I recently had the opportunity to eat at a new restaurant in Yountville, California called Bottega. The restaurant has created some buzz in the culinary community as the newest venture of Chef Michael Chiarello. But the buzz by the locals is more about the novelty of an Italian restaurant, upending the dearth of options to the French fare available in the little town with the most Michelin Stars per capita than any other place on Earth.
The couple at the table next to mine was indulging in dessert when my companion and I opened our dinner menus. I took a few moments to observe as they indulged in their flourless sabbia cake with strawberries lightly dressed in 20 year aged balsamic, with mascarpone cream--a lovely interpretation of Strawberry Shortcake. From their conversation, their clothing and their accent I could tell they were from out of town.
The lady saw me eyeing her dessert. "Be sure to save room!" she admonished. "It's decadent, but hey, you don't get to indulge every day...or maybe you do. Are you from here?"
I smiled in reply.
She and her husband had just arrived from Atlanta. "Oh," I exclaimed, "I was just there visiting my sister. We ate some of the most delicious food."
We spoke of all sorts of restaurants in the greater Atlanta area: Watershed, Flip, La Petite Maison. I forgot to mention The Flying Biscuit, Highland Bakery, and Sugo. And I couldn't remember the name "Rathbun's," trying instead to explain a restaurant with a lot of meat on the menu, named after the chef, with really good food. We both laughed.
With a wistful look I mentioned all the delicious barbecue I had eaten in Atlanta, though I couldn't remember the name of my favorite one. "Slopes?" the gentleman offered. "YES! I exclaimed, "Slopes! So it wasn't just me, it really is that good!" His face broke into a huge grin, "We live across the street, on the other side of the fire house. I had lunch there yesterday."
Small world.
It occurred to me later, as the waiter brought out their second dessert--a chocolate souffle cooked in a parchment paper chimney, unwrapped at the table by the server, then drizzled with anglaise and sprinkled with hazelnut brittle--that these folks may have the better deal. Yes, it is exceptional to have the option to regularly indulge in wood-grilled octopus and house made pastas. But the ribs at Slopes I could eat every day and want for nothing more.
The couple were in town for another five days, and I sure hope they enjoyed themselves in the lovely Napa Valley. I'll keep an eye out for them the next time I make it to Atlanta.
Sidebar:
Laura Cunningham, longtime girlfriend and now fiance of Chef Thomas Keller, has plans to open an Italian restaurant in Yountville on the north end of Washington Street in the former location of the short lived P. J. Steak (previous owner of the building was Chef Philippe Jeanty). Although plans for the new restaurant were announced about a year ago, few official details have followed in recent months. The restaurant will be named Vita in honor of Cunningham's Sicilian grandmother.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Recipes, Lost and Found
Some recipes are good because they are down and dirty.
About a decade ago I spent some time in Louisiana. It was before Katrina, before 43, before Ken Burns Jazz. The New Orleans I visited then has been lost, and the memories of it pass before me like a jazz funeral--too full of the sound of music and the flash of movement to commit to words. It will rebirth itself, as only New Orleans can. But I cannot expect to find the city I fell in love with on my first trip there.
I remember the food best of all. It was the first time I had eaten crawfish as an adult, and the first time I'd had it prepared in a spicy boil and served with crusty french bread. That may have been as close to Heaven as I've ever been.
I decided to eat as much of the city as I could.
Restaurants in New Orleans perplexed me on that visit. I went to one of Emeril's restaurants and was disappointed by the wilted salad, the congealed sauces, and the generic food service bread. It distressed me that people flocked to this restaurant for "good" food and, for those who had no other point of reference, would leave with the impression that it WAS good food. That made me sad.
Yet at a half dozen holes-in-the-wall in the French Quarter and beyond I found such delights that made me wonder if there was a secret society of cooks who took pity on a young, hungry girl in search of good food and brought out their best in exchange for my wide-eyed wonder and irrepressible moans of pleasure as the most delicious flavors filled my mouth.
I returned to the cafe where I'd eaten the crawfish. It was too early in the day and the boil wasn't ready. I must have looked crestfallen because the chef himself--a short, stocky man with a thick N'aaawlens accent and a bushy mustache--came out from the kitchen with a muffaletta sandwich and a bowl of barbecued shrimp. That meal made me so happy I cried, which I blamed it on the spiciness of the shrimp. That is good food as it should be.
The beignets at Cafe du Monde were hot and delicious (as all good fried dough products should be) and covered with so much powdered sugar that it showered down all around you if you didn't hold your breath when taking a bite. They were busy enough that the beignets were always fresh. I was thrilled, as much for myself as for the tourists for whom this might be a defining culinary memory of the city. The coffee had the distinctive flavor of chicory that reminded me of breakfasts from my childhood at great-aunt M---'s farmhouse kitchen table. Food memories with personal nostalgic value are a rare treasure.
I met up with some friends one night at a restaurant called Feelings Cafe in the Faubourg Marigny district on Chartres Street, not far outside the French Quarter. It was the ambiance and hospitality that made this restaurant memorable. Our party was greeted as if we were old friends. We chatted with folks from the neighborhood in for dinner or an evening libation. We were given tips on the best places to hear live music, an invitation to a garden party, and passes for a "behind the scenes" tour at the Aquarium of the Americas.
There were two small (and well behaved) children in our party, and they were doted on as if they were the belle and beau of the ball. At the end of the meal they were each sent out a dessert--one slice of Peanut Butter Pie and one of French Silk Pie. The kids loved it so much, the kitchen sent out the recipes for the two pies for their mother. Since her hands were full with her two kids hyped up on sugar, she handed the recipes to me.
While going through an old box of letters last week, I came upon the recipes. I realized they were recipes that could have been from someone else's childhood, easily made with ingredients familiar to a 1960's era housewife. Perhaps they ended up on the restaurant dessert menu because of the feelings they evoked, from an employee or a customer.
I never made the pies, and most likely won't, but finding them reminded me of that wonderful trip to the New Orleans-that-once-was. I offer them now, verbatim, as they were given to me.
Feelings Cafe D'Aunoy Peanut Butter Pie
1/2 lb cream cheese
1/2 cup peanut butter
1/2 can condensed milk
Mix the three ingredients until creamy. Add one cup confectioners sugar; fold in 8-10 oz cool whip. Pour into cool pie shells and ice with more cool whip and garnish with shaved semi-sweet chocolate and unsalted peanuts. Refrigerate or freeze.
Crust:
3 cups vanilla wafer crumbs
1 stick melted butter
Moisten crumbs with butter and pat a thin layer on sides and bottom of two 9" pie pans and bake at 350 F for 10-15 minutes.
*******
Feelings Cafe D'Anouy French Silk Pie
3 sticks butter
2 cups plus 2 Tbs. superfine sugar
1 Tbs. vanilla
3 packets choco bake
6 eggs
Whip butter on high speed in mixer, slowly add in superfine sugar, then add vanilla, and choco bake. Add 4 eggs at high speed for 3 minutes, then 2 eggs for another 3 minutes. Makes 4 pies.
Crust:
3 cups vanilla wafer crumbs
1 stick melted butter
Moisten crumbs with butter and pat a thin layer on sides and bottom of 2-9" pie pans. Bake at 350 degrees for 10-15 minutes.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Hunger
I'm always disturbed when I hear children in a grocery store in any upper or middle class American neighborhood exclaim, "I'm starving!" as a ploy to get their parent to grab a box of whatever snack is in arms reach to satiate and silence the child. It disturbs me more when that's exactly how the parent responds.
Let me tell you the story of Eva, a woman now in her 60's, who grew up as one of eight children in a fishing village in a Southeast Asian country. Her family was so poor they could not afford fuel for a fire to cook rice. They would put rice and water in a covered bucket in the sun during the day, then set it in a corner overnight to let it ferment until it was soft enough to eat. The fish they caught were usually sold to get money to buy clothing which was handed down as the children grew. Coconuts and bananas were available for the picking when they were in season. Sometimes they would barter for more expensive staples, like eggs. Five eggs could be scrambled and portioned to share among the ten family members.
Eva knew what starving feels like. The memory affected her so deeply that when she married and had her own children in the United States, she would wake them up at 2:00 AM to feed them steak and pork chops and rice--cooked in an electric rice maker. She believed that children inherently woke up with terrible hunger pangs in the middle of the night, because that was her experience. Her hunger was never sated because she lived in abject poverty. It never occurred to her that her own middle of the night hunger was a result of malnutrition.
Although statistics vary and accuracy is difficult, it is believed that one out of every five children in the United States lives below the poverty level. That's about twenty percent. That is abysmal.
This article from the Washington Post lays out a problem with food costs. If you don't have a car or can't afford gas, you can't get to at a big box discount retailer or grocery mega mart. Groceries at a corner store usually cost at least twice as much as those larger chains. The Washington Post article cites a Safeway on Bradley Boulevard in Bethesda, where the wheat bread costs $1.19, and white bread is on sale for $1. A gallon of milk costs $3.49 -- $2.99 if you buy two gallons. At the Safeway there are multiple brands of bread and milk (and everything else) to choose from, at least one of which is usually on sale. Conversely, at a local corner store the white bread is $3, the wheat bread is almost $4, and the gallon of milk is $5. Produce, if it is available, is prohibitively expensive and typically not fresh.
One thing that has struck me about the children I've met who live in poverty is that they rarely complain about being hungry. They have learned that there isn't food to be had, and that bringing it up to an adult can result in a reaction ranging from anger to sadness.
Prolonged hungriness can root itself deeply in the memory of a child, creating a permanent place of emptiness that he or she will carry through life.
There is a story I once heard about sleeping with bread. Some of the children who were orphaned in Europe during the bombing raids of World War II could not sleep in the orphanages and refugee camps where they were taken in. Someone tried giving them bread to hold at bedtime. The children realized that although they had lost their families, their homes, their communities, and all that was familiar to them, they had at least eaten that day, and would eat again the next day. Only then they were able to sleep.
Hunger is difficult to explain to a child, and the memory of it can be impossible to lose.
Economic times are hard right now, but if you have access to the internet to read this blog post, you are most likely not starving. Wherever you live, please believe me when I say there is a child not far from you who is truly hungry. Please consider making a donation to Feeding America, or to picking up some extra staples the next time you head out to your mega mart grocery store or big box warehouse discount store to donate to your local food bank.
And if you are one of millions of Americans trying to figure out how to feed your family in these challenging economic times, there is help: food banks, National School Lunch Program (NSLP) and summer meals for kids, Supplimental Nutrition Asistance Programs (SNAP), WIC, and other forms of assistance.
If you've got a few moments to spare, click on over to freerice.com where you can play some multiple choice games on subjects like art, geography, English vocabulary and grammar. For every right answer you get, a portion of rice will be donated to the UN World Food Program.
Let me tell you the story of Eva, a woman now in her 60's, who grew up as one of eight children in a fishing village in a Southeast Asian country. Her family was so poor they could not afford fuel for a fire to cook rice. They would put rice and water in a covered bucket in the sun during the day, then set it in a corner overnight to let it ferment until it was soft enough to eat. The fish they caught were usually sold to get money to buy clothing which was handed down as the children grew. Coconuts and bananas were available for the picking when they were in season. Sometimes they would barter for more expensive staples, like eggs. Five eggs could be scrambled and portioned to share among the ten family members.
Eva knew what starving feels like. The memory affected her so deeply that when she married and had her own children in the United States, she would wake them up at 2:00 AM to feed them steak and pork chops and rice--cooked in an electric rice maker. She believed that children inherently woke up with terrible hunger pangs in the middle of the night, because that was her experience. Her hunger was never sated because she lived in abject poverty. It never occurred to her that her own middle of the night hunger was a result of malnutrition.
Although statistics vary and accuracy is difficult, it is believed that one out of every five children in the United States lives below the poverty level. That's about twenty percent. That is abysmal.
This article from the Washington Post lays out a problem with food costs. If you don't have a car or can't afford gas, you can't get to at a big box discount retailer or grocery mega mart. Groceries at a corner store usually cost at least twice as much as those larger chains. The Washington Post article cites a Safeway on Bradley Boulevard in Bethesda, where the wheat bread costs $1.19, and white bread is on sale for $1. A gallon of milk costs $3.49 -- $2.99 if you buy two gallons. At the Safeway there are multiple brands of bread and milk (and everything else) to choose from, at least one of which is usually on sale. Conversely, at a local corner store the white bread is $3, the wheat bread is almost $4, and the gallon of milk is $5. Produce, if it is available, is prohibitively expensive and typically not fresh.
One thing that has struck me about the children I've met who live in poverty is that they rarely complain about being hungry. They have learned that there isn't food to be had, and that bringing it up to an adult can result in a reaction ranging from anger to sadness.
Prolonged hungriness can root itself deeply in the memory of a child, creating a permanent place of emptiness that he or she will carry through life.
There is a story I once heard about sleeping with bread. Some of the children who were orphaned in Europe during the bombing raids of World War II could not sleep in the orphanages and refugee camps where they were taken in. Someone tried giving them bread to hold at bedtime. The children realized that although they had lost their families, their homes, their communities, and all that was familiar to them, they had at least eaten that day, and would eat again the next day. Only then they were able to sleep.
Hunger is difficult to explain to a child, and the memory of it can be impossible to lose.
Economic times are hard right now, but if you have access to the internet to read this blog post, you are most likely not starving. Wherever you live, please believe me when I say there is a child not far from you who is truly hungry. Please consider making a donation to Feeding America, or to picking up some extra staples the next time you head out to your mega mart grocery store or big box warehouse discount store to donate to your local food bank.
And if you are one of millions of Americans trying to figure out how to feed your family in these challenging economic times, there is help: food banks, National School Lunch Program (NSLP) and summer meals for kids, Supplimental Nutrition Asistance Programs (SNAP), WIC, and other forms of assistance.
If you've got a few moments to spare, click on over to freerice.com where you can play some multiple choice games on subjects like art, geography, English vocabulary and grammar. For every right answer you get, a portion of rice will be donated to the UN World Food Program.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Bizarro
Many a moon ago, when once I lived in Seattle, my favorite restaurant was Bizarro. It was only a few blocks from where I lived, and the upside-down patio furniture hanging from the ceiling coupled with the smell of sauteed garlic seduced me.
It was just a neighborhood place back then, before it got write-ups in Zagat, before the proliferation of online food bloggers and chowhounds, when the Food Network was still a fledgling and most people had only heard of arugula ("It's a VEG-uh-tey-bul") from watching My Blue Heaven.
Back then the menu was subject to change, sometimes on a nightly basis. I remember adoring an appetized playfully called the "Fungichinni." I remember it as a glorified stuffed portobello mushroom. I liked it so much I came back three times in one week to introduce it to different friends. When it disappeared from the menu, I asked my server (who always remembered my name, and I regret that I've forgotten hers) what had happened. "The guys in the back say it's too much work to prepare," she said, punctuating her reply with a roll of her eyes towards the kitchen. To my dismay, it was never to return again.
One of my favorite dishes there was something they called the "Forest Floor Frenzy." Still on the menu, it is described as "wild mushrooms and walnuts foraged from the darkest woods melded with a cream sherry sauce," served with pasta.
It's been a long while since I've been able to make it back to Seattle, too long in fact. I have every intention of returning to Bizarro when I make my way back. Until then, here's my version of the dish I most miss.
Again, for Jen.
It was just a neighborhood place back then, before it got write-ups in Zagat, before the proliferation of online food bloggers and chowhounds, when the Food Network was still a fledgling and most people had only heard of arugula ("It's a VEG-uh-tey-bul") from watching My Blue Heaven.
Back then the menu was subject to change, sometimes on a nightly basis. I remember adoring an appetized playfully called the "Fungichinni." I remember it as a glorified stuffed portobello mushroom. I liked it so much I came back three times in one week to introduce it to different friends. When it disappeared from the menu, I asked my server (who always remembered my name, and I regret that I've forgotten hers) what had happened. "The guys in the back say it's too much work to prepare," she said, punctuating her reply with a roll of her eyes towards the kitchen. To my dismay, it was never to return again.
One of my favorite dishes there was something they called the "Forest Floor Frenzy." Still on the menu, it is described as "wild mushrooms and walnuts foraged from the darkest woods melded with a cream sherry sauce," served with pasta.
It's been a long while since I've been able to make it back to Seattle, too long in fact. I have every intention of returning to Bizarro when I make my way back. Until then, here's my version of the dish I most miss.
Again, for Jen.
Forest Floor Frenzy as I remember it,
until I make it back to the Emerald City
4 boneless chicken breasts
olive oil
2 lb assorted fresh mushrooms*, sliced
OR
OR
1 lb assorted fresh mushrooms*, sliced AND
2-3 oz assorted dried mushrooms*, reconstituted and drained (reserve liquid)
4-5 cloves garlic, crushed
3 sprigs fresh thyme OR
1/2 tsp dried thyme leaves
1/4 cup sherry**
3 tbsp butter
1/4 cup light cream or half and half at room temp or warmer
1/3 cup walnuts pieces, toasted
1. Season chicken liberally with salt. In a large saute pan over medium high heat, sear chicken breasts in olive oil, turning to cook on both sides. Remove from pan and let rest.
2. Return pan to medium low heat. Sweat garlic in 3 tbsp olive oil, seasoning well with salt. Cook for 3-5 minutes until garlic is aromatic. Remove from pan and set aside.
3. Return pan to high heat. Coat bottom of pan with oil and cook fresh mushrooms in a single layer (cook in batches if necessary) until they are well browned on the bottom side (several minutes). Stir and continue to cook, adding more oil if necessary. Season with salt at the end. Deglaze pan with sherry. Add rehydrated mushrooms(if using them), garlic and thyme.
4. Reduce heat to low and add the butter, stirring well to melt and incorporate. Slowly stir in light cream, mixing well to incorporate. Continue heating gently to just below a simmer, adding liquid from drained mushrooms (or some white wine or chicken broth) to thin sauce if desired. Correct seasoning if necessary.
5. Slice chicken and return to the pan to coat with the sauce. Finish with sherry just before plating if desired. Serve over fresh pasta with crusty garlic bread to sop up the sauce.
*I like a mix of portabello, shitake, porcini, crimini, morels, chanterelles,
and regular old button mushrooms
**If you don't have sherry, substitute madeira, port, or marsala.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
A Truth about Maple Syrup
It drives me nuts when people refer to Log Cabin or Aunt Jemima as "Maple Syrup." Maybe I was just paying more attention as a kid, but I could tell the difference between the real stuff and the imitation stuff. I remember turning up my nose at the "old fashioned" pancake syrup on the table on my first visit to an IHOP when I was about eight years old. It was with my Girl Scout troop and we were practicing table manners. When the waitress returned to our table to check on us, I asked for the real maple syrup and remember being shocked--literally shocked--when the waitress said that they simply had none. How was this possible? We were at the International House of Pancakes! In America! But for my troop leader's stern glare I might have simply left the building.
I try very hard (but with questionable success) at hiding my disappointment when, as breakfast guest at the home of friends or family, I find that the syrup options are everything but real maple. But I cringe at the thought of appearing ungrateful or judgmental for passing on the syrup. Lot's of people have never had real maple. Some can't afford it. Some just prefer the "pancake syrup." So I muster up the best smile I can and ask if there are any other options. If I'm lucky there will be honey. If I'm crazy lucky there will be sorghum. If not, I stick to butter and possibly some some jam.
Today in the New York Times online, I read this article about the last of the 50 states to open an IHOP--Vermont. It is also the first (and only) one to offer REAL maple syrup to their customers.
Vermont is known for its maple syrup, but I've also had great maple syrup from Wisconsin, Pennsylvania, Michigan, Indiana, Massachusetts and other states, as well as from the Canadians. Please, make it a point to find some this week and give it a try. Pretty please, with maple sugar on top.
I try very hard (but with questionable success) at hiding my disappointment when, as breakfast guest at the home of friends or family, I find that the syrup options are everything but real maple. But I cringe at the thought of appearing ungrateful or judgmental for passing on the syrup. Lot's of people have never had real maple. Some can't afford it. Some just prefer the "pancake syrup." So I muster up the best smile I can and ask if there are any other options. If I'm lucky there will be honey. If I'm crazy lucky there will be sorghum. If not, I stick to butter and possibly some some jam.
Today in the New York Times online, I read this article about the last of the 50 states to open an IHOP--Vermont. It is also the first (and only) one to offer REAL maple syrup to their customers.
Vermont is known for its maple syrup, but I've also had great maple syrup from Wisconsin, Pennsylvania, Michigan, Indiana, Massachusetts and other states, as well as from the Canadians. Please, make it a point to find some this week and give it a try. Pretty please, with maple sugar on top.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Listening
If you asked any hundred cooks which they thought was the most important of their five senses that they used in the kitchen, I doubt that even one would say their sense of hearing.
Unless you asked me.
Yes, taste and smell are critical (I’m no neuroscientist, but I know they are linked). Touch is important, too--the most delicate touch is required to pick the a perfect avocado or peach. As is sight--if the pork chops are green, don’t receive them.
But I can’t imagine cooking without my sense of hearing.
When I was very young I learned to cook with my ears. I’m not sure who taught me that, but I think it was my grandma. You can tell when a cake is done by pulling it out of the oven, getting your ear really close and giving a listen. Does it still sound wet? Then it’s not done. If you want to ruin the smooth top of your cake you can stick a toothpick in it confirm it.
Have you ever been in a night kitchen when the bread is coming out of the oven? The loaves are placed on racks to cool, and as they do the crusts crackle. Multiply the sound by a few hundred loaves, and the night kitchen is filled with the sound of the bread “singing.” It’s one of my favorite sounds ever.
When a steak is placed in a ripping hot pan to sear the meat, it sounds exactly like a hard rain on asphalt in the summer.
A fresh bean or carrot or spear of asparagus should have a satisfying "snap" when you break it. If it doesn't, then it's not fresh.
I know many a cook who depends on the sound of a timer for success.
And who doesn't smile at the sound of the whistle on the kettle?
But perhaps the best sound of all is the spontaneous exclaimation of "mmmmm" or "yum" from a happy mouth to the ears of the cook.
Unless you asked me.
Yes, taste and smell are critical (I’m no neuroscientist, but I know they are linked). Touch is important, too--the most delicate touch is required to pick the a perfect avocado or peach. As is sight--if the pork chops are green, don’t receive them.
But I can’t imagine cooking without my sense of hearing.
When I was very young I learned to cook with my ears. I’m not sure who taught me that, but I think it was my grandma. You can tell when a cake is done by pulling it out of the oven, getting your ear really close and giving a listen. Does it still sound wet? Then it’s not done. If you want to ruin the smooth top of your cake you can stick a toothpick in it confirm it.
Have you ever been in a night kitchen when the bread is coming out of the oven? The loaves are placed on racks to cool, and as they do the crusts crackle. Multiply the sound by a few hundred loaves, and the night kitchen is filled with the sound of the bread “singing.” It’s one of my favorite sounds ever.
When a steak is placed in a ripping hot pan to sear the meat, it sounds exactly like a hard rain on asphalt in the summer.
A fresh bean or carrot or spear of asparagus should have a satisfying "snap" when you break it. If it doesn't, then it's not fresh.
I know many a cook who depends on the sound of a timer for success.
And who doesn't smile at the sound of the whistle on the kettle?
But perhaps the best sound of all is the spontaneous exclaimation of "mmmmm" or "yum" from a happy mouth to the ears of the cook.
Monday, March 23, 2009
The Sound of Honey
I like honey. On biscuits and English muffins and pancakes and in tea. On yogurt and granola and whipped into butter. It is a "secret" ingredient in lavender lemonade, baked apples, and bread pudding.
My Uncle used to keep bees in Tonganoxie, Kansas when I was a little girl, and I loved receiving a jar of it for Christmas or my birthday. I remember seeing the white boxes where the bees constructed their honeycomb off at the edge of his pasture, and how I was never allowed to watch when he went to go retrieve the honey. I think some astute grown up knew that if I saw how it was done, I would inevitably try to do it myself when no one else was watching.
It's the first week of Spring and I find myself in Atlanta. I've heard the Indigo Girls sing of the "Southland in the Springtime," but I never imagined it looked and felt and smelled this lovely. The trees are fluffed with blossoms of white and pale pink and magenta. The evening air brings whiffs of dreamy floral fragrances that seem strangely familiar. The warm air lingers, flirtatiously, even in the shade and when the sun goes down.
People here in the South take lots of walks in the evenings. They stop and chat with neighbors, ask after family members, pet the neighborhood dogs. People don't walk so much as they stroll. More than once, it has taken over an hour to walk to the end of the block and back with my niece and sister.
One night last week while out at twilight, I paused under a beautiful fruit tree (which I've been told is some variety of apple tree), the boughs heavily weighted with delicate white blossoms. As I stood under the umbrella of blooms I closed my eyes and inhaled their heavenly perfume, as delicate as the blossoms and powerfully intoxicating. I think I may have I swooned.
Lost in my moment of Zen with my eyes closed and my palms opened, I paused at the top of my breath...and was overwhelmed with a humming that caused my whole head to vibrate. Was I lightheaded? Having an out of body experience? I opened my eyes and looked up.
In the hushed glow of sunset through petals, hundreds of bees buzzed in and out of the apple blossoms, dipping into the sweet nectar, bumbling back home.
So this is the sound of honey. I paused for a moment and drank it in.
My Uncle used to keep bees in Tonganoxie, Kansas when I was a little girl, and I loved receiving a jar of it for Christmas or my birthday. I remember seeing the white boxes where the bees constructed their honeycomb off at the edge of his pasture, and how I was never allowed to watch when he went to go retrieve the honey. I think some astute grown up knew that if I saw how it was done, I would inevitably try to do it myself when no one else was watching.
It's the first week of Spring and I find myself in Atlanta. I've heard the Indigo Girls sing of the "Southland in the Springtime," but I never imagined it looked and felt and smelled this lovely. The trees are fluffed with blossoms of white and pale pink and magenta. The evening air brings whiffs of dreamy floral fragrances that seem strangely familiar. The warm air lingers, flirtatiously, even in the shade and when the sun goes down.
People here in the South take lots of walks in the evenings. They stop and chat with neighbors, ask after family members, pet the neighborhood dogs. People don't walk so much as they stroll. More than once, it has taken over an hour to walk to the end of the block and back with my niece and sister.
One night last week while out at twilight, I paused under a beautiful fruit tree (which I've been told is some variety of apple tree), the boughs heavily weighted with delicate white blossoms. As I stood under the umbrella of blooms I closed my eyes and inhaled their heavenly perfume, as delicate as the blossoms and powerfully intoxicating. I think I may have I swooned.
Lost in my moment of Zen with my eyes closed and my palms opened, I paused at the top of my breath...and was overwhelmed with a humming that caused my whole head to vibrate. Was I lightheaded? Having an out of body experience? I opened my eyes and looked up.
In the hushed glow of sunset through petals, hundreds of bees buzzed in and out of the apple blossoms, dipping into the sweet nectar, bumbling back home.
So this is the sound of honey. I paused for a moment and drank it in.
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