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1. Open The Door Boston

The chard seems to have grown inches in a few days. The question is, will I be able to leave it alone to make those long, gorgeous stalks, or will I nibble away at the edges like a rabbit, or a roof rat.I don't think we have roof rats. Le chat noir is on guard. Roof rats he would slay, chop-chop. But he will have nothing to do with squirrels.

He thinks they are bad juju. Must be something in his past.I am training myself to be a better eye witness. I scrutinize the plants with an intense scrute and then the next day I scrutinize them again to see if anything has changed.

A missing leaf? The squirrel changes things. Dig, dig, digdigdigdig.I am a terrible eye witness. I've had two policeman, armed to the teeth, padded in bullet proof vests, sitting on my parents' solid couch in my father's study looking at me with undisguised contempt as I tried to answer their questions about two burglary suspects.

It was very embarrassing, and very sobering. I was the one who had a feeling that something odd was happening next door - and it was - but could I tell the cops what the two young people were wearing? I had not the first idea.

I just knew they were going to do something.And so I train myself. On the roof, looking at the Swiss chard. It helps that it stays in one place. I practise on the street, noting baseball caps and colours of dresses, and what jackets could be dropped in a hurry, and what is underneath. Like; when he noticed me noticing him, he took off the jacket and left smartly. It's not the clothes I see.

It's the way someone walks, the way their head moves, or the look in their shoulders. Those things are interesting.It's like tasting wine. I have the wrong language for it. Vince and I crack each other up with our wine tasting notes. He's pretty good. But all I can do is describe wine in terms of music. I taste notes.

I don't taste or smell cherries and black pepper. I taste high and low, and lyrical and brassy and it's a string section with a little trombone action thrown in. Major key.Well, it is Friday.I never promised all sense, all the time.I deliver my book's manuscript on Monday. Has given me a few day's breathing room beyond that for pictures, which is wonderful. The last six months have charged past.I can tell you how they felt, but don't ask me what they were wearing.

I regret - deeply - not having made more red currant gin in June. I think we sampled the first batch when the New York Times came to visit in July, and then I eked the rest out every now and then.

Fortunately Vince doesn't like it as much as I do.It is tart, not sweet at all, and there is little more sediment than I would like in the liquor. Could it be lycopenes again? As in tomato and autumn-olive juice? The black currants (and their gin is divine, too, in a very different way) were sedimentless.So I had some of the gin last night on the roof as I thinned my greens. It is misleadingly amber in the sinking sun. The rainbow chard seedlings have made rainbows, already, and the mixed lettuce is very.purple. In amongst a zillions seedlings three are green.

Interesting.And next year's red currants are very, very far away. Early fall colour in some plane trees near Pier 6, at the foot of Atlantic Avenue, artificially induced, I think, by the unusually dry summer.In other local news, it's the annual Atlantic Antic this weekend - on Sunday, 30 September. The four lane Brooklyn artery will be shut down and cars and trucks and ambulances and fire trucks will be replaced with tens of thousands of humans and a lot of music, food and drink - the latter you may carry with you on your promenade through the zoo. Very unAmerican.But. The restaurant La Mancha was shuttered this year. We never ate there.

I'm not sure anyone ever ate there (.hence.); but, perversely, they hadQuestion is, will the new place that opened in their footprint, bright, airy (La Mancha was dark, claustrophobic), with a little marble table in the open French doors, and which has a $1 oyster specials (why do I feel in the pit of my stomach, that I should skip this offering?).will they be clever and continue the sardine tradition? Yesterday, after a day of editing photos (June's), I shot out into the neighbourhood and came back with ground sirloin and red wine (some for us, the better bottle for ) and made a good but unorthodox Bolognese sauce. No onions, large, thin slices of carrot, and mushrooms, lots of terrace herbs.

I finished it in a hot oven for 30 minutes, which gave it a good, brown edge.While it was cooking I picked the greens, had half a drink on the roof, and watered the farm.There have been worse evenings. The cat heard the death rattle of the catbox as I lifted it down and made at once for a place of safety: a nice solid chair beside his pellet bowl, drug bowl and water bowl. The cornerbowls of a cat's life.He had an appointment with Dr Slade for a check up and to have blood drawn at - to see how his hyperthyroidism is doing.I love this veterinary practise, and I have seen a few (seven locally, at last count) in the eventful life of this former bodega cat, not to mention the ones in Cape Town where I would haul all of my parents' cats and dogs for their check ups and emergencies.I am deeply impressed. In New York I don't know of a better run or more professional set up. The funny thing is, some of it is so simple: every pet owner is greeted in person by a vet who comes into the waiting room to fetch the pet and owner.

A vet tech or non specialist vet often sees the animal first. They introduce themselves; they have always been prepped thoroughly and know all about the pet already. They take copious notes and ask detailed questions.

When the specialist comes in later you are shaken by the hand in greeting. They are well briefed. And that's it. I mean, that's the way all practises should work. But they don't.And they have decent magazines in their waiting room. I got to read The Economist instead of Fluffie's Weekly.

Didn't understand a word but felt good.And that is the point.Carrying the 17lb cat there and back? That's another story.

While I sat waiting for the cat, ears pricked for his howling, which never happened, another vet spoke to a Hispanic man whose dog had a torn ear. A vet tech was translating into Spanish as the man's English was not fluent enough to grasp the nuances of the options he was being offered, viz. A) cauterizing the wound and leaving it split, b) gluing the ear which might tear again if the dog shook his head a lot and, c) ka-ching, sedating the dog and suturing the ear, which would cost another $200. The man was very anxious and called his wife. The vet was very patient. The vet tech was asked to explain, again, the price differences and drawbacks.

Another vet sat beside a man with a sick cat and listened to this man talk and talk and talk. The minutiae of the cat's weight loss and weight gain, for perhaps ten minutes.I sat reading The Economist. Estorbo is a regular.

I do know now that a lot depends on Angela Merkel and that Michelle Obama's carrot is more effective than Mayor Bloomberg's stick. And that UN Peacekeepers should be paid more (their country gets $1,000 a day for them) and that it costs $3,000 a day to hire professional hostage negotiators for ransom-kidnappings. And that Nigeria's economy is growing at 7%, a lot faster than South Africa's, and that Kenya is looked upon as more favourable investment than South Africa is.VERG - the vet for me.

Cape Town, 2010How many bridges connect the island of Manhattan to Long Island, mainland New York (otherwise known as The Bronx) and Jersey?Don't know. But Vincent ran past ten of them on Saturday.He didn't tell me he was going to run a marathon. On his own.26 miles. 42 kms.He also didn't tell me until well into dinner that night. In this he reminds me of my father, who turns 80 this year, who sat down to lunch one day (this was a year or two ago) with my mother and me, sipped some bubbly, cut his little chipolata sausages methodically, the way he does, chewed a bit and then told us, with some satisfaction, it seemed, that he'd just crashed his big BMW roadbike, and had come off, and would we like to see the bruise?

That was the year after he was hit by a car (a slow Volkswagen beetle, thank god) on the freeway while training for the Argus Cycle tour. He likes showing off his wounds. And his bruises are spectacular.Don't worry, Vince is fine. But I did stop eating. Takes a lot to make me stop eating.But first, here is the first half of his story about.I married him to exercise vicariously.

Pantone color manager mac serial number. Yesterday, a severe storm warning, wind advisories, a tornado watch. So I lifted the fig down, and some smaller pots whose intentions I suspected. The wind did blow, hard, so that even President Obama's choppers and escorts (again!), when they flew back to JFK were crabbing, noses into the wind, tails downwind. I wonder if Air Force One took off on time. Airport delays were at 2-3 hours at that point. I suppose if the president wants to go, he goes. I worried a bit, about the sideways choppers, I mean.

Do you see how small the fig leaves are, compared to previous years? Root pruning and all. The growing tips have ceased to want to grow, which also meant fewer figs this year. I know the tree needs to be in a bigger pot, but this late winter, for the first time, I will prune its branches, and hard. I gave this treatment to the blueberry in summer, gritting my teeth - it had not put out much new growth this year, and that is where next year's berries will appear. So I cut back to old wood, and hoped.

It has excellent new branches now, the longest about 24'. They have had a good amount of time to harden before the cold starts.But I am nervous about the fig. I cheer myself up thinking of some of the old timers still in this hood, who cut their figs to the ground, and bundle them up for winter.We'll see. Jack, step forward!A Phalanx of Fruits, indeed.Your winning collective noun has scored you the pair of tickets to the and Mario Batali's cooking demonstration this Sunday.I must give the winner's details to the NYBG tomorrow so please get in touch with me today.

You can email me by clicking on the profile picture with lilies, top left of the blog. If you cannot attend please let me know as soon as possible.

JJ Murphy, the runner up with her wonderful Network of Nightshades and a Slew of Solanaceae is next in line for the tickets.Thank you to everyone for playing!Update: Tickets went to as Jack confessed that he lives out of state. If you live in the hood.The will be held on September 23rd, and the NYBG has offered a pair of tickets, worth $60, for me to give away.The tickets will give you and a friend admission to the gardens, admission to the Edible Gardens Festival and to Mario Batali's 4.30pm cooking demonstration on Sunday, September 23rd.And HOW is a winner chose?Please suggest a collective noun to describe a collection of late summer produce such as the '.'

Of peppers and tomatoes pictured above. It could be informed by weather, caterpillars, ripeness, nostalgia, menus, anything.

And by all the means spread to the word to locals who might like to go. Best one wins.Fire away. Two entries allowed per person. Deadline is 9am EST, 18 September. I will announce the winner at 3pm on the 18th.

Please check back on the blog, then.What do I get out of this, you ask, in the interests of transparency?Nada. Sweet Fanny Adams.

Not even a red whisker from Batali's beard.But I will have that new collective noun.(By the way, if you'd like to play but know you can't attend - that pesky airfare - just add your state or location in the comment so that I know not to consider you for the tickets.). One spinach seed germinated. I wonder why.

It lives a life of green solitude, with only a little nicotiana for company (which evaded my weeding). The seeds were sown about 4 weeks ago.

Slow and solid.Meanwhile the fava beans are beginning to break the surface, the rainbow chard are all up, and so are the dwarf kale and the salad mix. Waiting for the peas. Tomorrow I'll take out another tomato - the Brandywines are now well and truly pooped - which will leave space for.parsnips?Such a long wait, for parsnips. February.And tomorrow? A true holiday. We're Zip Car-ing to the North Fork.

I haven't been anywhere in weeks and not out of town proper for months, and Vince is hungry for water. So it's a little blue vacation. I hope it will be blue.It's. If I had a star I'd wish upon it for a house, there.

I have picked all the early fennel seeds and hope for some more flowers. You never know. It worked with the anemones. Or maybe that was the fish fertilizer. I am tempted to dose the terrace one more time, though usually I stop feeding around now.The seeds were used in the kitchen, to delicious effect, but you will have to wait a year to see what became of them. The book.The strawberries I pick almost every day, eating while I water the pots. And last night we ate the - very good, with a striped Green Zebra and some French feta.

I am saving a last Striped German for a last.With mayonnaise. Go ahead and call this 'hearty.' And then it went on top of spaghetti.This is boerewors, made at Los Paisanos, now tuned to. Taken out of its casing and sliced into bits. Browned, and then added some very flavourful rooftop tomatoes., and thin slices of garlic, sauteed gently in olive oil.

Yes, you could use other sausage. But you'd lose the coriander/clove richness of these.The last time I made something like this was when I was at university in Cape Town, and housesitting one winter for my cousin Andrea and her husband Jonathan in the suburb of Rondebosch East. It was winter, cold, wet. The garden in the back where Jonathan was growing leeks also produced lots of thyme, which I drank in a tea in copious quantities when I came down with flu. Thyme = thymol = potent stuff. After a false start in July, autumn seems back on track.This clematis seeded itself.

Open The Door Boston

I have no idea where the parent lives. Perhaps somewhere in the neighbourhood, or perhaps the seedlings arrived with the New Dawn, when it was a big pink tee pee full of flowers, fresh from Martin Viette nursery, on Long Island.The fall anemones are ready to bloom again, too - the ones that did not succumb to the fungus that attacked one plant. And the hardy begonias have fattened up and are opening daily. I was worried that by September there would be nothing left, but so far it has been a lovely month - cool, and blue, with the attendant garden flowers.(I looked to see if I had ever written post about the rose when it arrived, but I started this blog the following year.

I did find, written a few days after I started writing this blog. It is a bit spooky in its prescience. I had not met Vince, yet, but would, a few months later. I think I met him because I was happy. I interrupted our neighbour Danielle while she was doing yoga on her silvertop next door to ours, the other evening. She used to have easy access to her roof, for sunbathing, but then her landlord nailed their hatch shut. That's one fire exit snuffed out.Now she scoots round from her terrace.

I can't bear to look, although she's nimble (the yoga). When Vince and I lock ourselves out we also use the terrace for access, climbing over the side and onto the braai before hopping onto a chair.Welcome to rooftop life. The low budget version.The yellow pear is no mas. 'Ees dead, as the cat might say.

It performed so very well. I have planted purple mustard in its pot.

Also brewing: Swiss chard - the rainbow version, New Zealand spinach, a salad mix, fava beans and peas. Two yellow tomatoes, great big giants, are ripening on the other side of the roof. I had forgotten about them altogether. I thought they were Brandywines.

They are Brandywines. Yellow Brandywines. Nice.A few more tomato sandwiches, then. I can't wait. Best thing, ever.And I am going to have to have a block party for a ground cherry crumble, with everyone helping to husk the little fruit.

An anonymous commenter left me a link to which are bigger and more tart.Next year. Inspired by a beautiful photo by Karsten Moran and a in the New York Times, I made fattoush the other night.

It had been a long, travel-weary day - a southern tramp through the seedy side of Prospect Park, which was truly dilapidated and depressing, and then a walk across to Green-Wood which was very green after rain. We saw a beautifully fat and unafraid groundhog mowing the lawn, there.Our return journey was spoiled by the sudden realization that our subway had just started the ascent over the Manhattan Bridge. We don't live in Manhattan. Sunday and the MTA. Why do we do it? The F and G were not running. We were on the D, which we thought was an R.

Well, it did say R.When we got to SoHo we rose to find the R near Dean and Deluca, so I popped in for some ground lamb. Dean and DeLuca has no ground lamb.

Nor grass fed beef. Which makes me think about the Stanford study that proclaims loudly that organic farming methods deliver produce that is no more nutritious than conventional.Cue my icy silence. Talk about asking the wrong question.As time passes it depresses me more, and more profoundly than I had imagined. I am disappointed in covered it, but especially by the space given to written by the moron., Roger Cohen.I don't question the vitamins in my organic strawberry versus the conventionally raised one. I don't choose an organic chicken over a factory-raised one because it is nutritionally superior. I choose these things when I can because of how the plants and animals were grown and raised and what synthetic pesticides and drugs and hormones and fertilizers they may or may not be laced with.

And where those poisons and drugs and fertilizers came from, how they were manufactured, and by whom.It's about the big picture.I hope The Times publishes the other point of view, with its attendant sharp questions, and soon. This study, this article and the dozens it has spawned across the globe sets attitudes right back, like a dullard clock turned in reverse. I can only hope that the heavy guns of a food revolution are as disturbed as I am, and are writing about it as we speak. Barbara Kingsolver, Michael Pollan., albeit gently, and through example.At best the study was conducted by researchers with doubtful intentions, track records and funding. I hope The New York Times chooses to investigate the ties between Monsanto and Stanford, and ties between the scientists and big tobacco.We could not catch the R home in SoHo.

There was red tape hanging limply across the entrance to the station, on the corner of Broadway and Prince, perhaps the most zoolike intersection in the city when it comes to pedestrian clog. So we found a 6 on Spring Street, and limped home to our own hood. We have had some stormy weekend weather, with an excellent vantage point from the roof. I managed to do some gardening late on Friday on the roof farm while the valiant Frenchman did our grocery shopping after getting back from work. This gave me a window between sorting photos and cooking supper, in which to start tossing out tomato plants - freeing pots for seeds. I gardened till dark, which comes earlier every evening.

The huge cumulo nimbus cloud above stayed put over Jersey, dumping rain and flinging lightning on the far side of the harbor. It is a strange feeling to watch weather happen to other people. Afterwards in the street, she looks around the neighborhood. 'Yes, it is certified now.' She refers to a phenomenon of moviegoing which I have called certification.

Nowadays when a person lives somewhere, in a neighborhood, the place is not certified for him. More than likely he will live there sadly and the emptiness which is inside him will expand until it evacuates the entire neighborhood. But if he sees a movie which shows his very neighborhood, it becomes possible for him to live, for a time at least, as a person who is Somewhere and not Anywhere.' The Moviegoer, Walker Percy.

'Die kierie kom uit Indonisie, gesny van 'n tak wat van jongs af omslinger was deur a wildevy se rank. Hulle het saam grootgeword, en die rank het sy spoor op die tak gelos. Daarom is die slinger ook oneweredig, en hier,'se hy, 'by die punt van die kierie moes daar iets gebeur het - die slinger en die tak het inmekaar gevleg en 'n knoop gemaak. Die natuur het die kierie so gemaak.' 'n Kieriemaker sou dit eweredig gedoen het,' se ek.' My kind,' se meneer Boje, 'vermy die reguit lyn.'

Petra Muller, Koendoes.