sycamores in the fall and watch for the earthy ambers and mossy greens underneath and crunch the bark under our shoes
*
And I look for the purple mulberry splotches on waterway roadsides so I can come back with my bag and stepladder and stain my fingers
*
And I drive on Route 66 and look for the roadside apple trees that remember the farmers who planted them and still drop their fruit for whatever hungry creature needs them
*
I am always one of them and always will be

IMG_4738

Read Full Post »

In every story worth telling there comes a point when the narrative plateaus, and in order to advance the story to a new place a Something needs to happen. Sometimes the Something shows up as a whisper, sometimes as a Steinway to the head. Either way, it’s guaranteed to move things along; and with any luck, bring the story to a right and happy conclusion.

Narrative #1.

Last summer Matt, an awesome pastry chef I’ve worked with, told me he picks wild raspberries in a park nearby. And he was kind of nonchalant about it, like it wasn’t a big deal. I said something along the lines of ‘cool,’ and didn’t exactly rush out there. I figured he cleaned out the couple of raspberry canes he found, and either way, how would I find them in a 787-acre park? I didn’t know how he found them. At their thorny wrath, maybe.

Yesterday while parking my car I noticed the wineberry canes (a cousin to raspberries) I found last summer, and was reminded of the conversation I’d had with Matt about raspberries. I drove out to the park, thinking if I found them, I found them.

You might say I found them. 787 acres though there may be, 785 of them were prickly with raspberry canes. I’m serious—pretty much everything that wasn’t trees or skunk cabbage was a raspberry cane. I’ve never seen anything like it. Along the road. Deep into the woods along a scrabbly trail*. Even organized over a trellis. That’s why Matt was so casual about it. All of Monmouth County could pick them and have enough to sprinkle on their Frosted Mini-Wheats for a week. But this is one of those times when I’m glad John Q. Public tends toward the clueless, because I have big plans for when the fruit shows up this summer.

IMG_6631

See you in July.

As a bonus, I also came across four very old apple trees in blossom. Can’t wait to see what kind they are. I’ll be back for those in October.

IMG_6629

With four baskets.

Next narrative, and again it starts in the summer—many summers ago, actually.

I grew up at the beach, and the lagoon at the northernmost end of our beach was my favorite spot. It was sort of like a sunken living room, encircled with enormous rocks and containing powder-fine grey sand. My sister and I and our friends would play and hang out and dig for sand crabs there. People harvested mussels there, too, piling them up in pickle buckets to take home. It was a soothing and generous sanctuary.

Last summer it was announced that the lagoon would be filled in with sand as part of a massive beach replenishment project. Its intent was to hold back the ocean a few hundred feet and reduce the stress of the people who owned oceanfront property.

I cried the way I would for a death, because it was, as well as a 40-million-dollar waste. It’s sand, people. It moves. Filling in the lagoon destroyed ecosystems and ruined surfing along this part of the shore, and for what? It’s all going to wash back out to sea anyway.

Which is why I stopped crying, but it doesn’t mean I’m ready to go see the what the bulldozers have wrought. They filled in the lagoon a week ago, and since then I’ve taken my walks in the opposite direction, to the lake. Our public works guys cut back a lot of the overgrowth along the banks and I was hoping they didn’t take out the wild mint. They did, but no worries—it did what mint does: grow. Here it is, all new and tender and dark green.

IMG_6639

And coming soon to a tabbouleh near you.

That cheered me up a lot, seeing it so healthy and happy. Nature always wins.

So there we have it, a wineberry whisper and a lagoon Steinway, two Somethings that advanced my story and brought me straight to raspberries and mint (and hey—apples, too!). I’m stoked.

And I’m posting a shot of the lagoon—not as it is now, but the way it was, and the way it will be again. I can wait. And I’m not worried.

IMG_1502

*I cannot resist a scrabbly trail. The kind four white-tailed deer know about and no one else. Once I almost got lost in a Polynesian jungle because of this weirdo idiosyncrasy of mine. And brother, if you think everything looked alike in the park I’m talking about above, go hiking in the heart of Mo’orea sometime. Everything—trees, plants, the trail itself—is the same otherworldly green. And the deeper you go into the jungle, the darker it gets.

Read Full Post »