Just Halston, or Something Else as Well

Some of you may know that Halston has always held particular sway over my mind when I think of "fashion" and style in particular- no, not the recent remake which was a farce from the very start.   Perhaps it is a subconscious memory of the 1970s, with Donna Summer running as the soundtrack to my mostly forgettable younger days.  A few weeks ago, I was looking through the Halston: An American Original book to refresh myself with some of the memorable images from his minimal collection and of course of Halston himself (who was the embodiment of the brand).  One of the photos which caught my eye was this cheerful one, and for a little time after that, I was trying to source a hat with the same amount of elan, which I did on a random visit to a rather large store:

the original on a model whose name i know not

& its smaller sister version out on afternoon in nolita

Jazzing it up

I was doing a little of the old clean up clean out again, a direct result of acquiring a near complete set of Evelyn Waugh paperbacks (I already had two of them, and now have two copies of Brideshead in the same edition).  You know the old saying, "Out with the old, In with the new,"although I can't say I have ever subscribed to it myself.  I'm more of the Out with the new, In with the old variety, as can be evidenced by my many interests in this, that and the other.

To round off the night, I started thinking of which records I am no longer interested in and was going to either sell or donate, and started playing through some of them- many, many, many which I have not listened to in over ten years.  This ran the gamut from reggae (there was an all too short phase when I was an aficionado of the genre), hip-hop when it was still called rap (Rakim in particular), and what was once my favorite genre- Jazz (which has been displaced for a long time now by Classical).

I started spinning one record in particular, which I am listening to right now, and it made me think of what seems a long and ago time- when I was in London for a year, sharing a quite nice flat in a quiet (and rather dull) area called Golders Green with my old pal Y.  He used to listen to jazz a lot as well, and Jimmy Smith was one of his favorites, I remember that very well.  I was in my Coltrane phase at the time (I loved the orange spines more than the music)- and probably paying the then rent of Tower Records with my almost daily visits and almost daily purchases.  Music was always on in the house and there always seemed the energy and excitement of days and nights.

play it, baby, play

Play Misty

It being a thunderstorm at the moment, the city around me has become misted and fogged over- reminding me of the ways that nature can magically transform a space by erasing it temporarily.  Particularly appealing to me is this current view from my terrace with the bridge and oncoming cars are completely obscured, and the unattractive buildings in the near distance seem to have disappeared.  A far cry from looking out at the ocean, but sometimes still very fun indeed.

absence makes the heart grow

Very Black and White

I have a friend who is enamored of advertisements, commercials and promotional things in general.  Many a time when we are out and about, he would take some photograph of a billboard, say Calvin Klein or some such nonsense because of the some scantily clad drug addict looking "model".  I, on the other hand, read with absolute joy about the place (I believe it may have been in Brazil) where advertisements of any kind were banned.  It was simply thought to debase the public.  There are few things that I dislike more than the barrage in the city of gigantic paid advertisements that try to trick people in buying products which have no value and often endorsed by people (often "celebrities") who have even less value.  So, whenever I pass by a certain area downtown and look up at the space once occupied by painted signage (and now painted over in black and in white), I think and hope that others may soon follow.  Although I must say that there are some advertisements in memory which are quite spectacular, but I won't go into that now.

As plain as black and/or white.

Seeing Stars

What is time but time?  A last post related to the Museum of the Moving Image, a highly recommended spot to visit despite its being in far and away Astoria, Queens.  There was an entire wall and a half filled with portraits of stars from the Silver Screen, from its early days to the modern (or contemporary) times.  Not being much of a film aficionado, I did not recognize many of the faces of yesteryear but was drawn to those men and women who were beautiful, glamorous, alluring, plain sexy or a deadly combination of all those descriptions.  I was pleased to see my current favorite Fred Astaire (albeit placed at a very low level, near the floor) and Ginger Rogers (without her blonde hair!) as well as many others whose attractiveness went through the roof.  Hollywood is supposed to be glamorous, isn't it?

Pies in the Park

For a while now, I have avoided the West Village- pretty much ever since the onslaught of that ludicrous and highly unbelievable series that brought along the cupcake craze.  What was once a quite pleasant area is now sort of a mini-mall of useless items and tourists abound (cupcake in hand).  Nonetheless, I decided to take a stroll around the other day just to avoid the humdrum of the daily walking areas, and I finally got a chance to enter the environs of the English store Myers of Keswick.  Over the years, for some reason, I have passed by it many a time but it has always been closed.  Not so the other day, when I went in and looked around with good fun at the British wares on display.  It brought back all those days and nights I spent in London- and not caring a whit about what was around me, so wrapped up was I in my course of study (which turned out to be a flop, a fact which cannot be entirely blamed on me, I believe).  Well, I left with two pies- a pork pie (their specialty) as well as a shepherd's pie.

Albion's around.

Shepherd on left, Pork on right

Blue, White and Red, Future Themed

Following on the previous post of the Museum of the Moving Image, I thought that I would save some words and present some images from the museum itself.  As it was a heat filled day outside, getting a blast of air condition and the pseudo-futuristic design of the space itself helped cool and calm me down quite a bit.  The use of colors was particularly striking in some areas, and it was most enjoyable when nobody was around (such as visiting an abandoned space station or some such).

Why are there so many songs about rainbows?

Last Friday found me in of all places Queens, which believe you me I visit only most grudgingly.  Yes, there is a splendid store there which sells quality tea, but for the most part I avoid it even more so than Brooklyn.  Distance-wise and reward wise, I find that there is little payoff.  Alas, there was an exhibition at the Museum of the Moving Image which drew me magnetized towards Astoria, and it was for the new show Jim Henson's Fantastic World. To prepare for the exhibition, I saw the first Muppet film from 1979 and was quite eager to see what was on display. On view were a few of the famous puppets (Kermit, Miss Piggy, Bert and Ernie) as well as a score of illustrations, storyboards and short films created by Henson.  If only there were many many more things to see, but it was well worth the trip and I may well return there (albeit when the temperature cools down).

Kermit (minus banjo) greets you at the entrance to the show.

In addition to the Muppets, there were also artefacts related to the cinema and radio/television, that sort of nostalgic graveyard which is both enjoyable but depressing. Technology as it is practiced nowadays on the silver screen is underwhelming and more fake than a 1920s silent film robot, it seems.  As for the storyline- is there even a need for one?  As in that line from the classic song- "Anything Goes" and might I add "Nobody really cares".

Lights, camera but no more action.

Plum Soda and/or Water

Some of you may recall that I was given a little basketful of plums about two weeks ago from my dear friends who make the best Vietnamese Sandwich in New York, if not the entire universe.  Well, we decided to make some Ume (Plum) syrup out of it, and were able to bottle some.  With the excitement that greets any new project, however trivial, I decided to rush out despite the unforgiving heat and give some to my friends who provided me with the source.  Before doing so, I did a little quick design and improvisational recycle of a Saks bag and it came out pretty swell.

For those who cannot read the label (which is in traditional Chinese, not simplified/simplistic), the label says "what's his name's plum syrup"- as I was called "what's his name" when the sandwich folks used to see me all the time but did not know my name.  Although they do know it now, I think the "what's his name" sounds better.  As for how the plum syrup tastes, it is sweet and a little bitter- a little medicinal, perhaps, but with some soda water and ice, a refreshing bit of fun.

Pterror in New York

These foul weathered days being what they are, one of the only civilized things to do is to stay in, curtains drawn more than usual and lounge about, reading and listening to music, doing a little or no work here and there, and daydreaming more than ever.  Today finds me after a grueling walk to the post office and supermarket back in the cozy confines of the thrice blasting air conditioned studio listening to the ethereal strains of piano as played by Clara Haskil and delighting in the Parisian comic book fantasies of Jacques Tardi- in particular the recently collected edition (The Extraordinary Adventures of Adele Blanc-Sec) featuring "Pterror Over Paris" and "The Eiffel Tower Demon".   Those like myself who have a weakness for the pterodactyl will surely find some pleasure in its depictions.  Not only that, but the atmosphere and time period (early 20th century) are quite wonderful.

pterrorizing and in ptop pform

As a side note, not just out of curiosity I do wonder how people were able to wear suits year round.  This particular day, for example, I would like to hear some voices from the past.

La La Land and the Desert

Although I realized that going out today would possibly fry me, I had to do it for a real errand (not the sort that is not worth talking about, like laundry or some such).  So, prepared as I was with the highest SPF possible (despite knowing that anything over 30 is pretty much the same, as confided to me by a friend in the field), I made my way into the vast desert atmosphere of the city.  A friend said that it reminded her of Asia (those parts which I have little interest in going), so I said that was no advertisement for travel at all.  Anyway, mission accomplished (sort of), I had to take many a break by popping my head into this and that store- among them, not surprisingly, was the bookstore.  What was surprising at first hand was to see a small shelf devoted to Smurfs, those loveable (or hateful) characters from my youth- and it was indeed fun to see them again, but then I realized it was for the upcoming (or already in theatres?) film.  The way that they are destroying the Smurfs with inanity- not just the "La La La La La La" that they used to sing, but with human characters (always a bad sign) and in 3d with computer graphic trickery would fry anyone's brain faster than the scalding heat outside.

Anyway, coming back (or rushing back) to the studio to be seduced into the comfort of the air conditioned life, all was good again in the world.  And, I would suggest some fun could be had by reading the adventures of the Smurfs- particularly if one has the first story with the Black Smurf (in America, it was changed to a Purple Smurf because it was considered politically incorrect!).  Nyep nyep.

La La La... you know the rest.

For the end of summer

This summer being what it is, sun filled and sun baked, I find absolute solace in being a sort of armchair traveler for once, delighting in the modern convenience of air conditioned luxury and caught up in reading this and that (mostly of the non-literary variety, although Wodehouse has popped his head in), watching all the Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers films for the first time (absolutely wonderful they are too), and looking at books and on-line for information related to the cut of a jacket.  That, and the upcoming trip to the UK and France, of course- but, as is my habit, I do not like to plan so much in advance.  Thoughts turn to the long awaited and glorious end of summer and the triumphant return of the Autumn (yours truly's best season)

While pining for the autumn (not the fall), I thought I'd enclose this wistful portrait from the book Mr. Classic.  There are many things that I can see in myself in this picture, and if you would like to join me in thinking about it, by all means do so.

of whom and of what does one dream/alone yet not but still

The Point of Petrella

There's a place (among many) I've been meaning to go, since its opening a few years back- a small not for profit museum called The City Reliquary. But its location in Brooklyn (despite its being in Williamsburg, one of the few areas that I actually go maybe once or twice a year) has and will always be a drawback for me. Those who know me realize that I am mostly confined to the Downtown Scene, the Upper East Side when duty calls (duty being art and fashion) and the Upper West Side (mostly if not exclusively the Lincoln Center area).  Anyway, yesterday I finally decided to brave the heat and walk back and across the Williamsburg Bridge- no mean feat given the heat glaring down mercilessly on the walker- and see what the Museum and Williamsburg had in store.

Let me first preface that the reason I wanted to see the Museum was because I knew it had transplanted the entire newsstand (called Petrella's Point, EST MCMLXXV after the owner) that used to stand on the corner of Bowery and Canal Street.  The amiable fellow who ran the place, Adam Petrella, passed away a few years ago- I found out only because I searched for information on him and found his obituary.  Why was I interested?  Because I had walked by his newsstand a great many times, always curious as to this strange small stand which did not seem profitable but was filled with interesting sorts of things. There were prints of drawings for sale, of Bruce Lee, political personages, hand drawn maps of Chinatown, as well as other small things such as gum, lighters.  For some reason, I do not remember him selling newspapers, but the fog of memory may betray me there.  A short time before his death, my curiosity led me to have a few conversations with him, even so much as being privileged to sit on his "Guest of Honor" chair. A friendly fellow- I found out that he used to be a sign painter, and even did some (hand painted, of course) after his retirement.

Well, the City Reliquary has disassembled his newsstand to reveal the many contents.  I remember looking inside (as there was never any room to be inside the stand itself, he was always seated outside of it) and it was things piled upon things.  With the amount of things in there, I now suspect that it was a bit of a hoard.  But, no matter.  It was just a bit of fun and sad nostalgia to see the remains of his stand there, but at least someone decided it was of interest and importance to display.

There were other things in the Museum of interest, but I will save that for another time. To end off today's talk, I offer an image from where Petrella's Point used to stand. The ghostly memorial is appropriate as nothing could replace it.

gone but not forgotten by some

Marine Day Victory

As much as I love the USA with all my heart, it was brilliant to see Japan win the FIFA Womens' World Cup.  Especially on "Marine Day" (a national holiday, whose intent is "to appreciate the benefits of the sea, and to pray for the prosperity of this seafaring country, Japan"). 

The Gold belongs to the best team- the Winners.

Which, in this case, is Japan.

Rainbows Rainbows

Very brief words today. 

A few days ago, while attempting to navigate the nightmare that is the summer weather, I happened to be near City Hall Park and the sprinklers were on.  Walking as close as possible to the gates where some of the spray misted into the air, I zipped right on through and cooled myself off (at least for a few seconds).  Even more spectacular was that the water had created something special- I was able to run through a rainbow.

Last night, during a rather uneventful dinner, I happened to look out the window and capture a most glorious rainbow across the sky.  You see, it came down rather frightfully yesterday afternoon, and in its wake was the following (which, as usual, is best experienced in reality)- an image so grand it had to be composited from three photographs.

across the sky were writ colors that cast despair aside all at once

Bounty from a Friend

There's this one place I go to for lunch all the time, they have these brilliant Vietnamese Sandwiches- I won't mention the name of it as it is already far too crowded for my taste and sometimes the line is twenty plus deep, but it would be my last meal on earth given a chance (albeit eaten somewhere else, say the Pool Room of the Four Seasons if I had to be in New York). Anyway, I found myself there on this absolute scorcher of a day as it was one of those regrettable either find an air conditioned place or wind up in the hospital days- and you know me and my aversion to the heat.  Anyway, after the usual spectacular meal washed down with an absolutely perfect Diet Coke, I had a chat with the owner as I sometimes do and she gave me a bunch of stuff from her garden.  The bounty of the day consisted of her scorching hot peppers that sometimes set my mouth aflame (a little bit reduced the Other Half to tears a while back) as well as some pear shaped tomatoes and some plums. Now, to think of an appropriate summer menu to best enjoy them- any suggestions are of course most welcome.

caution: fire, or, hell on earth

a lovely little assortment of small tomatoes

professor plum in the garden with a?

Stories, Songs and Dances and More

I had something pressing (which I found later not to be important at all) which brought me downtown to the usually avoided area of the so-called financial district. Usually, the only reason I would be caught dead down there is to have a drink (or, rather, many drinks) with one of my fabulous couple friends who live in the neighborhood. Otherwise, it is one area that I tend to visit (that is the correct word) about once a year, maybe even less.

Anyway, after realizing that my schedule had shifted and what I was intending to do fizzled out (no need to go into that frivolity here), I made a little excursion to the Hermes store to wade through their little sea of bright and cheery ties- but, you know me- I couldn't just buy one, given that many of them are patterns in different colors.  And there were so many that I absolutely needed to have! Before I knew it, the selection amounted to about fifteen total, maybe more.  I left empty handed, though- the shopping compulsion had escaped me as I thought of a cool drink instead.

What would even be cooler than a glass of prosecco I thought would be to venture into the brilliant Smithsonian National Museum of the American Indian, a most wonderful and seemingly secret place as it is off the beaten path.  On the rare occasions that I make my way that far downtown, I make it a necessity to see what's on.  And, once again, I was astounded and moved by the beauty of the creations on exhibit- many from the permanent collection that is beyond words in their astounding connection to the everyday and the world of the spirits, and there was also a temporary exhibit by the contemporary glass artist Preston Singletary- whose works seemed from the far distant past as well as the very far off future.

So many things to see, and yet to describe them all is both unnecessary and impossible. They are meant to be viewed and experienced with one's own eyes (and, preferably but not possibly, with one's own hands).  They are things that remind me of the possibility inherent in one's soul.  Perhaps a quote from the artist Preston Singeltary himself will be able to help me out here: "In the old days, things were made for a purpose, and there was a story and maybe even a dance and a song that went along with it,"

The Museum

abstraction as gateway

A No Show

Over the weekend, I was in the usual neighborhoods and decided to pop my head into the Forbes Galleries, where there is a most impressive collection of toys which belonged to moneymaker Malcolm Forbes.  For years, I have been going into this place whenever it struck my fancy, and of course it had to be on the rare occcasions that it was open (never keeping track of when, visits were based on whim and chance).  Upon entering, one was delighted to find an impeccably kept (and most likely, never played with) assortment of boats, planes, tin soldiers, a replica of Mr. Forbes' childhood room (although at a much smaller scale, I suspect) as well as examples of the earliest Monopoly board games (when they were created by hand).  The beauty (and sadness) of it was that everything looked brand new, although they were approaching a century.

Unfortunately, I found the galleries (or, at least that part of it) closed so wandered around to the other parts, which have rotating exhibitions.  In particular, one on the British illustrator Ronald Searle caught my fancy. Not entirely a loss, I vowed to return another day.  Before leaving, I struck up a conversation with the attendant and I asked when the toys would be on view again.  She said, "Never" and told me that they had all been put up for auction at Sotheby's last year.  Now, as a person who follows and tries to bid on auctions (most of the time unsuccessfully, I might add), I do keep up with auctions and remembered that there was indeed a Forbes auction, but I did not put one and one together at the time.  So, it was all packed up, exhibited one last time at the auction house and then dispersed to the four corners of the world.  Granted that I would probably not have bid on anything except some tin soldier or two, but, what a genuine loss for the city.  You see, it was free to view and it was a joyous respite from the noise of the city.  Of course, the sons of Forbes whoever they may be decided that it was time "for others to enjoy them" which means that they are strapped for cash and couldn't give a whit about the exhibition.  Thus, the end of one of New York's greatest secret places.

Sail away sail away sail away/The end of youth

As this world turns

Although I have had a new turntable for over a year now, I must admit that most of my listening to music has been in digital format or on the radio (preferably, when it is commercial free).  When I first bought the turntable to replace one which was on its very last legs, it was with only after much research (a habit of mine) and with a great deal of delight. Unfortunately, with the much higher quality of the new system, it was also much more likely to reproduce sounds which were hidden within the grooves- dust, static and the like.

Now, as someone who listens mostly to classical music nowadays, hearing any sorts of clicks and pops (unless I am listening to some pre-1950 recordings, which have that faraway quality by default), I cannot stand it.  Gone are the days of scratchy vinyl of jazz and blues which have just that character.  Classical music is an altogether different matter.  

So, fazed by these realizations, I did not bother to play any records on my still brand new turntable for over a year- that is, until last week, for some reason.  In the usual clean up clean out manner, I decided that I did indeed want to play the records but I may have to get a new turntable.  So, going around to the few existing stores which still stocked turntable equipment, I voiced my concern.  One fellow at a high end emporium suggested I buy a five hundred to a thousand dollar machine to clean my records, which looked quite space age and interesting, but I held off on that.  At the second place, the much younger fellow suggested I simply clean my records with a proven liquid and cleaning pads formula which was fortunately at a much lower price point (40 dollars), so I thought I would give that a go. 

Although I have not mustered up the energy to do so yet (as I have over 300, maybe 400 records), I did clean one album which I did not even know I had (one of many, actually, and this one was a Rostropovich rendition of a Haydn cello concerto) and it played almost sparkling new, with no clicks and pops whatsoever.  I am wondering whether the turntable is reading my thoughts- that if it doesn't meet up to my new standard, it is out the door.  Let's hope so.  

the top is jazz, blues, reggae, hip hop, etc/ the bottom almost all classical

A black silver lining

Today I walked all by my lonesome along the muggy city streets and there was little of interest- that's for sure. Seeking a moment of respite from the heat, I ducked into a bookstore (not that I needed any prodding, really) and started reading from a book of short stories, but found it all too serious to be read in such an environment. Truth be told, I have never been one of those who could take a book and read it except in the absolute quiet of my own space (wherever that happens to be), as I find the slightest distraction a, well, distraction.  Case in point was when an attractive person came along and disturbed my stream of reading and daydreaming, whereupon I decided to quit the effort once and for all and make my way back towards the unwelcome sidewalks.  With a grey cloud hanging over me, I had a moment of joy when I saw the shadows cast by the trees, which I share with you here:

Lost amongst the denizens was I/ Unnoticed but loved and yet

A sign of something or other

There is something to be said about handwriting.  I've always known it, and over the years I have sought to disguise my writing in many ways so that my innermost soul could not be interpreted by agile minds and other suspicious characters. I could put the blame on my father, who had the best penmanship that I can remember.  There was also girl in my high school who also had a very lovely style as well. Putting any specimens of my own against theirs would inevitably invite unwelcome and sad comparisons, so whenever I put pen to paper, it is always done with exaggeration- a little too much delicacy here, a little too much flair there, or whatever the day seems to want to conjure up.  Trust me when I say that it is not my real handwriting.  Although I will admit that if you ever saw my "signature," it would be more than easy to analyze me as the truth comes out there.  Fortunately, or unfortunately, almost nobody ever asks for it.

Or does it?

A painter in civilian life

Today was a different sort of day, the kind that comes into being almost organically. No, scratch that- a better way of saying it is that things seem to fall all sorts of together despite one's not knowing how or what one is doing in the first place.  I never pretended to be doing anything except avoiding the nightmare that is the finishing of the second book, and so I hit upon the always fun idea of cleaning up cleaning out.  Going through some of my files, I looked through the collected ephemera first with amusement and then with undisguised dislike.  So, into the rubbish bin they went, one after another (not everything, mind you, as I kept a good deal of it for future "reference")

With that task well done, I still did not (and still have not) gotten around to writing the blasted thing, so instead after what is probably a few years (give or take), I made a series of small paintings.  A bit amateurish as usual, but still atmospheric (a good description, I  might add) and an afternoon of fun.  All to the accompaniment of the Brideshead Revisited soundtrack from 1981.  Of course, running through my mind was Charles Ryder being a painter.  And of course, what I made had nothing to do with it at all.

two of the nine thus represented here

Writing and Love (or the Lack of It)

I know that it has been remiss of me in the past few weeks to post with such irregularity, but such is the way of idlers some of the time, if not most of the time. The most recent surge of interest and energy has come from the world of writing, of real writing by a real writer- begging me to put aside once and for all the nonsense that amuses me a good percentage of the time. True that I've still to complete a second novel in the so-called adventure series, but the less said of that, the better. What I mean is that the faint cry to write, write, write has been calling again from the murkiest of depths, and for once I may well heed it.  

In the meantime, here is a two line play that I composed from my ephemera collection.

Now imagine ten minutes in the dark and then the curtain falls.

Summertime Living

I have never used the phrase "running errands" because I find that saying it is not only boring but unnecessary.  There is no need for me to tell you about it, particularly if it is just doing the weekly laundry or some other nonsense that is best left unsaid (but done) or that can be accomplished inside of five minutes with but a little effort.

You may not believe me, but there are many things in one's daily life that actually stand out and can be of infinite variety and interest should one just take the time to look.  So, it was with this positive attitude after popping off some packages of clean up clean out at the post office that I decided to make a significant detour out of my way.  In doing so, I was able to pick up today's new release Everything Beautiful Began After (which I have already read and written of before, but that was a review copy albeit signed by Simon Van Booy) and finally acquire the vinyl (digital remaster) of Glenn Gould's second and last version of his Goldberg Variations (which is rightfully called Clavier Ubung, being as its contemporary name is suspect as any reader of the music score will know- sorry, I know it is also missing the umlaut but I haven't the foggiest how to write it using this keyboard).  Of course, I have Gould's recordings on CD, actually twice over- once in a special set devoted to the Clavier Ubung- and the other as part of the Complete 80 CD set that was issued a few years back and holds pride of place in my music collection.

Et cetera et cetera, well, with all this and that, what I wanted to say is that despite having a grand old time walking around, the sun was clearly not my friend (as usual) and I do believe I almost suffered heat stroke (yet again).  As I was walking back to the studio, I overheard someone say that today was a good day for the beach.  What a thing to say!  It is no wonder that my favorite season is autumn.

summertime and the living isn't easy, or at least not the walking.

When being fresh is an asset.

Yesterday was one of those day and night long holiday celebrations (which, actually, I never attend but did this year), and this one was at my Aunt and Uncle's house in I'm not quite sure where, but it was an hour and a half drive to what I always consider to be upstate New York (the city dweller in me thinking that anything outside of Manhattan proper is upstate or too far to be bothered with).  Whether it is upstate is still up to question, but as my last visit was over a decade ago, I needn't concern myself much with its actual location.

As a quick aside, I do have to say that I find the idea of being in a car for any period of time longer than five or ten minutes (sometimes, a taxi ride from the upper west side to downtown takes that long) is quite intolerable. Fortunately, the driver was an experienced one and not the kind of ranting and raving cursing madman who darts in and out of lanes for who knows what reason that one finds too often these days.

Right then- back to the story.  I was quite glad to make a visit, as I have been getting an increasing number of home grown food from my Aunt's garden in the past two years.  And, I have to say that everything she has given us is far better than what we get at the best farmer's market here (well, except for this one tomato, I think, which I have to say is worth every penny of the 4 dollar a pound, although recently the crop has gotten weaker in taste). So, it was a pleasure to go see her little (well, not so little but little) garden which had a whole assortment of beauties just waiting to be enjoyed.

We came away with some handfuls of sparkling mint (which we are brewing mint tea with at this very moment, the scent intoxicating the air), a very fun beet and greens, and a few other little things- and this was among other things a brilliant start to what seems really a long weekend.

a garden from which all manners of goodness appear in due time