"Moonlight of India"

Doing battle with a giant hedge makes you appreciate the well-behaved children of the garden.  This Shirley Temple of a vine has been happy in the same spot for decades, and all it needs is a little haircut once a year.  The top blooms nicely in July, and I keep the bottom leaves trimmed out because the twisted vines are pretty all year, even on wet and snowy days. It's a hardy evergreen that doesn't require a team of strong men to keep under control.  There are over 200 varieties jasmine, all native to the Middle East.

This tender variety of jasmine is sold blooming in pots around Valentine's Day.  In Zone 7, it won't winter over in the ground, but I've kept some plants going for years in the basement stairwell by throwing a fleece blanket over the pots when it gets below 30 degrees.  In the spring they look freezer-burned and unhappy, but then a dose of Miracle Grow gets them started again and they take off twining up through the deck lattices. They have to be untwisted and cut back each fall.

While the scent of the hardy jasmine is delicate, the fragrance of this variety is drop dead intoxicating.  One little sprig by the bed perfumes the entire room. Jasmine appeared in the early poetry of Hindu India as "the moonlight of India" because the fragrance permeates the night air. The name jasmine comes from the Persian name for the plant, yasmin.

Leo Delibes wrote an opera in 1883 called Lakme, set in British-occupied India. In the story, the title character and her servant laze away the time singing under a canopy of jasmine.  The Flower Duet is one of the most famous for sopranos. You will recognize it instantly:

"Neath the dome, the jasmine
To the roses comes
'Neath the leafy dome,
Where the jasmine white
To the roses comes greeting
By flower banks fresh and bright greeting.
from, Lakme

Original poster for Lakme

Thought for a new week

Count That Day Lost

If you sit down at set of sun
And count the acts that you have done,
And, counting, find
One self-denying deed, one word
That eased the heart of him who heard,
One glance most kind
That fell like sunshine where it went —
Then you may count that day well spent.

But if, through all the livelong day,
You've cheered no heart, by yea or nay —
If, through it all
You've nothing done that you can trace
That brought the sunshine to one face —
No act most small
That helped some soul and nothing cost —
Then count that day as worse than lost. 

George Eliot

Portrait of George Eliot by Samuel Laurence, 1869

Basic risotto

I've always thought risotto was sort of boring, and of course you can add things like squash, shrimp and chicken to make it more interesting and filling.  At the same time, this changes the purity of a classic dish made with just a few simple, high-quality ingredients: arborio rice, chicken broth, oil, butter and a dash of cheese.

A big fuss is made about how much work risotto is because it needs to be stirred constantly to get the creamy texture. It's actually kind of meditative. That is, if you enjoy slaving over a hot stove :-)

I have the perfect cast iron enameled pot for making risotto.  I bought it thinking it would be good for oven roasts and chickens, but it's too heavy to hoist in and out of the oven without throwing your back out. But the big surface area is excellent for stove-top braising and reductions like the onion-glazed pot roast sauce I make a couple times a year. So I guess the thing earns its keep in the kitchen.

I found this simple recipe on the Internet:

Basic Risotto

1 1/2 cups arborio rice
1 quart chicken stock, simmering
1/2 cup white wine
1 medium shallot chopped, or 1/2 cup onion
3 tbs. unsalted butter
1 tbs. oil
1/4 c. grated Parmesan cheese
1 tbs. chopped parsley
Salt to taste

Heat the stock. In a heavy saucepan, heat the oil and 1 tbs. of the butter.  Saute the shallot or onion for 3 minutes.

Add the rice and stir briskly for for another minute or so.  Do not let it brown.  Add the wine and cook until the liquid is absorbed. Add a ladle of chicken stock and stir until the rice appears almost dry.

Repeat and repeat.

It will take about 30 minutes, but the rice eventually takes on a creamy look. The only tricky part is knowing when to stop.  The rice should be tender but firm, not crunchy or mushy.  Finally, stir in the 2 tbs. of butter, the cheese and parsley and serve.

"The thin edge of the wedge"

The thin end of the wedge 

is something small and seemingly unimportant 

that will lead to something 

much bigger and more serious.

Let's see...that would be the chain of events that unfold when you decide to lower your overgrown laurel hedge by 3 feet.

Arborist #2 enters the ring.  A nice young man but a bit overconfident, as young men tend to be. His specialty is trees, so the hubris probably comes from chopping down enormous Douglas Firs on city lots. He would not be intimidated by a simple hedge.  He said his company could do the job in 3 hours for 2/3 less money than Arborist # 1 bid.  And remember, Arborist #1 couldn't run away from the job fast enough?

I laughed. I came right out and told him he was underbidding and underestimating. I said the hedge was cunning. I told him he was charging less than most people wanted just to trim it.  I put on my grandma face and said in the nicest possible way, "Take another look sonny, this hedge has humbled many strong men."  So he looked again, said he appreciated that advice, he added $75 to the bid.  I'm quite the negotiator, huh? But my conscience was clear.

So two young men arrive yesterday morning with their truck and chipper.  They told me they would be done by 1.  At 6 pm, they were just finishing up. They were beaten and exhausted. The poor things looked like soldiers coming back from a battle in Afghanistan.

"Lowering the top" quickly turned into trench warfare with chain saws.  When they cut along the slash line Arborist #1 had made, we realized there was nothing in the middle except bare, dead branches. By that I mean, the hedge no longer has a top.  We now have two thin walls of green leaves with a space in the middle big enough for a homeless camp.  I wrote a check for the ridiculously low bid (hey, I warned him) and we tipped the two hardworking boys for not giving up and running away.

On the bright side-- at least we still have a privacy barrier, even if it is ragged with holes. Sitting here now I'm enjoying the extra light and sky view. And as they say, you cannot kill the devil's hedge.  In a couple of years the center will grow up again, probably stronger than ever, ready for the next contender.

A new horse

At dinner last night I causally mentioned that "I bought a new horse today."   It certainly got John's attention.  I enjoyed watching his jaw drop, and then told him the horse was in a box in the living room. My new horse was an impulse purchase at the Dragon Traders Asian Showroom in Georgetown, near the Museum of History and Industry warehouse.  I had a few minutes to kill before going in to work, and hey-- there's always time for a quick shopping spree.

He looks old, but of course he's a fake.  A nice fake, though. If he was a real 8th century Tang Dynasty statue, he would be worth upwards of $100,000, according to Antiques Roadshow.  The ceramic horse was a "tomb figure" in the Tang Dynasty, representing the wealth and prosperity of the dead body.  So keeping horses was expensive back then (some things never change) and you used them to show off after you died. As in: I'm dead now, but once I was rich enough to own a horse.

Here's a picture I found of the original antique on display at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston.  I think the ceramic "artist" did a pretty good job copying and reproducing the glaze. There's probably a huge sweatshop somewhere in China making knock-off horses by the thousands.    

My horse looks older than the antique, but he is obviously new (he still had some pottery crumbs rattling around inside.) Sometimes the auction houses and buyers can't tell the difference, and there have been local art scandals with Asian antiquities selling at an all time high. As we know, the Chinese are very good at copying. Sotheby's says they have every ceramic sold checked by at least five experts first. While decorative fakes abound, they say truly dangerous fakes are rare.  My fake is not the "dangerous" kind, and he's probably worth exactly what I paid.  But I like him.

Good morning, clematis

O' my sweet clematis

Your bloom so short

I want your blooms

To never stop...

Richard McCellan

Summer is back, and it should be a blistering 73 degrees by the end of the day. This past weekend was fleece jacket weather in Seattle, and Friday was another extraordinary day of thunderstorms and steady rain. But, the flowers are glistening in the sun this early morning.  

Another day, another hedge cutter out to look at our poor mutilated laurel.  I'm watching for his truck now-- if it cruises by and then goes screaming off in the opposite direction, that's a bad sign.

Wabi-sabi

Wabi-sabi is a Japanese phrase that doesn't translate easily, but on a simple level it refers to a culture that finds true beauty in imperfection. The philosophy accepts the cycle of growth, decay and death we try not to think about in the West.  Wabi-sabi celebrates the marks of time on useful things. I considered this yesterday while (once again) scraping moss and crud off the brick "patio" we discovered buried under grass when we moved here in 1981.  Most people would have ripped it out long ago to make something "nice," and I've been tempted to do that many times.  There's a fine line between rustic and grungy. 

To the Japanese, having "interest" is the difference between pretty and beautiful.  It is the exact opposite of the Greek ideal of beauty, which requires total (and impossible) perfection. In Japan, if a natural or human-made object brings about a sense of "serene melancholy and spiritual longing" then it is said to be wabi-sabi. Well, I was a bit melancholy out on my knees yesterday!

From a modern design point of view, wabi-sabi means the tiny imperfect quality of an object. In America, we seek it in antique stores and try to manufacture it in distressed furnishings. It is not found at Ikea or Costco except on the faces of some shoppers, and we're usually too distracted to notice them.

The Sabi word by itself means "the bloom of time." It's the beauty of things modest, humble and unconventional. Weathered wood, an old pot, musty geraniums, a used saddle, a beloved garden structure gradually collapsing in on itself all have sabi. The natural progression of things that once sparkled new and bright take on a more profound beauty as they age: tarnish, hoariness, peeling, scuffs, wrinkles, moss, rust.  Sabi things carry the burden of their years with grace, like sabi people.

Then combine the two words-- sabi is rusty and weathered, and wabi means humble and simple.  So is the sabi-wabi home full of grimy old stuff? What makes the cut are things which are both useful and beautifully aged.  The afghan someone dear made long ago, worn books you still love to read, dishes from a passed grandma, a pretty rug-- not valuable but something you've taken care of for years. An old knife, carefully sharpened. But tattered and dusty doesn't make an object worthy of veneration.  Wabi-sabi is never messy or slovenly. It is never lazy. When a bed is neatly made, the beauty of the old quilt shines. Worn things, no matter how valuable or rich the patina, can never show their magic in a house that is cluttered or dirty.

Wabi-sabi has also been described as an "aesthetic appreciation of poverty." This is not the pitiful, frightening poverty we dread so much when thinking about having less. It is more about removing the huge burden of material concerns from our lives.  Having wabi is to be satisfied with less. The inessentials are trimmed away, and simple living is revered.

Hedge

Love your neighbor, yet pull not down your hedge.

 George Herbert

A little garden sanctuary in the city comes at a price, and every summer for the past 30 years, finding someone to "cut the hedge" looms up again as a troublesome and expensive project.

Are you thinking, and why not just do it yourself?  Well, despite all the regular "trimming" old monster has been putting on height and girth since 1920. It's about 12 feet tall and 10 feet wide in places and not a job for an oldish lady balanced on a ladder with a slicing power tool. The mass  of clippings is far beyond the capacity of our clean and green recycle bin.  That means expensive trips to the dreaded urban "dump." So...this gardener's task is to find a new professional hedge trimmer (almost) every year.

They all seem to hate their work and go out of business regularly.  That guy you used last year who was pretty good? His phone has been disconnected. No one picks up the phone anyway, and after the usual tag you finally manage to get a fellow to drop by for an estimate. There are heavy sighs and gloomy looks when he gives you the unpleasantly high bid.  At least that part no longer comes as a surprise after all these years. You watch him shaking his head and you feel guilty just owning such a hedge and causing so much trouble to the poor trimmer!

John and I were reminiscing the other day about the memorable characters The Laurel has brought into our lives:

1. A pothead who cut himself with his tools, and then got into a rock fight with kids in front of the house and had his tooth knocked out.  (He didn't have a dentist of course, and I sent him up the street to mine for an emergency visit.)

2. A guy who asked for a $200 advance to "rent tools" and never came back.  We called his home phone and his dad said, "good luck on that." A few months later, I saw him passed out in his pick-up behind the Safeway. (No, I did not knock on the window and demand my money.)

3. A "born-again" hedge cutter, who banged on the door every few minutes needing support, praise, encouragement, ice water, help and guidance. He complained constantly. He talked more than he worked.  He slept late and worked late, so the neighborhood roared with power tolls until 11pm. There were complaints.

4.  Mr. Nguyen and his wife.  Let's just say, a language barrier. 

5.  And then there was Geraldo, my hero.  Uncomplaining, capable, tireless, and self-sufficient. A Gary Cooper of hedge cutters!  He did beautiful work for 2 years and then went back to Mexico to help his old mother-- go figure. Just looking at his picture still makes me sad. 

Saint Geraldo of the Hedge

So, who could blame me being excited about finding Jason this year?  A real certified arborist with a local business specializing in renovating old hedges.  We watched him do a fine job on the hedge across the street.  He came over for a quick look at ours and said it would be no problem (for over twice what we paid last year, that is) to trim it up and even take the top down 3 or 4 feet.  Which sounded like a terrific idea.  Finally, some control of the beast.

 

Three weeks later he got started. He slashed a line, he cut out a big gap in the top. From the house, it looked like he knew what he was doing. Then about 6:30, he silently left and sent a late email saying he could not complete the job as bid because the top of the hedge was too wide for him to reach across, ever. He could not trim the top, much less lower it.  He added that no other trimmer in the city could do it either.

Well, this was a surprise to us, because even the alcoholics and complainers had been trimming the top for years. All he offered to do (for $450+ tax) was "taper" upper edge, so his gouging mistake would be less noticeable. Adios, Jason.

And here's the pretty sight I'll be looking at this morning while on the phone trying to find someone else. And wondering, if massive trees in Ohio (thanks Dan, for the pictures on Casa de Terrible) can be sawed up and hauled off, surely the top of a hedge in Seattle can be mastered?   And then there's always the final solution: bulldozer. If the devil had a hedge, it would be a laurel.

"The Seven Ravens"

A fairy tale, by the Brothers Grimm

There was a man who had seven sons, and still he had no daughter, however much he wished for one. At length his wife again gave him hope of a child, and when it came into the world it was a girl. The joy was great, but the child was sickly and small, and had to be privately baptized on account of its weakness.

 The father sent one of the boys in haste to the spring to fetch water for the baptism. The other six went with him, and as each of them wanted to be first to fill it, the jug fell into the well.

 There they stood and did not know what to do, and none of them dared to go home. As they still did not return, the father grew impatient, and said, "They have certainly forgotten it for some game, the wicked boys!" In his anger cried, "I wish the boys were all turned into ravens." 

Hardly was the word spoken before he heard a whirring of wings over his head in the air, looked up and saw seven coal-black ravens flying away.

 The parents could not recall the curse, and however sad they were at the loss of their seven sons, they still to some extent comforted themselves with their dear little daughter, who soon grew strong and every day became more beautiful.

 For a long time she did not know that she had had brothers, for her parents were careful not to mention them before her, but one day she accidentally heard some people saying of herself, "that the girl was certainly beautiful, but that in reality she was to blame for the misfortune which had befallen her seven brothers." 

Then she was much troubled, and went to her father and mother and asked if it was true that she had had brothers, and what had become of them?

 The parents now dared keep the secret no longer, but said that what had befallen her brothers was the will of Heaven, and that her birth had only been the innocent cause. But the maiden took it to heart daily, and thought she must deliver her brothers. 

She had no rest or peace until she set out secretly, and went forth into the wide world to trace out her brothers and set them free, let it cost what it might. 

She took nothing with her but a little ring belonging to her parents as a keepsake, a loaf of bread against hunger, a little pitcher of water against thirst, and a little chair as a provision against weariness.

And now she went continually onwards, far, far to the very end of the world. Then she came to the sun, but it was too hot and terrible, and devoured little children. Hastily she ran away, and ran to the moon, but it was far too cold, and also awful and malicious, and when it saw the child, it said, "I smell, I smell the flesh of men." 

On this she ran swiftly away, and came to the stars, which were kind and good to her, and each of them sat on its own particular little chair. But the morning star arose, and gave her the drumstick of a chicken, and said, "If you thou hast not that drumstick thou canst not open the Glass mountain, and in the Glass mountain are thy brothers."

The maiden took the drumstick, wrapped it carefully in a cloth, and went onwards again until she came to the Glass mountain. The door was shut, and she thought she would take out the drumstick; but when she undid the cloth, it was empty, and she had lost the good star's present. 

 What was she now to do? She wished to rescue her brothers, and had no key to the Glass mountain. The good sister took a knife, cut off one of her little fingers, put it in the door, and succeeded in opening it.

(UGH)

When she had gone inside, a little dwarf came to meet her, who said, "My child, what are you looking for?" "I am looking for my brothers, the seven ravens," she replied. The dwarf said, "The lord ravens are not at home, but if you will wait here until they come, step in."

 Thereupon the little dwarf carried the ravens' dinner in, on seven little plates, and in seven little glasses, and the little sister ate a morsel from each plate, and from each little glass she took a sip, but in the last little glass she dropped the ring which she had brought away with her. Suddenly she heard a whirring of wings and a rushing through the air, and then the little dwarf said, "Now the lord ravens are flying home."

Then they came, and wanted to eat and drink, and looked for their little plates and glasses. Then said one after the other, "Who has eaten something from my plate? Who has drunk out of my little glass? It was a human mouth." And when the seventh came to the bottom of the glass, the ring rolled against his mouth.

Then he looked at it, and saw that it was a ring belonging to his father and mother, and said, "God grant that our sister may be here, and then we shall be free."

 When the maiden, who was standing behind the door watching, heard that wish, she came forth, and on this all the ravens were restored to their human form again. And they embraced and kissed each other, and went joyfully home.

A poem for Nova

We have a little garden,
A garden of our own,
And every day we water there
The seeds that we have sown.  

We love our little garden,
And tend it with such care,
You will not find a faded leaf
Or blighted blossom there.

Beatrice Potter

Why do people collect?

There's a fine line between collecting and accumulating stuff. Some psychologists say hoarding and pack-ratting has to do with our hunter-gatherer instincts, which may be true, since 66% of us collect something.  I don't know the cowgirl or the men in these antique photos, and there's no way to justify your "need" for a brass donkey statue, but I was attracted enough to buy these things, bring them home and then find a place where they could start collecting dust of their own.  

But how much blue and white pottery can you pile in a cabinet?

How many useless knick-knacks can you cram in a kitchen cupboard?

How many spooky things can you bring home from garage sales?  Most of our collections are just oddities that have little value beyond sentiment, but things can still trigger fond memories and stories.  Maybe that's why it's so hard to let go. But in the end, we leave with exactly what we came in with.

Bamboo fanatics and other oddities

Henon Bamboo

On Sunday afternoon we stopped by the Clinton Bamboo Nursery.  It's a secluded place tucked away behind a house on a busy street in White Center.  We rarely go through this neighborhood, so it's a long story how we eventually found it.

Like most urban bamboo custodians, we have a slight guilt trip about what we once planted so casually in our yard.  People either love or hate the stuff, with the scales probably tipping over to hate.  According to Google, "bamboo phobia" is a actual psychological condition.  So it was nice to chat with one of the gentlemen owners, an unashamed bamboo lover not the least intimidated by 40 foot high varieties like the Henon-- a "giant timber" bamboo, which says it all. This is the same variety we have planted by the garage, and for six weeks in the spring it tries its darnedest to blast through the old floorboards and siding. And cross the alley to scare our neighbors.

Along with becoming invasive without a strong underground barrier, bamboo is messy and scatters dry leaves and husks around the neighborhood all summer.  Everyone knows it came from your yard. The nursery display garden was raked neat as a pin, and I could appreciate how much work that takes. Clinton also sells unusual grasses, pond stuff and oddities like carnivorous plants.  I was suckered in by the Sarracenia purpurea, or purple pitcher plant.

It is native to bogs along the East coast where it gets most of its nutrients through prey capture in the summer.  The water filled pitchers collect ants, spiders and moths where they drown and then are digested.  We have plenty of spiders for it to eat. He told me to plant it in peat moss and never fertilize it.  Supposedly it is winter hardy in Seattle.  Maybe it fasts in cold weather.

Trumpets

I never met a lily I didn't like, and I guess my favorite lily is whatever happens to be blooming at the moment.  The cut Golden Splendor Trumpet gives off intoxicating puffs of fragrance at night, a little reward for insomnia. Golden Splendor fragrance is described by the lily sellers as a combination of gardenia, jasmine and tuberose.

Cut trumpets last for many days in a vase.  Compared to the persnickety Oriental lilies that bloom in August, the trumpets are happy in the same garden spot for years; they never freeze, fade, get bugs, mildew or diseases. They multiply slowly but steadily. Trumpets don't need to be staked and don't care if you fertilize or not.  What can you say about such easy perfection in July?

Golden Splendor

The white Trumpets always bloom first, and I think the variety is called Regale. It is a Chinese native with funnel shaped flowers, a yellow throat and dark pink outer coating.

Regale

We have about a dozen of these top heavy stalks blooming, but I don't usually cut them for the house. Almost too much flower if you know what I mean, unless you're hosting a big wedding or funeral!  So I look at them outside and think I don't deserve such a magnificent flower for practically no effort at all. 

And then, there's my favorite of favorites-- the cantaloupe African Queen.

African Queen

Day of work

John went to True Value Hardware bright and early this morning. He bought a high-tech, razor-sharp, ergonomic-handled paint scraper.  And other helpful new things. He was getting ready to work OUTSIDE.

Hey, wait a minute. Last week I used some rusty tool invented in the Dark Ages from the back of the paint closet to do my side of the peeling garage.

Well, anyway--we worked hard together scraping and priming, so I thought we earned our dinner of fried chicken.  Something I make only about every five years, for good reason.  It hit the spot.

Horseplay

 We're enjoying the sunniest, driest spell of the year right now, although the early mornings have been foggy and cool-- Mother Nature's nice air conditioning comes on at night.  Yesterday I had plenty of time to savor this unusual view of downtown Seattle sitting in gridlock traffic on the West Seattle Bridge.

Inching along in a clot of cars, it took us 30 minutes to travel about a mile out to the freeway.  A sad fact. The traffic didn't lighten up until I was past Bellevue on I-90, but the reward for over an hour of car time was blue sky and horses when I finally got to the foothills. 

Skeeter

My friend Dolly just bought another young Quarter-horse. Skeeter is only 4 years old, but seems to have all the right stuff and a nice personality. Supposedly he likes to play with balls in the arena, but doesn't look too interested here.  Dolly and I made arrangements for me to ride her other horse Spanky this summer, so we're looking forward to some quiet trail rides like in the old days when I still had Sizzle. 

Spanky

We rode for 2 hours yesterday and things went well, considering it was Skeeter's first time on the trail with us. Spanky did fine, too. Here he is, all shiny and happy from his bath.