A Spell to Build a Dream On!

It is well known among modern witches, enchantresses, and sorcerers that reveries are useful tools for foretelling the future. To inspire divinatory dreams, you must stuff your pillow with leaves of the weed-like Mugwort plant. Using this Dream pillow to inspire prophecy dates back to ancient and magical times. One thing you must remember is to always sleep alone when you are using a Mugwort pillow! As dream traffic can get very tricky indeed! Also, it is quite handy to keep a writing tool and paper to note down your visions upon waking. If you find that you cannot gather enough of the Mugwort herb to fill your pillow, just a few leaves burned as incense should do the sleight of hand rather nicely!


May a fortune teller always smile upon you,
Have a Zingerific and safe Halloweeny!

Tips from PiPs, the Garden Gnome!

photo by ana traina

Pips says, Apples have a long history of use in divination and Halloween party games, especially to foretell the future in matters of love. The methods of divination are varied and include counting the apple pips; burning the pips after naming each one with a young man's name and watching which ones explode in the fire; apple bobbing; Here is how Pips's friend, the British author W. H. Davenport Adams, who attributed belief in the prognosticative power of apples to "old Celtic fairy lore," described the game in his 1902 book, Curiosities of Superstition:

[The apples] are thrown into a tub of water, and you endeavor to catch one in your mouth as they bob round and round in provoking fashion. When you have caught one, you peel it carefully, and pass the long strip of peel thrice, sunwise, round your head; after which you throw it over your shoulder, and it falls to the ground in the shape of the initial letter of your true love's name. 

Other divination games traditionally played on Halloween included "snap apple" — similar to bobbing for apples except the fruit is hung from the ceiling on strings — and naming nutshells after prospective love interests and placing them near a fire to see which would burn steadily -- indicating true love — and which would crack or pop and fly off the hearth — revealing a passing fancy. Accordingly, in some parts of Great Britain Halloween used to be known as "Snap-Apple Night" or "Nutcrack Night."

BITS OF ODD AND END: Here is a little magic trick from PiPs himself, called, THE MAGIC GLASS, guranteed to be zingerificly amazing at any Hallow's Eve Party you may attend! 

When no one is looking, hide a match under the tablecloth. Announce your trick, and place the edge of a glass on the match. You can use a glass with liquid in it to make the trick look more dramatic. The match will support the glass at a strange and unusual angle!

For all the Single Ladies!

photo by ana traina

The origin of Cinnamon was a highly guarded secret of the Arabs, who first brought cinnamon to the West. They concocted a number of magical myths to hide the location of the crops and enhance the mystique of this spice fit for a King. 

Herodotus III wrote of the large Phoenix bird gathering the priceless spice sticks. Gatherers would lure the bird with heavy pieces of meat which the bird would laboriously haul to their nest. As legend would have it, the weight of the meat would cause the nest to fall, allowing the valuable sticks to be harvested.

The Cinnamon Besom, while being a standard in housekeeping practices since ages long past, is actually quite more than just domestic hardware. Magically speaking, it is a symbol of fertility and sexuality. 

Stories can also be found of how people would take their besoms in days long past out into the fields at planting time and ride them around, “jumping” to show the crops how tall they should grow. This again, connects the besom to fertility rites, and it is also probably one of the places where the stories about witches riding around on brooms come from.  I also found one mention of brooms being anointed with the infamous “flying ointment” allowing witches to take to the night skies. This flying ointment we know of course was used not to literally fly around on full moons, but rather applied to the skin to induce astral projection for spiritual travel. 

Witches today use their besoms in a variety of ways. In ritual, it can be used for directing energy; much like the wand is used. Most often you will find the broom being used to sweep negativity away from the ritual space while it’s being prepared, a purifier if you will.

Since it is a purifier, the broom is linked with the powerful element of water.  Thus it is also used in all types of water spells, including those of LOVE. 

Traditional construction of besoms has a handle made of ash, a head made of birch twigs, with bindings made of willow. The ash according to Scott Cunningham is a wood associated with masculinity, fire and amorous love. The birch is a wood associated with femininity, protection and cleansing. The besom takes the two and becomes a symbol of their uniting as one.

While there are traditional materials used to make besoms there is no reason an artful witch couldn’t make a besom out of whatever herbs, flowers or any other materials she may desire, to tailor a specific magical purposes, such as sweeping a love spell with a broom fashioned out of roses for example. 

Besoms made out of real broom however will repel the fey when kept in a home in this manner, so if you are wishing to seek out and work with the fairies, best not to use real broom. Many people insist that one’s ritual besom should never be used daily within the home. 

There is a wives tale though about how you should never sweep dirt out through the front door or else you’ll sweep your family’s prosperity out with it. 

So now that you know all about besoms, but perhaps you are not such a crafty witch as others, where would you find one yourselves? Well, ‘tis the season for all things witchy, so you can walk into just about any store right now and find cinnamon besoms for sale. Yes, you can find them in the Halloween aisle.  In fact, I found this one at WHOLE FOODS –  This delightfully fragrant broom fills any space with the sweet scent of warm cinnamon. I use it to scent my closet but for all the Single Ladies out there here is a little LOVE SPELL to use as you wish on whomever you desire after you have swept your room.

TO WIN THE HEART OF THE ONE YOU LOVE

Write the name of the one you love on the base of an onion bulb. Plant it in the earth in a new pot. Place the pot on a windowsill, preferably facing the direction in which your sweetheart lives.  Over the bulbs, repeat the name of the one you desire morning, noon and night ( this might mean that you’ll have to take the bulb with you to work) until the bulb takes root, begins to shoot, and finally blooms. Do a little dance with your besom and say this incantation daily:

May its roots grow, May it leaves grow, May its flowers grow, And as it does so [ name the person]’s love grow.

Happy Besoming!

Phlox they're are not, but Spider Flowers or Cleomes they must Be!

My friend, the wonderful and talented artist, Marie Christine Katz, wrote to Zingertales with this question and suggestion --

Hello Ana,

As I was walking back from Joris’ school this morning, I saw these beautiful flowers.

photo by marie christine katz

I would love to know their names, how to plant them, and care for them, etc... 

So I thought that as part of your blog it would be wonderful to have 

“A what is its name?” or a... “How to element,” where you or your reader could bring in their knowledge of plants...

Just a thought...

Bise, mc

Dearest Marie Christine,

At first glance I believed these flowers to be Phlox but after taking a closer look I learned that they were indeed, Cleomes. A flower that I had seen but did not have knowledge of. After a few hours of investigation here is what I was able to discover.

photo by ana traina

Cleomes are tall, striking herbaceous plants that gets it's nickname, “Spider Flowers,” from the spidery-like flowers with long, waving stamen which are held on a tall, strong and ticklish leafy stems. This member of the Cleomaceae family grows up to 5 feet tall (1.5 m) and reseeds itself each year to form large clusters of plants. Flowers are most likely to bloom from midsummer until frost in shades of pink, rose, purple and white, then turn into long finger-like pods of seeds that burst open when dry and brown. They are native to the southern United States and South America.

Although cleomes are annuals, they can be mistaken for perennials, because their good reseeding habit means they frequently return every year. 

These annuals will grow in just about any soil and withstand toughest drought conditions well. They prefer full sun but will grow in partial shade, though they may not bloom as profusely as in areas where they receive a full day of sunshine. However, their height makes them very unsuitable as potted plants. 

Cleomes are fairly easy to grow, but they can be unpredictable when starting from seed. They do best when refrigerated for a few days before being planted. Their germination rate is staggered, with seedlings appearing gradually over the course of a few weeks, though the shoots may appear after about a week. But they much prefer to be directly seeded outdoors in spring, after the soil has warmed. Cleome seeds should be barely covered with soil and kept well-watered until they sprout.

They make excellent and long-lasting cut flowers if conditioned by soaking them in very warm water, but the scent of the cleome plant is very strong, with various opinions regarding what it resembles. While some say it has a minty aroma, others compare it to the scent of a skunk or very musky. Still others say it smells like cat urine. The smell is strong enough to discourage many gardeners from growing cleomes at all.

The Violet Queen, Cherry Queen, Pink Queen and Helen Campbell (white) are among the most popular.

Staking is usually not necessary, and they are not bothered by pesky pests and nasty disease. Protection from strong winds is most advisable. They are the absolute favorite of hummingbirds. 

I would like to invite all the curious and unusual zingertale’s readers to write to me with your questions and suggestions!

Most Zingerly Yours,

Ana

The Legend Of Stingy JacK!

photo by ana traina

In Ireland, people were confident that phantoms and spirits were able to enter their world on All Hallows Eve. The specters, tempted by the comforts of the living, would enter their homes and try to steal or possess their physical bodies. Obviously, the people of Ireland were not over joyed with the thought of having their body snatched - so they would strike a bargain with ghostly beings by leaving treats and food outside their doors in hopes of appeasing the spirits who roamed the night on October 31st. - thus keeping the ghouls out of their homes, their bodies, and their lives. 

Now, its almost Halloween and if you were, perchance, to find yourself walking down a lonely, dark, and misty road on All Hallow's Eve, in Ireland, there is a very good chance that you might see a spectral light and a dim figure approaching, the best thing you can do is turn around and hastily run the other way. As it could be extremely hazardous to your soul to run into things that go bumpity bump in the night! Not to name drop, but like Stingy Jack, himself, all decked out staring ‘atch ya’ with his oh so familiar, all so spooky, Halloween Turniped Eyes.

Oh, you don’t know the story of Stingy Jack? Well come closer and I shall tell you the tale of this terrible, terrible person... Oh that’s quite close enough.  Well, let’s see, where shall I begin, yes, the beginning will do for now... 

Once upon an eerie time, Stingy Jack was a blacksmith by trade, and he spent most of his living days cheating, lying, and stealing from the locals and any unwary innocent unfortunate enough to bump into him. When he wasn't being a terrible, terrible person, he was at the local tavern becoming an off-putting tippler. What’s that you say? Oh... in plain English...a drunk, he was!

His reputation spread far and wide, over the hills and valleys. He became famous for his ability to talk people out of their very life savings. His "slick silver tongue" was legendary.

Then one black night the Devil walked straight into Jack’s local pub. Obviously, Stingy Jack was called "Stingy Jack" for a reason, and he did not intend to change his ways now in the face of the devil. So after a few rounds, Jack used his oily ways and persuaded the Devil to transform into a sixpence piece so that Jack could use him to pay for their drinks.  But the Devil was no push over and like all transactions made with him, the Devil would receive Jack's very soul in exchange. But little did the Devil know, Jack still had a few tricks up his sleeve. 

After changing into the sixpence piece, Jack quickly tossed the Devil into his pocket next to a silver cross - thus preventing the Devil from returning to his original form. Jack then bargained with the Devil to keep his soul for ten more years - in return for the Devil's freedom. The Devil reluctantly agreed and Jack freed him. 

Ten years passed and Jack crossed paths with the Devil a second time. With the Devil ready to claim his soul, Jack made a last request: "I'll go, but before I do - will you retrieve an apple from that tree for me? I'm awfully hungry!" 

The Devil began to climb the tree, and while the Devil was climbing to the top of the tree, Jack carved a large cross into the back of the tree. Again, the Devil had been tricked and could not get down. 

Jack; being quite pleased with himself; bargained yet again with the Devil - this time for the promise that the Devil would never, ever try to take his soul again. With no way out of the tree, the Devil agreed. 

Years passed and Jack finally passed away. Unfortunately for Jack, for all of his evil trickery and horrible deeds God did not allow him into Heaven. The Devil, still bitter at Jack and his bag of tricks, kept his word and did not claim his soul. Jack was unable to get into Heaven, and unable to get into Hell.

"Wherever shall I go?" Jack asked the Devil, confused and afraid. 

"Back to where you came from!" The Devil gruffly growled at Jack and sent him on his way back to earth. 

Jack's journey back was very dark, and he begged for the Devil to lend him a light to help him lead the way. The Devil provided Stingy jack with a coal from the fires of Hell - which Jack then placed into a turnip he had in his pocket. The carved out turnip lead the way back to earth. Since then; Jack appears every Halloween, doomed to roam the earth in search of eternal rest - leading the way with his turnip lamp. 

A short time after the death of Stingy Jack, people began to make their own versions of Jack's lantern by carving scary faces into turnips or potatoes and placing them near doors and windows to scare away the body-snatching spirits. 

Pumpkins weren't used until the Irish immigrants brought the tradition of Jack-o-Lanterns with them to America - only to discover that pumpkins were easier to carve than their traditional turnips and potatoes. The traditional Jack-o-Lantern was a turnip!

The Irish people began to refer to the ghostly figure as "Jack of the Lantern," and soon: "Jack O'Lantern." This is where we get the current term, Jack-O-Lantern 

Several American writers have referred lovingly to the pumpkin. "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" by Washington Irving refers to a pumpkin jack-o-lantern. Thoreau and James Whitcomb Riley both made reference to pumpkins in their writings.
The term "pumpkin head" is said to be derived from a law which required men to have haircuts which conformed to the contours of a cap placed over the head. Mother Goose even refers to pumpkins in "Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater. And everyone has heard of Cinderella's pumpkin coach!

Women with Histories!

photo by ana traina

Linda Mason,  the creator of “The Art of Beauty” and visual artist, extraordinaire.   

I first met Linda Mason when I was not yet seventeen years old and living in Paris as a model. On one of my very first jobs for the French magazine Lui, it was the men’s fashion section of course, which meant this shy and homesick tom boy from New York was to be clad in skimpy bathing suits, fish net stockings and high heels. Quelle Horror! I was mortified, petrified, and to top it all off, I could barely balance on these stilts some liked to call shoes! I don’t think I would have made it through the day, in the cave, called a photographer’s studio, if it were not for Linda, who helped me not only with her beautiful makeup, but her helpful hints and her kind and encouraging words. 

Not long after meeting Linda, I had found myself homeless, (not an unusual experience for a model in Paris)and she generously offered me to come stay with her in her romantic apartment which had been a horse stable at one time, on Isle St. Louie.  I then, a year or two later, returned the favor, by offering her to stay with me in my apartment, when she ventured over the pond to New York.  Pretty much ever since then we have lived basically around the corner from each other, witnessing each other navigate through this wondrous journey we call life.  Secretly, I have always looked up to Linda as a role model, watching and learning as she created a career here in a tough and daunting New York, becoming a single mother to the beautiful opera singer, Daisy and evolving into a brilliant, brilliant artist.   

Portrait of Daisy Mason by Linda Mason

And now, The National Glass Centre announces Visitors to the Seafront, an exhibition of new and past works by Linda Mason in her home town, Sunderland.  

Art Work by Linda Mason

Her first solo museum exhibition, the Sunderland-born (Sunderland is a little English town in the north by the sea), New York-based artist will present 29 mixed-media works, as well as a small selection of portrait paintings. The works on view represent an accumulation of her influences in her life and career, at different times and in different places, joining the long stretch between her life in Sunderland and her life in New York.  By bringing her dramatic, quirky, and stylish visitors to the seafronts of Whitburn, Seaburn, and Roker, Mason addresses her nostalgia for her childhood in Northern England and the temporality of experience.

Art Work by Linda Mason

Today, as I stand marveling at Linda's new work, I am reminded of a quote by Cynthia Ozick, "What we remember from childhood we remember forever - permanent ghosts, stamped, inked, imprinted, eternally seen." And I muse of just how remarkably playful and moving this work is as Linda brings us down her enchanted pathway to the sea, by opening her grownup heart and reuniting her past with the present, reflecting and leading us back to our own quirky kaleidoscope days of home.

Linda Mason with her  brother and their little friend

Linda Mason's artistic career began with makeup.  Since the late seventies, she has worked in the world of high fashion and beauty alongside the best in the industry.  She became an influential force in her field for her innovative and creative work, particularly in magazines and runway shows.  As her practice expanded into the plastic arts, her most impressive talents in the way of makeup shine through in her painting, photography, and other endeavors. 

www.lindamasongallery.com.  

NATIONAL GLASS CENTRE

“VISITORS TO THE SEAFRONT”

LINDA MASON

NOVEMBER 13 – NOVEMBER 28, 2010

Fully Flowering Facial Recipe!

photo by ana traina

This mixture is a good balance of emollient, astringent, and toning flowers. Adding fennel flowers will help in the removal of wrinkles.

2 handfuls each, petals only, of rose, chamomile, calendula, and hollyhocks

Crush all together gently with your fingertips until juices are released. Then apply directly to your face and let dry for 20 to 30 minutes.

Bit of odd and end: Honey preserves, so as a skin food it revitalizes, mosturises and softens... it is very useful to always have a little jar of honey around even if you are not Winnie the Pooh Bear to apply alone for a quick fix or with the flora recipe above.

The Witching Tree!

photo by ana traina - cumbria, england 2010

O rowan fair, upon your hair how white the blossom lay!
O rowan mine, I saw you shine upon a summer's day,
Your rind so bright, your leaves so light, your voice so cool and soft:
Upon your head how golden-red the crown you bore aloft!

The Two Towers

J.R.R. Tolkien

The Rowan tree is one of the most sacred trees in Scottish folk tradition. “Scottish tradition does not allow the use of the tree’s timber, bark, leaves or flowers, nor the cutting of these, except for sacred purposes under special conditions.” 

Rowan is one of the trees associated with Saint Brighid, the Celtic patroness of the arts, healing, smithing, spinning and weaving. Spindles and spinning wheels were traditionally made of Rowan in Scotland and Ireland. Rowan trees planted near stone circles in Scotland were especially powerful. Scottish Fairies were said to hold their celebrations within stone circles protected by Rowan trees. Modern interpretations of the Celtic Ogham place Rowan, called Luis, as the sacred tree of February.

Rowan twigs were placed above doorways and barns to protect the inhabitants against misfortune and evil spirits. It was one of the trees sacred to Druids and used for protection against sorcery and evil spirits. The Druids burnt Rowan on funeral pyres, for it also symbolized death and rebirth. 

The Druid Ovates and Seers burnt Rowan in rites of divination and to invoke spirits, and Druids used Rowan wood in rites of purification. Ancient Bards considered the Rowan the “Tree of Bards,” bringing the gift of inspiration. 

Rowan is one of the nine sacred woods burnt in the Druids’ Beltaine fire. Rowan is also associated with dragons and serpents - sacred Rowans were once guarded by dragons.

In America, the Rowan is usually referred to as Mountain Ash. Most sources maintain that the word “Rowan” is derived from the Norse word rune, which means charm or secret, and runa, which is Sanskrit for magician. However according to Elizabeth Pepper, Rowan is a Scottish word, derived from the Gaelic rudha-an, which means “the red one”.

Rune staves were often cut from the rowan tree for amulets by the Norse people who invaded Scotland. In the Christian era, the twigs have been used for protection against witches, sorcery, negative magic and the Evil Eye. Twigs tied in a cross with red thread are affixed to doors and barns to keep the inhabitants and livestock from being enchanted, saying this charm, “Rowan tree and red thread, Haud the witches a in dread” . Walking sticks made of rowan are used to protect the user from the spirits of the woods.

photo by ana traina - cumbria, england 2010

In Scandinavian legend, the first woman was born from a rowan tree, and the first man from an ash tree. A rowan tree is believed to have saved the life of Thor, by bending over a river in which he was being swept to his death, and helping him back onto land.

In Icelandic myth, the rowan is particularly strong at the Winter Solstice. When it is bare of foliage and covered in frost, it appears to be covered in stars, expressing the outpouring of the spirit in the darkest part of the year. The myth of the star-dressed rowan possibly evolved from an ancient tradition of erecting moon-trees, covered with fruit and lights, and crowned with a crescent moon. A special star is said to glow a top these moon-trees, heralding the rebirth of light; this star was incorporated into Christian lore, and the star-clad rowan is thought to be a forerunner of the Christmas tree.

In yet another Irish tradition, corpses were staked with a rowan branch bearing red berries, in order to keep the ghost from wandering, and ensure that it passes comfortably to its new abode.

In Scotland, the cross-beams of chimneys were often made of rowan wood, which was seen to be protective, and on the Solstices and Equinoxes, rowan sticks were laid across the lintels to reinforce beneficial influences.

Rowan Schnapps

Rowan schnapps - based on fresh and fully ripe rowan berries - has a unique, sweet-acid and slightly bitter taste with notes of crabapple, rose hip, and a little strawberry.

Use fresh and fully ripe rowan berries.

Pick them right after the first frost. But before the birds eat them. Put them in the freezer for a couple of days.

Or do as I do - pick them when they are fully ripe but BEFORE the frost and freeze them for a week or more.

Frost makes rowan berries milder and sweeter.

Direction:

• Rinse the berries carefully and remove all stems.

        • Leave them to dry in the shadow - on paper towel.

• Freeze them for a week or more.

• Put 80 centiliter frozen berries in a clean glass jar with tight fitting lid.

• Cover the berries with approx. 35 centiliter clear, unflavored vodka - 40% alcohol        content (80 proof).

• Steep for 1-4 weeks or more in a dark place at room temperature, 18-20°C (64-68°F).

• Shake lightly and taste it from time to time.

• Strain and filter your infusion into a clean glass bottle or jar with tight-fitting lid.

• Store (age) for at least 2 months in a dark place at room temperature before serving.

A bit of odd and end: Practicing folk magic was a sign of witchcraft to the 17th Century Scots. Margaret Barclay was brought to trial for witchcraft in Ayrshire, Scotland, in 1618. The damning evidence found in her possession was a Rowan charm – a Rowan twig tied with red thread for protection. 

A Stream Still Flows...

photo by ana traina

           When I think back on my earliest memory of New York, and for as long as I can remember, I see myself looking down at the ground and it occurs to me now, that I have been searching for something, something lost...something that if I was lucky enough I would find, someday.  

     I was born in New York City.  I had a mother, a father and an older brother.  Just like any other family.  We lived in several places, somewhere around, near my grandmother’s apartment building, 243 West End Avenue.  Anything more than that, is just hearsay.  Really, I couldn’t tell you in what hospital I was born, or where the apartments that we lived in were, or even how many apartments we lived in.  All I can tell you is that we bounced around a lot.  

     I do have a few fragmented impressions of when I was small, one in particular that I would like to share with you...of Canal Street just off the corner of West Street, a pretty remarkable street between the shops that time forgot, and my father’s warehouse.  As I think back, there was always a strong feeling of impermanence about much of Canal Street, maybe because once upon a time it was actually a canal or at least a ditch draining water from the hopelessly polluted Collect Pond into the Hudson River, but like that now paved over waterway, although very much buried an underground stream still flows...  

    And I remember, I still remember, the smell of cold cast-iron mixed with tar and cinnamon, wafting through the humid air as I sat, happily numb, hammering rusty nails into a lonely piece of wooden crate that was sadly castaway on my father’s loading dock, on the corner of Canal and West Street.  

     I had only his seven panting German Shepherds as my baby-sitters while my father worked.  Occasionally one of them, usually Queenie, would with her wet, rough tongue, lick my leg and distract me from my, oh so busy, work.  Annoyed, I looked over and felt her sad eyes.  Her long tongue hanging out over her very large teeth as she impatiently panted, in the afternoon sun.  Something inside told me, or I must have unconsciously saw, a familiar yearning, reflecting in Queenie’s eyes, for I knowingly decided that she was hungry.  And being the very quick and resourceful four year old that I was, I scanned the loading platform and found her the nicest, juiciest, cement pebble I could find, and generously offered her the delectable treat.  To which she promptly gave an aloof sniff and then turned her head away, in what I could only conceive as total disgust. 

     It was difficult for me to understand Queenie’s outrage or my red hot cheeks at the time, and on thinking back, I believe, I even said something to the liking of “bad, stupid, bad dog” as I angrily threw the pebble out onto the car-littered street before turning back in a huff of my own, to the rusty nails at hand.  I pounded and pounded and pounded those nails deep into the flimsy piece of wood, until finally it cracked and the nails, defeated, all bowed their head in utter shame and obeyance.  Then there was a strange muffled silence that followed, neither Queenie, nor I, or anyone else, for that matter, said or barked a word as I stubbornly stared down at the miserable iron-waffled ground beneath me. But I waited and as time dribbled on I could feel Queenie’s disapproving eyes burning a hole into the back of my shoulders.  I wanted to run, run far away but I couldn’t as I was bound there by the promise I had made to my father, earlier. So to escape the cramped silence, I went mind-traveling, not very far, just across the street, over to the shiny silver diner. The diner that had no other name but “diner,” written in bold red letters that sat proudly on top of it.  I would daydream of being in that diner with my father, on one of their tall stools with the sticky green plastic seats, in the comfort of my father’s grease-stained lap, eating the most creamy rice pudding.  And time passed. 

     My father and I never did go to that diner together...because not long after that, on a drizzly Sunday morning in July, on the Henry Hudson River, on a small motored keel drifting from the Seventy-ninth Street Boat Basin, not even one hundred blocks from Canal Street, not even one hundred yards away from the now ghostly Texaco station that serviced the west side, my father’s craft, a cabin cruiser, along with all that explained everything I knew to be mine, was swallowed up by a sea awfully hungry for a little girl's wishes. 

     Last fall I took a ride on my rarely used Dahon bike. I aimlessly rode from one-hundredth Street and Riverside Drive, past the Firefighter's monument down to the Westside highway and along the Hudson River, speeding by the seventy-ninth Street Boat Basin, peddling faster and faster, gulping down the briny breeze, on my spirited ride to nowhere, or so I thought. When I finally stopped... I looked up, and to my breathless eyes I found that I was standing on West Street and Canal, and in that curiously odd moment that followed, such an indescribable tingling sensation overcame me as I saw that my father’s warehouse was still standing, but that the shiny diner was no more. Poof, like with the wave of a scary magician’s arm. Poof. I stood staring in salty silence for a moment, only a moment as I reminded myself of the sad little paved over waterway, although very much buried, an underground stream still flows.  Not knowing in what pocket to put all that was resurfacing in me, I remounted my bike, pushed down hard on the peddles and started my long ride back home.

Shoot the Freak!

photo by ana traina

This October, my family and I took a mini-holiday out to Coney Island. I hadn’t been there in the longest time, and one thing that always strikes me is how special a place Coney Island really is. It’s like stepping back in time, to the days when things were magical and ‘Tootsie Pop’ care free. Memories of my grandmother’s smile and her creamy rice pudding or caramel apples.  Filling me with the warm sense of love on a brisk fall day. She loved making treats for us and we loved devouring them.  It also made me think of the one day my aunts and I tried our hand at pulling taffy. What sticky silly fun that was! Only a few of today's kids have ever enjoyed licking the pot while waiting for their homemade candy to cool in the pan. And fewer still have enjoyed taffy pulling. Here is a recipe for all the adventurous souls who wish to recreate just a wee bit of Coney Island’s magical memories.

TAFFY

1 cup sugar

2/3 cup corn syrup

1 1/2 tablespoons butter

1/3 cup water

flavoring, as desired

Melt butter in a saucepan, add sugar, corn syrup, and water, stirring until sugar is dissolved.

Bring to the boiling point and boil without stirring to 160°F or until it forms a hard ball when dropped into cold water.

Pour onto a marble slab or white agate tray which has been slightly moistened by being wiped over with a piece of damp cheesecloth.

Fold edges over into the center before they have time to get hard; by doing this the candy will be kept soft, but in doing it the candy must be disturbed as little as possible in order to avoid "sugaring" (if the candy "sugars" then it cannot be pulled to make taffy).

As soon as candy is cool enough to handle, knead it (with buttered hands) until it becomes firm, add flavorings, then pull it over a hook until it is white in color, satiny and stiff. If you don't have a hook, two strong people can be used to pull the taffy.

Stretch the taffy into rolls, snip with a buttered scissors into bars or 1 inch pieces and wrap in waxed paper. Store in airtight container in a cool, dry place after allowing to sit for a few days in a place of low humidity.

Bits of odds and ends -- I recently read in “A Kitchen Witch’s Cookbook”, by Patricia Telesco, in the chapter on divine deserts, that the magical goal of your taffy can change with the flavoring you choose. For example use cinnamon to “stretch” psychic awareness, ginger to help bring a dependable flow of money into your home, and mint for health.

An October Random!

photo by ana traina

I took this photo in Madison Square Park on Friday October 15, 2010. I call it "The Odd Pumpkin and the Old Tree Stump". It reminded me of an almost forgotten Aesop fable...

The Plane Tree

Two travelers, walking in the hot sun, sought the shade of a large tree to rest.  As they lay looking up among the pleasant leaves, they saw that it was a plane tree.

"How useless is the Plane!"  said one of them, "it bears no fruit whatever, and only serves to litter the ground with leaves."

The plane tree interrupted him with quiet dignity, "Shame on you, ungrateful creatures.  You come and take shelter under me from the scorching sun, and then, in the very act of enjoying the cool shade of my foliage, you call me good for nothing!"

The Crumbling Pear!

photo by ana traina

I have a pear tree.  (My husband likes to think it's his pear tree... he's funny that way.)  It sits, no stands outside my window, old, bent and gnarly.  She is believed to be over one hundred years old, and has not been able to bear fruit in many years. However, this year was different, a small miracle occurred, she blossomed and bloomed, bearing many, many sugary sweet fruits. Yes, I love my still vibrant pear tree. In honor of National Cake Day which took place on October 14th, and with the smell of fall in the air, I made these sweet delights, for tis the season!

Caramelized Pumpkin and Pear Crumble

Ingredients

2 large ripe pears, peeled, cored and cut 

14 tablespoons unsalted butter, cold

1/2 cup maple syrup

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

                A dash of poire brandy 

2 teaspoons ground ginger or candied ginger for a real zesty treat

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

2 15-ounce cans organic pumpkin puree 

1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour

1/2 cup packed light brown sugar

1/2 cup walnut pieces, without the shells of course  

Directions

1. In a nonstick skillet over medium heat, combine pears, 4 tablespoons of butter, maple syrup, vanilla, and spices and cook until the pears are tender, 9 to 10 minutes. Add pumpkin and cook for 1 to 2 minutes. Remove from the heat.

2. Place the flour, brown sugar, and remaining butter in a bowl. With your fingers, work the butter into the dry ingredients until large crumbs form. Add the walnuts and combine well.

3. Heat oven to 375° F.

4. In a 9-by-13-inch baking dish, spread the pumpkin-pear mixture evenly on the bottom. Sprinkle the topping over it and bake until golden brown and bubbling, about 40 to 50 minutes. Serve warm.

And here is a topping worthy of any great culinary tinkerer, Cinnamon Basil Créme Fraîche.

INGREDIENT - 4 tablespoons chopped cinnamon basil, 2 tablespoons heavy cream, 8 ounces creme fraiche, Sugar to taste.  PREPARATION - 1. In a blender, puree basil with cream. (Or mince basil and mash in a mortar and pestle with cream and a couple pinches of sugar.) 2. With a spoon, blend mixture thoroughly into creme fraiche. Add sugar to taste. 

knoop pears

The food here is terrible, and the portions are too small. ~ Woody Allen ~