"A single cloud envelops ten-thousand stream side pines before my door the flowing water babbles all the time..." – Han Shan














Today only the crow call breaks the silence of new ice
tomorrow the hopeful song of the black capped chickadee
the sun-lit wings of a mallard rises from the river
like white origami tugged from a cloud by a string

The Southseas

"The boy was back now with the sardines and the two baits wrapped in a newspaper and they went down the trail to the skiff, feeling the pebbled sand under their feet, and lifted the skiff and slid her into the water." Old Man and Sea

Today they had the full day ahead of them.  There were some excuses given as to why they would not meet at the Pointe for breakfast and then stay for two hours at the small waterpark near the main pool.  They might not make lunch, either, for sea trout were trophy fish and they were fickle.  Sea trout might eat any number of things, depending upon the weather and how secluded a hole they were able to reach. "Some days I have seen them go after crustaceans, sea worms, little sandeels." The grandfather would not have known this himself, but for the captain Ossie of Southseas who had been born and raised in these magnificent waters.  He had once taken the grandfather out into the islands and he watched the Captain that day try ten different baits and in varying levels of water.  When the captain finally landed one, it was off of the simplest initial bait, the crustacean and he remembered how widely he smiled as he pulled in the three and a half pound trout with such large teeth that it was not certain at first that it was a trout.  "We will begin in the shallows wading in, fishing from land, then we can make our way to our boats, you see." Lily knew, of course, without saying, that they would reach the strait again and go diving.  But it was their secret and nobody could know what lay a mere five feet under the surface there.  As they launched that morning, lifejackets secure, paddles in hand, lunches and waters stowed, well lathered by sun screen, they had, in that instant, become now part of the very place, the sea, and they would catch a trout by crustacean and smell the briny rainbow skin of the great fish and skin it and scale to bring back to a fire and cook it as over a spit.  There were the beach days, when the wind carried over them a certain smell of the sea and of tanning oil; there, the voices of the beach carried over them. From behind them, on those beach days, gliding over the trees, here in mid-April, you could hear the slow guttural squawk of he American White Pelican fly on its way to the Ding Darling Preserve just up the coast. But these days were of visitors; the days of the kayak and the island, moving toward the wild fish, and then finally diving down into the blue haze of the sea seeking relics of the 17th century, well, these were of history, of time itself. To put ones hand on such things was not something you could merely write home about, but they might shape the way you see things.  "Yes, the day will be fine today," he said, and watched as Lily, who knew just where to go, rushed across the slender strait to the Caya and nosed her red kayak as deep as she could into the smooth brown sand.

Riverside Ovens
Test Kitchen

"Bastille is one of the legendary dishes of Morocco and something that the French have adapted infinitely to make their own." Dorie Greenspan, from Around My French Table











A few inches of snow in mid march might inspire the would-be test kitchen to try to transport itself to a more Mediterranean climate, like, maybe, Fez Morocco -- that should be far enough down in the hemisphere to imagine oneself gathering recently gathered local large onions, sweet garlic, saffron threads, pinches of ginger and lemons as big as softballs.  So away we go... Fez is of an ancient branch North African cities, sometimes considered the Athens of Africa and its primary university considered the oldest running in the world.  Along its ancient stone corridors, no doubt street vendors under its namesake, Fez hats, tanned by all time, and beating the heat by nothing more than tea or lemonade.  Gather here a recently butchered chicken, eight thighs in all, as mentioned large onions, garlic, ground ginger, coriander, cinnamon, saffron, a few eggs, honey, cilantro, fresh almonds (maybe these were plucked from the other side of the hill, facing the sea?), and don't forget to find something that will resemble philo dough for what is to be sweet dough.

Remembering that the Sultan de Fes would have taken his sweet chicken (probably pigeon) very seriously, to the point of hiring a very competent Spanish chef to prepare, you must marinade the chicken first with the onion, garlic, spices for at least an hour.  This will eventually come to a boil until falling off the bone tender; strain and cut to cubes, if possible.  To the broth, three beaten eggs,

which will form the chicken sauce. Prepare your dough for cover; sprinkle a handful of diced almonds to the sheet then spoon the chicken and sauce over, then the second dough sheet over creating your pie.  Sprinkle with cinnamon and bake for 20 minutes.  As the snow continues to swirl from the rooftops down onto the courtyard, the smells inside the house should by now smell of sweet cinnamon joined by rich chicken, and the sliced lemons that go along side might remind you of Fez, Morocco and the French chefs who, over the years, have co-opted the rich pie for their own.

"He was asleep in a short time and he dreamed of Africa when he was a boy and the long golden beaches and the white beaches, so white they hurt your eyes, and the high capes and the great brown mountains. He lived along that coast now every night and in his dreams he heard the surf roar and saw the native boats come riding through it. He smelled the tar and oakum of the deck as he slept and he smelled the smell of Africa that the land breeze brought at morning." Old Man and the Sea


The grandfather and Lilly had in common the ease of slipping into a deep and fast sleep.  The old man would not stay that way for long, it was only in the beginning that the dreams came, and then the dreams themselves that awoke him sometimes many times in the night where he would then, by instinct, rise and look out the slits of the shades to see the condition of the surf or he might peak into the rooms of grandmother or granddaughter.  If there was nothing of concern on his mind, he could slip as easily back into the thin mantle of the next dream and he quite looked forward to it.  He did this and to the image of what he later thought must be a Baby's Ear shell came to him vividly, as he sat down on the this surf of a beach and watched the strange drawing pattern of the shell curl and scoot along the bottom to create a strange and squiggly drawing of sorts.  The water in his dream was not entirely clear but an artificial green and it was warm.  He cup his hands and bring some of the green water to his mouth. It was sweet but did not taste like anything that he had ever yet encountered.  Pictures of dolphins who lived under neath the islands in sand caves came to him. The air above him had weight and was sweet as well, something strangely enough like the subtle taste of cinnamon.  And then, abruptly, came an image of underneath the water, inside the vast green, and he was, of course, breathing now underneath, certainly gilled, in along the hull of a golden ship.  His second, conscious mind, commented that he knew he was dreaming, and his swimming self nodded pleasantly but opined that he must be allowed to continue, just this one time.  The dream came to him in waves and it felt warm and comforted him.  He looked up and could see at the surface his Lily looking down at him from a surfboard that leaped and charged by the rhythm of the waves.  Her mouth moved but there was no sound.  His eyes opened. A very sharp sliver of sunshine had placed onto the floor in front of him. "And so the dreams become stranger on vacation," he thought to himself, shook his head and rose to check on the direction of the wind.

Arboretum Diary

"I was swelling with pride at having been taken for a tree by a kingfisher." – Jules Renard "Kingfisher"












March 9

Having finally found the remnants of the Lost City again at the far east portion of the Arboretum, it seemed only fitting that it would be the smallest of its species, the Downy Woodpecker, to be the culprit splitting open the silence of the forest in spring.  There had been the flickering nuthatch or two which had stirred in interest to our visit along the more slender trails of the Lost City.  They bob at the thin end of the basswood trees which are still so leafless as to look paltry and sickly even.  Without the glamor of foliage it becomes very obvious what the crowding of the tree species does to the reach of the dominant canopy oaks, the pine trees which flourish only at their highest peak, the basswood bending so far as to near collapse in search for limited sunshine.  Yet the nuthatch sees this as a jungle gym, small little temporary rulers of the airwaves.  That is until we moved outside of the jungle gym of the Arboretum proper and out onto the heavily forested neighboring streets that line Arboretum Drive near the vast Redwing Marsh.  Three old oaks stood leafless in the side yard of ancient home.  It itself  had been silent for a moment, but then, in among the enormous tubes of limbs, the unmistakable drumming of some such species of woodpecker in its patterned attack.  We walked a bit past the scene and tried to find the knocking head and there it was built inside an open air ring, five or six reverberating knocks, then silence again, as if in pondering of the work of the indestructible beak.  In deep cold spring, the houses themselves lifeless except for the competition of the nail gun by carpenters in the distance fastening tar sheets onto a garage roof.  Off in the distance, barely awakening in the cold air, the song-a-lee of the red winged blackbird striking its own fierce notes announcing its cattail territory.

The Southseas

"Keep the blanket around you," the boy said. 'You'll not fish without eating while I'm alive.''Then live a long time and take care of yourself,' the old man said. 'What are we eating?' 'Black beans and rice, fried bananas, and some stew.'" – Old Man and the Sea




The sunset with dolphins had been as lively as ever.  Captiva was little more than wind-formed mound of sand and so there were very few natural impurities to their beaches -- all white sand churned in and among white shells, which tumbled up onto the beach pleasantly, rarely by waves any taller than Lily's ankles.  The sailboats that drifted by sliced through layers of horizon and at the very correct moment the spinnakers bisected the setting of the orange sun and it all looked very pastel until the sleek hump of a dolphin surfaced to interrupt the perfect peace.  Lily had walked in several feet, quite shallow, and waited for the flying fish spit up near her, some of them landing randomly on the thick sand then wiggling back into the water thinking, she supposed, to fake out the dolphins then climb back into the water seeking an escape route.  The grandmother took her traditional seat up into the landed beach chairs, her one gin and tonic in her hand, thinking, knowing, that these were the postcards of moments. The grandfather had now two things that he was thinking about at all times.

Whereas before it was only Lily  on his mind at hours like these, now he kept one eye to the east to his sunken treasure ship, what might be the Hispaniola.  They returned back to the room earlier than normal -- he wanted to wake up earlier, before the sun, to get things ready for the dive.  He had sat back out onto the open breezeway on his chair and recovered his sweet cigar. After two easy puffs he had fallen asleep when Lily opened up the screen door and saw that he was hunched forward with chin nearly resting in his chest.
"What did grandma say about these cigars, Pa?" she said out loud, disturbed by the cigar that was rolling around on the floor, still lit.
"Oh, Oh, yes, this will be the last of it, I promise," he said, and smiled. There were creases along the sides of his eyes that looked something like ancient river patterns, as tributaries descending to the gulf that was his eyes.  What they had seen? "You know, Lily, you and I are going to find some very amazing things I believe."
"Like what you wouldn't tell me about at the bottom today?"
"Yes, you remember. But I did not say what I had found."
"But I know what it is, Pa," she said as she crushed out the small notch of fire at the tip of the cigar.
"What is it that you think?"
"I think that there are large jewels down there, red, ruby, and green." The old man nodded as if this could be possible.
"Someday Lily, I believe you will come back to this very place and show someone very special what is at the bottom. We will keep it a family secret, what do you say?"
"That will be very hard for me, Pa, you know I am not very good at keeping them."
"This one, I believe you might," he said.  He could remember his years as a chef back at Point Reyes, California, the very expectation of finding his day's oysters near Hog Island, what treasures!
"Tomorrow, yes, we will find our oysters, now it is time for you to go to bed and dream of sand dollars."

Arboretum Diary

"I've never seen a lark and it's pointless to get up early. The lark doesn't live on earth." Renard from Nature Stories









March 7

The wild turkey, although a mammoth species, is a strange ghost of a bird.  With such wild green plumage glistening like a long patch of emerald jewels against a bright sun, and inside a forest floor that is not hidden yet by leaves, such a creature should be a glaringly obvious thing to observe.  I had been running through the western most portion of the Arboretum, what is now called the Lost City, an enormous remnant of an attempt from back in the early 1900's to create a canaled suburban plot to be butted up against the shores of Lake Wingra, but that failed and turned to vast lots of overgrown concrete.  There was little sound by creatures of any kind today, dominated instead by the twisting of the basswood and pine tops by an aggressive wind.  I had found a long path made of old concrete planks, each intersection a golden green by a hundred years of velvety moss and suddenly the ghost bird, the largest I had ever seen, walked in its casual lungeing way across the path no more than ten feet in front of me.  With head phones on there is no crackling of the underbrush to detect. As for the turkey, with the stirring of the wind above, there are no footprints of the jogger to detect, especially across the velvet of the moss.  This one, unlike so many we see marching across the Longenecker Gardens in full regiments, was alone searching the invasive underbrush.  A few more steps difference in pace, it dawns on me that this could have been a collision or a turkey hurdle, certainly a startling moment in the Lost City on a windy day alone.