Keeping the Buds!

photo by ana traina ~ 2012~

Day-lilies are a handy-dandy edible bloom that can be used in winter stews, soups, and batters. There is only one tiny problem, how does one keep them for that special cold and blustery day... Well, here is what I could find on how to store the tender and scrumdilliluscious buds!

 Collect open or closed daylily buds by popping the heads off
Similar to the way you did as a carefree child.

 Cut off any green.  Also, snip off the pollen covered stamen if the bloom is open.

 Clean them thoroughly under cool water. Never use hot water.
This will remove any buggies left inside.

 Place on your dehydrator tray or place in the oven (you must leave the oven door ajar) for about 24 hours at 105 F, or until completely dry.  Or you could always go the old fashioned way and try sun-drying them if weather conditions are right.

Now, you can store in a sealed container in a cool dark place.


Presuming the flowers were dried thoroughly, they will now keep for up to 1 year.

A ZIngertale's Curious Find...

photo by ana traina ~2012~

On route 295 in Cannan, NY, there is a most wondrous antique shop, and there my eyes fell upon these little wonders. They are very early children’s shoes made way back when shoemakers did not distinguish between the right and left foot. The madness behind this method was that eventually they would mold to the child’s foot...

Thanks to the kindness of Sandy Klempner, the wondrous shop's owner, I was able to photograph these shoes.

LOVE.

photo by ana traina ~2012~

I once heard about an old hydrant that became part of a tree,
and there it coexisted, happy as can be!
Well, I just had to see for myself.

Yesterday!

photo by ana traina ~ 2012 

Up the mountainside
I met an amiable caterpillar.
I stopped to cheer him on as he performed
a death-defying feat
on his invisible silken-thread
that clung to the midair!

A little bit further along
I saw, yet, we were not formally introduced,
a vainglorious butterfly all cloaked
in his finest
blue-velvet dust -
I was saddened that he did not have
the time to chat,
He just batted his wings and
soared on by...

Lastly, I did encounter
a thoughtful snake in the middle of the road,
resting her mournful head
on a fallen leaf.
I respectfully tiptoed around her,
as I did not want to disturb.

The Pond!

photo by ana traina ~2012~

The beguiling willow-o-wisp lured 

the timid water baby far from shore --

Where majestic dragonflies

aerodynamically courted 

the young damsels, under 

the watchful eye of the peckish starling! 

And there in waves of delightful uncertainty

 the timorous water baby found courage, once again. 

Barnabus Butterfield-Bobbs, Recommends!

drawing by ana traina ~2012~

Barnabus Butterfield-Bobbs, has only two notes on the fine art of drinking wine... first and foremost, one must never, ever ask any lady to take wine, until, you see that she has finished her fish soup! And secondly, this is only a polite reminder... It is considered vulgar and quite gauche to take fish soup twice!

The Traverse!

photo by ana traina ~2012 ~

Underneath the fading rainbow

there is a fairy's bridge 

that leads us to a place 

where longed for wishes

are forgotten, and only

ticklish treasures of marvel

await!

Making Sense of Yesterday!

photo by ana traina ~2012~

Several weeks ago in New York City, on a drizzly melancholic day, I was passing the time doing one of my most favorite pastimes; I was perusing the articles and entries in the New York Folk Museum on sixty-sixth street and Columbus Avenue looking for artistic inspiration.  Going to the museum is something I do at least once a week for, not only do I get inchoate, yet interesting thoughts there, but the task also encourages me to get out of my apartment and exercise.  On this particular day at the museum, I was struck by an unwonted surprise; my eyes fell upon a giant-sized replica of Raggedy Ann doll and, like when you release the wound up key on a music box, my mind played a haunting memory as dramatic as the solo scene in Handel's Tamerlano!

The record of my mind was skipping on the note of my violent memory as I stood standing in the middle of the folk museum surrounded now by a sea of strangers.  All at once I was four again, and sitting in the back seat of the car as my father was driving my mother and I upstate to see my brother, William (he was considered the ‘mistake:’ he was the reason my parents got married so young), who was cast away in some private military school at the very tender age of seven.  Holding tightly onto my new Raggedy Ann doll that my father had just bought me, I watched as he pleaded with my mother for them to try again.  He told her he really loved her and gave her a little white box that had the most beautiful purple pin inside. My mother only glanced at the pin, and then promptly tossed it out the window, a gesture blatantly saying that she never loved my father, and could never love him.  Silent fury filled the air.  Then, and for reasons I still cannot explain, I rolled down my window and let Raggedy Ann dangle in the strong wind and then, with the slightest of movement, I unclenched my fist and let her go.  Then, in what seemed like less than any measurably minute amount of time, she disappeared.  In that moment, I realized that she would never return. The next part I like to keep buried, but I will never forget my feelings as I looked up at my father in the rear view mirror and saw tears running down his face, as the red hot burn of shame filled mine.

This memory has only surfaced as strongly one other time in my life.  When I was twelve and living on Long Beach for the summer, I saw the film,”The Reincarnation of Peter Proud.” The summary of this movie goes something like this: a college professor begins to experience flashbacks from a previous life, and he is mysteriously drawn, by some cosmic force, to a place he has never been before, but is troublingly familiar to him.  That summer I was completely troubled by that movie, yet I could not quite tell why.  I recall that I was very lonely that summer on tiny beach cottage, among a sea of my boisterous relatives who thought I should be interested in boys, when at the time I was not!

My asexuality caused quite a ruckus among my very sexual aunts and my grandmother who (when my grandmother awoke each mourning, she beat her chest for her son - my father - who had died 8 years earlier) thought and fretted that I was gay.  This was a very consternating situation, considering I never liked to displease my Grandmother, yet I simply had no interest in the opposite sex (or my own sex for that matter).  In addition, I had absolutely zero grooming abilities, I was tall and clumsy, and I liked to dress like a boy.  Furthermore, it didn’t help that my cousin who was six months younger than me was staying with us for the summer, and she was already a bona fide sex kitty goddess and had armies of boys after her.  Everything about my sexuality during that summer only fueled the fires of my already extremely confusing life.  It was at the peak of all of this chaos that that memory of my father resurfaced.  Similarly today, with my son about to go into his senior year in high school, his eminent departure from the nest, my husband Scotty and best friend Scotty being away filming his television series, and all of the various work projects (Maude, zingertales, plays, screenplays, etc. the list goes on and on), I am at a very chaotic time in my life.  So it’s no wonder that this memory came back with only the slight provocation of the Raggedy Ann doll. 

About a year after the accidental death of my father and brother, and my mother’s deliberate disappearance, my grandmother took me out to Horne & Hartart on fifty-seventh street, and while we ate coconut custard pie from one of the little automated windows and she presented me with the Raggedy Ann doll, she said, “that one of her customers had found it on the side of the road and knew it belonged to her granddaughter.”  With the tiniest gasp of joy I grabbed on to my grandmother and the Raggedy Ann doll and hugged them both.  Now, it is only looking back at yesterday, the anniversary of my father and brother’s death, that I am able to make a little sense of that precious moment of my grandmother most generous gift on that day so long ago.  Although, I let go of that Raggedy Ann doll that day in the car, and believed that it was never going to return, it eventually made its way back to me, and it reminded me that even though I would give anything to say, “I love you and I always have, and I always will” to my father one more time, at least I know that I will always have a piece of him to treasure, that somehow, maybe even magically, will always make it back to me.

Just a Layer of Onion Lore!

watercolor by ana traina ~2012~

Men eat 40 percent more onions than women, so cook with lots of onions to make your man happy.

During the Middle Ages onions were worth so much that they were used to pay rent and were given as wedding gifts.

On one trip, Captain James Cook refused to sail until each man in his crew had eaten 20 pounds of onions, because he knew that their high content of vitamin C would prevent scurvy on the long voyage ahead.

The onion was an ancient symbol of eternity because of the concentric circles that it contains. For this reason, Russian and other orthodox churches are designed with onion domes, a bulb-shaped dome with a pointy top.

Turkish legend has it that when Satan was cast out of heaven, garlic sprouted where he placed his left foot, an onion where he placed his right foot.

Countless folk remedies ascribe curative powers to onions: An onion under the pillow is thought to fight off insomnia; and chewing a raw onion sterilizes the mouth and wards off colds and sore throat. During World War II, Russian soldiers applied onions to battle wounds as an antiseptic.

“An honest laborious country-man with good bread, salt, and a little parsley, will make a contented meal with a roasted onion.
—John Evelyn (1620 - 1706), English writer, gardener and diarist.

Fairy Eggplant and Ratatouille!

fairy eggplant from ana's garden ~ 2012 ~

Ratatouille is a famous dish from the Provençal region of southern France. It is an absolutely perfect dish for late summer while the tomatoes, eggplant and zucchini are all in season.  However, with the early blooming fairy eggplant, one can start simmering their rataouille just a bit earlier in the summer...

Served hot or cold it is always a tasty treat that reminds me of when I was just seventeen and living in Paris with my flatmate, Catherine Laroache, the most magical French woman ever.  It still puts a smile on my face when I remember just how totally aghast she was after she saw how I cut cucumbers! "No, No, No, Cherie!  You must slice them very thinly so that they can melt in your mouth," proclaimed Catherine.  Quickly Catherine decided that I needed cooking lessons, and just like Sabrina, and with as many "erreurs," I learned how to cook French cuisine.  Now, without any further ado here is Catherine Larouche's recipe for Ratatouille, a recipe I have never forgotten!  Nor will I ever forget reaching for the pot, during one of my cooking lessons, on the top shelf of Catherine's tiny kitchen and spilling her, saved for a rainy day, cooking oil all over us and the kitchen.

Ingredients ~

Olive oil -- 2 to 3 tablespoons
Onion, diced -- 1
Bell pepper, diced -- 1
Garlic, minced -- 2 to 3 cloves
Eggplant, diced -- 1
Zucchini, diced -- 1
Tomatoes, seeded and diced -- 1-2 (this is very important as it is all in the preparation!)
Salt and pepper -- to taste
Basil leaves, torn into pieces
Bay leaf -- 1
A dash of red wine
1/4 cup water

Now you will need to heat the olive oil in a sauté pan over medium flame.  Then add the onion and bell pepper, and sauté them until the onion becomes translucent.  Next add the garlic.

Now add the eggplant, zucchini, tomato, about 1/4 cup water, and the salt and pepper. Bring the mixture to a boil, and then reduce the heat to low.  Cover and simmer the ratatouille until the eggplant is cooked through: this should take about 20 minutes.  Just about now is a good time to add your red wine.  Remember to continuously add water as needed to keep vegetables nice and moist.

Remove the ratatouille from the flame and stir in the basil.

Bon Appetite!

Je t'aime Catherine pour toutes les choses merveilleuses vous m'avez enseigné !

The Barnacle Tree's Tiny Fable!

drawing by ana traina ~2012~

“Once upon a time people believed, and some to this very day, that the Barnacle Tree existed along the coast of Lancashire. They believed that on this ever so odd and curious tree grew little shells of pink and white wherein little feathery creatures dwell. Some say that they resembled a goose. Now, here is the part some find difficult to swallow, it is said that when the pearly shells matured, the tiny creature fell into the ocean deep and became the fowl that we now call, Barnacle Geese! The country folk in the Northern most part of England call them Brant Geese... Yet, there is a sad element to this lilliputian fable, it is said, that when the tiny creature fell upon land, it perished and left not a single solitary remain.

A New Tasty Delight for Beckett and Ody!

photo by ana traina ~2012~

It was all in the dough when it came to Beckett and Ody's new tasty delight of the week.  I used Bonnie's Banana Cookie Recipe from the awesome doggie cookbook, "Baking for your Dog", by Ingeborg Pils!  The question was to add water or not to add water!  I found that I did not need the extra water but a bit more flour. O', as I sit here typing this bow-wow blog, the aroma from Bonnie's Banana Cookies are even making me hungry! So without further ado here is the woofie recipe...

BONNIE'S BANANA COOKIES
makes about 30 cookies

2 carrots
1 banana
7 oz all purpose flour
3 1/2 fl. oz sunflower oil
water as required
optional,  I add a bit of honey as Beckett has a sweet tooth

Now, grate the carrots and mash the banana with a fork. Mix dough with flour, rolled oats, and oil.
If necessary, add a little water.

Preheat oven at 350 f. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

Then on a floured surfaces, roll out the dough to about 1/2 inch thick and cut squares. Place them on the sheet and bake for 25 minutes. When done let them cool in the oven.

Store in a paper or linen bag.  The bow-wow treats will keep for about three weeks.

Happy spoiling your pup!

The Captain's Hiatus!

photo by ana traina ~2012~

Date:    Independence Day

Place:   Captain's Perch; Home. Amen.

Day:      Being independent has no day, nor time, it is a state of mind.

I am home.  A brief hiatus before setting off to sea once again but right now a time of great joy, work and play and  a lot of good food.

Today is the day this country declared its independence, breaking the chains of a tyranny that was choking the life out of a young and vibrant offspring.

Independence.  We seek it as children, most definitely as adolescents,  oft' times we seek it as adults.  We witness it as revolution.  On streets, in protest, sometimes in prayer.  It comes to us via struggle and happens upon us as victory. However there are versions bathed in mere relief or maybe even loss.  Independence, a push toward a discovery of self sustenance but at what cost?

I mention this on what has always been a solemn day for me.  The remembrance of lives lost, of suffering wives and children, of oceans of tears sweeping across time and space.  The sacrifices made to achieve something empowering and grand.  Independence. 

As I look at my son.  A young adult moving toward his moment when he will move far beyond the sheets and covers of a warm bed into an unknown only independent thinkers and doers can succeed in,  I think about the idea of what it means to be truly independent.  He has not fought us to win some revolution, he has not defined himself as a rebel seeking a way to right the wrongs forced upon him from his tyrannical despotic parents, no. His independence is from within.  You see it in how he interprets literature, sees film, dance, friends, what he believes in and how he approaches his work and life.  He is truly independent because it is in his soul and and in his mind. 

His mother lives by a similar momentum.  She too thinks, interprets, sees in ways that can not be measured by some standard model.  She provides her own book in which the rules and laws have been written not by some lawyer or politician or even revolutionary but by her own experience in a life filled with struggle and sacrifice.  Her sense of independence is also from within. In her soul and in her mind.

This leads me to what I question about independence altogether though.  Where does one experience the concept of "being safe" in the confines of being independent?  Is it that once we achieve, whether it be forced upon us, or we come to it naturally, this elusive thing, we also lose a sense of safety?  Or is it that we then create our own, "place to be safe" as we evolve into independent people.

I am not sure.  All I know is this.  As captain (sometimes), it is my duty to provide the ability for those around me to be independent and at the same time safe.  I am taught constantly what I need to do to provide safety for it is not finances, or a word here and there that suffices.  It is a presence of mind, spirit and body that allows another to feel safe in your arms.  It is intangible most time, unspoken often, and most of all it is merely a gentle touch telling another all will be fine... all the swells of an ocean's tide, the leviathans of the water's depth, the storms that inevitably come our way... all will be fine. 

I am home.  And even though I might be a Captain, as independent upon the high seas as anyone can imagine, I come back to a home that lies within it these two magical creatures, wife and son, who miraculously, lovingly, unconditionally tell me... I am safe. 

Happy Independence Day to All and may home be your next journey.

Gather Ye Rosebud While Ye May!

roses from ana's garden ~2012~

Make the best exotic Rose Petal ice cream ever! The delicate shell-pink color of this ice cream and it's intoxicating perfume of roses is an unbeatable combination. Here's all that you have to do! First and most importantly make sure your rose petals are pesticide or herbicide free. Then gather all the scrumpdilliluscious ingredients you will need ~ See list below~

1 cup creamy whipping cream
1 cup of half - and - half
Petals of four scented roses
2 egg yolks, no egg whites required in this recipe
3/4 cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract or if you can vanilla bean
2 teaspoons honey

Now, in a saucepan, heat the creamy cream, half-and-half, and rose petals almost to a boil but not quite. Removing your yummy mixture before it hits its boiling point. So be prepared as burnt milk is something to cry over! Then cover and let sit until it cools.

Then in a large mixing bowl, beat together egg yokes, sugar, vanilla, and honey, it's always best to do this to your favorite tune, until creamy! Now strain the rose-flavored cream mixture into the egg mixture and gently stir. Now we will pour into a double boiler and cook until slightly thickened, but again beware as not to let it boil.

And finally chill your custard-like mixture, and put it in the frig. This recipe makes 4-6 tasty servings!

Verses of the Bellflower!

photo from ana traina's garden ~2012~

I think, the Blue Bellflower/ Harebell is just about the bonniest posy I have ever seen. There is something so wondrously jolly about them!

The name, Harebell, is magical. Its name came from the fact that Scottish Bluebells are found growing in meadows frequented by hares. Witches were known to turn themselves into hares and hide among them.

It is also simply called, Bellflower, this is the name I like to call them.

Another name that caught my particular attention is Fairies' Thimbles.
Heath bell is a name given to the Harebell because they are often found growing alongside heath in the wild.

They are also known as Dead Man's Bells. A bit ominous for my taste! The name probably arises from the belief that fairies cast spells on those who dare to trample on or pick their delicate blooms.
The Bluebell flower has been recognized by many for its beauty, including being a favorite of poets for centuries.

Sir Walter Scott mentioned it in his 1810 poem, "Lady of the Lake" "A foot more light, a step more true, Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew; E'en the slight harebell raised its head..."

Emily Bronte wrote ~ "I lingered round them, under the benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells; listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers, for the sleepers in that quiet earth." in her book, "Wuthering Heights," published in 1847.

Christina Rossetti wrote a poem entitled 'Hope is Like A Harebell'
Hope is like a harebell, trembling from its birth,
Love is like a rose, the joy of all the earth,
Faith is like a lily, lifted high and white,
Love is like a lovely rose, the world’s delight.
Harebells and sweet lilies show a thornless growth,
But the rose with all its thorns excels them both.

Emily Dickinson uses the Harebell as an analogy for desire that grows cold once that which is cherished is attained.
Did the Harebell loose her girdle
To the lover Bee
Would the Bee the Harebell hallow
Much as formerly?
Did the paradise - persuaded
Yield her moat of pearl
Would the Eden be an Eden
Or the Earl -an Earl