"A hard cold rain a forest of wind
late at night the lotus drips
who knows the dream that entrances the world
is simply the luminous prajna mind" – Han-shan Te-ch'ing







The lotus is kindred but not home here
we hear it singing droplets of rain
strum its pointed petals in Indonesia
I can taste the perfumed lilacs sag

Arboretum Diary

"for the colors and lines and expression of this divine landscape-countenance are so burned into mind and heart they surely can never grow dim" Muir, from "First Summer in the Sierras"







4/28


No more than three hours of sunshine predicted in the morning here will bring the hungry trail walker into the canopy of the oak savannah at the Grady Tract.  This is the Arboretum's outpost, and not yet, as far as I have seen, crowded as Longenecker or Curtis might be on nice days.  The entrance at Evjue pines affords a quick entrance into woods away from the noise of the belt line highway and then continues to reveal more authentic depths as the West Knoll rolls out something like a transported swatch of African Savannah; the eye tracks this flat pasture seeking out large mammals that aren't bound to be there, but instead settles on a loud beaked turkey crossing the path and then ducking into the oak thicket.  The Greene Prairie opens up and again tricks the eye into thinking that this might very well be an ancient remnant of years past, but it, like the restored savannahs, are not. Instead the hard handiwork of Greene who had meticulously researched species from other native

prairie habitats and replanted them here years ago by hand.  Marsh and sedge grasses open to taller stalks of goldenrod or even further down, aspen.  Geese bob up and down over the more substantial rolls of grasses as the boardwalks barely stay afloat over the shallow drain of water.  On all four sides, it's hard to imagine, suburbs, city streets, business and highways. The red winged blackbird chortles its own logic, the goldfinches spray across the wispy brush and a crane might elegantly cross the sky in the distance, he too fooled that this isn't a city scene.  The founders of the Arboretum wanted to recreate native habitat before the pioneers reached here and began upturn land for the sake of farming; as they preserved the habitats, they preserved time in a way.  Where ground species meet birds above in the trees, we get some idea as to the panorama of centuries ago.

Odes to Colorado

"Spring comes, together with a rush of feelings.
I go, alone, to knock at a grotto's gateway." – Ching An, "On the Road: A Spring Day at Ling-Feng"











4/27


A cold April rain blocks the way to sunny trails.
The daffodils have bowed to the ground defeated.

As the Yahara water rises it climbs the banks:
the rocks grow dark by hairy moss underneath.

Off in the distance of the mind
There are the still mountains of the Rockies
burning like white embers under an afternoon sun.

I am walking through a cloud of bear's breeches.
Alpine yarrow is up the crevasse out of reach.

By the time I come to the end of cabin trail
at Sylvan Lake just outside the town of Eagle
the rain has ceased, the daffodils awake.

Dhaba
The Wonderhouse

"As the trooper cantered off, Kim crawled round to the back of the house, where, going on his Lahore experiences, he judged there would be food – and information.  The kitchen was crowded with excited scullions, one of whom kicked him." Kipling, from Kim






ch.4

And so this mostly unheard of little swatch of sand spit they called an island at Sunset Beach became the paradisal home that only Atman had seen in those dreams of departure from his homeland so many years ago, where a blue here looked something much more of a painting and at sunset, if you watched closely enough at the great red ball slowly falling out of the sky and sinking into the horizon, you could see a green flash that tricked the eye much in the same way that a magician might pull green feathers out his clasped hand at a moment's notice.  Now that the dream of motion had been ceased, the Dhaba had found its ground, it was the seasons of the tourists that became the family way.  Peak seasons did not, of course, always coordinate with the school season, and so Atman had devised ways that the children did their lion share at the Dhaba when they were not at Sanibel School, and he and his wife reckoned with the other parts of the seasons when it would be just them...and truth be told, there was some peace to these days, despite more work. There were no orders to bark out, no splitting the bickering between Sanja and Cecilla and between three and four every day in the afternoon, as would be custom of a true Dhaba in India, they would shut the doors, turn off the lights, and they would walk the beaches together, hand in hand if the time were appropriate, and collect shells as all the others.  It was at this lull in the day that they might come to know and understand this paradise of sand and they came know many of the locals who had also found their time and space in among the tourist cycles.  The Ramseys had become great friends, Ms. Torres, from Long Island, had transplanted here, and could be found at the same spot on the same chair at the far end of Sunset beach. She enjoyed watching the local fisherman wade out into the shallows for sea trout or, when in season, the tarpon, which were notoriously frustrating to fish for.  The tarpon was an enormous silver fish, ranging sometimes from 6-8 feet long and finicky in diet.  The saying was be prepared to play backgammon for 7 hours if you want the tarpon by 8.  They had formed a small group of travelers and great eaters and would discuss local cuisine and would all stop by the Dhaba at various hours during the week giving Atman tremendous pride in his new concoction, always upping the ante, as he said, so that the menu does not become stale and we lose this paradise for no other reason than our being satisfied.  It had been such an afternoon in early spring that the Morays had come to watch what must have been a grandfather and his granddaughter take their daily kayaks out to the strait, anchor, swim, and come back, each day, same time.  This had seemed unusual because the strait was not usually a place for swimming -- many boats and, during the day, a strong current.  As the tide lowered, the current became less over the top, but it was still substantial, but the grandfather looked like he knew what he was doing and so they just assumed they had perhaps found an interesting structure below that carried exclusive shells...

Arboretum Diary

"It's the wind that makes them run away, and every poppy can linger at the edge of a furrow without worrying. They're fellow countrymen." Renard, from "Poppies"









April 23

The Magnolias we have to be thankful for.  The planter craves the spring bloom, but the spring bloom is quiet and quite calculating, each species having to draw itself out from under cover of the cool and moist and dead dark foliage.  Maybe a patch of phlox here, dames rocket inching out, even the dandelions biding its time until deep into April before it litters in yellow across the scene.  But not

Magnolias.  Big, bold, early bloomers that must share a hearty attitude that must sound something like the hell with it, we are coming and we will grow.  Magnolias are an extremely ancient species.  Because they do no depend on bees as pollinators, but beetles, they do not have to be so delicate in their beginnings.  Longenecker at the Arboretum is combined at the far east end by these courageous bloomers and their counterpart, the lilacs, which will wait another week or two thank you.  When at

their full peak alongside together, this part of the garden is considered one of the largest stands of curated lilacs in the world and the puffy pungent smell will push the unaware visitor back in their shoes as they get out of the car and start walking toward the purple deluge.  On sundays, when the Arboretum holds many of its family walks and programs, kids get to mill around the color, often feeling the pink satin on their hands, running to the next tagged planting, holding it up, yelling out its unusual Latin name, then running off to the next in a sort of random maze made by long limb and new colors which ward off the dull, hazy, sleepy brown of deep spring.

Dhaba
The Wonderhouse

"Kim slunk away, his teeth in the bread, and, as he expected, he found a small wad of folded tissue-paper wrapped in oilskin, with three silver rupees–enormous largesse." from Kim







ch.3

Atman had brokered a deal with the resort after many tries and finally found what became considered one of the greatest locations on the entire island, at Sunset Beach, behind the resort tiki hut. This was a great cul de sac, easy to drive into, easy to drive out and supplies were transported to them on the same truck that brought the resort food. It was not long after then that Sanja had become known as 'Little Chaat,' or, on more mocking occasions, 'Little Chicken Boy,' for it was found that the best selling item from the menu of The Wonderhouse was the traditional Indian food called Lasan anna murghi nu chaat, or garlic chicken chaat.  It was his duty in the morning – "never be late, always carry a smiling face" Atman would say – to the delivery pick up out back and bring it back to the truck for refrigeration.  It was always, of course, tempting at Sunset Beach to forget about it all, all of

the work that had to be done for preparation; within eyeshot were the Jamaican beach service workers, pulling up blue umbrellas and serving shiny beers to early customers who would stroll along the lapping beach with their heads down seeking the famous Junonia shell.  "Little Chaat!" mother might yell from inside, the lighting perhaps not yet entirely on inside, always well dressed, hair done up nicely, hunched over the stove preparing garlic, the chili flakes, cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, cilantro for the salad along side. "Are you caring for the chicken?" Sanja muttered out of the side of his mouth to his sister, Cecilla, who had an uncanny way of listening to just enough of his mutterings to find the small portions that might get him in trouble. "Why is it that you do not do the chicken," he would say, pulling it out of its sturdy packaging outback where the refrigerator door was located. "I see that the pelicans have many hours of freedom."
  "Someday all of this will be yours Little Chaat" father would say, and Sanja's eyes would light up back to the blue sky and act as if he were diligently mastering some new technique.  It was the day that he was finally asked to make the Chaat that all things changed for him..

Riverside Ovens
Test Kitchen

Grits are easy to make good.  On their own, at least in the simple instant form, grits aren't much more than water and texture, but add to them a variety of spice, vegetable and shrimp and its like instant transformation to comfort food.  I had been enthusiastically introduced to the wonderful world of grits a few years back in Charleston, SC, where grits are God and a little out of the way eatery on the

grounds of Middleton Place served a batch that blew my socks off -- it was one of the great meals I've ever had.  That was homemade and had about two hundred years of experience behind it. Recently, a batch from Doc Ford's New Orleans eatery at Captiva Island continued in-line with the excellence.  Here up north, grits are not particularly prodigious on menus, but in the past few years the instant packs have showed up on shelves.  One half cup of boiling water onto the pack of dried grits and

that's that, a fine, but dull, concoction that could be used as a simple side for somebody.  A nice recipe in Food Network's most recent magazine provided what seemed like a good solution: cover those grits with everything but the kitchen sink. Get some butter in there, a bit of pepper jack cheese, celery, bell pepper, some garlic, scallions, chopped tomato, juice of lemon and, of course, a cayenne seasoned handful of shrimp.  I did all of this, plus added a sauce of parma rosa as a kind of gravy to pull it all together and to seep down into the grits, creating flavor in every pocket.  Luckily all of this, although a pinch spicy on the shrimp, is mostly mellow and something kids can enjoy as long as they set aside the scallions.