Hear ye! Hear ye!
Hear ye all!
The first ripe locally grown pomidoro, the first paradajse or tommy tomato has been consumed today here in old Melbourne town with thin sesame crackers, marinated olives and likewise marinated Greek cheese.
Yasu! Wonderful. A universe of associations.
What a change from the equally wonderful but radically different fare on the equator! And from the transported, refrigerated like/unlike produce.
For the last two days a green apple lightly flushed with rose has been plucked from sun-dappled branch at Bab's as an appetiser before lunches. The apple tree in the front yard there has been dropping its fruit for some time now, the large bulbs lining the gutter, the footpath and lawn either side. Bab had always said the tree was a beauty, only being misplaced by the letter-box and overhanging the footpath. Just too tempting for passers-by. We would watch them sometimes from indoors helping themselves, neighbours from the surrounding streets who will remain nameless. (Neighbours within the street waited to be gifted each year). Like the principled vegetarian Lowell mentions in his famous poem, Arthur next door even picked the fallen fruit from the lawn and cut out the wormed segments.
To the suggestion that we pick the fruit at this tail end of March Arthur felt, No, it was too early. Let the fruit ripen some.
It was the lawn man cutting at the Jankovic's who thought otherwise. They're falling anyway. Best to pick them before the birds get to them, the little tubby suggested.
It was only later preparing to wash the apples at the kitchen sink in the Studio that the earlier heat of the day was noticed in the orb. Remarkable. It came with a slight physical shock to the cheek. Something like being tenderly patted by Grandma; young newborn chicks might not have been a whole lot warmer. Delightful. Sun kissed no exaggeration. Remember Paris raced for such-like in order to win the famed beauty
After the tropics of course it was a startling contrast. The apples from Cold Storage or Giant had been the standby in Singapore, at $2.95 a luxury that always brought comment from the cashier. Picture book shape and colour had one chewing that fruit warily and guiltily.
Slowly, by the strangest, most bizarre osmosis, one was turning into a half pie Food Writer (more than Foodie per se); this morning a submission to a Canadian lit. mag. for their call-out on the theme. Might just be able to wangle sometime perchance.
….And news just in from the States: young Amos Ye granted asylum in the US for well-founded fear of persecution in his homeland. Three cheers for the resistance from the US Immig. authorities to the Trumpet. Lad punched in the face on the street in Singapore and the miscreant let off with wrist slap; mid-teens brought to court in leg irons; kept in solitary so many weeks, the author's correspondent recalled. Fair grounds. Bloody rogue state! the older dissident opined on the matter.
Missing Komala Vilas already here, where young Amos was encountered last year and bought lunch. Best of luck to the young rebel!
The first ripe locally grown pomidoro, the first paradajse or tommy tomato has been consumed today here in old Melbourne town with thin sesame crackers, marinated olives and likewise marinated Greek cheese.
Yasu! Wonderful. A universe of associations.
What a change from the equally wonderful but radically different fare on the equator! And from the transported, refrigerated like/unlike produce.
For the last two days a green apple lightly flushed with rose has been plucked from sun-dappled branch at Bab's as an appetiser before lunches. The apple tree in the front yard there has been dropping its fruit for some time now, the large bulbs lining the gutter, the footpath and lawn either side. Bab had always said the tree was a beauty, only being misplaced by the letter-box and overhanging the footpath. Just too tempting for passers-by. We would watch them sometimes from indoors helping themselves, neighbours from the surrounding streets who will remain nameless. (Neighbours within the street waited to be gifted each year). Like the principled vegetarian Lowell mentions in his famous poem, Arthur next door even picked the fallen fruit from the lawn and cut out the wormed segments.
To the suggestion that we pick the fruit at this tail end of March Arthur felt, No, it was too early. Let the fruit ripen some.
It was the lawn man cutting at the Jankovic's who thought otherwise. They're falling anyway. Best to pick them before the birds get to them, the little tubby suggested.
It was only later preparing to wash the apples at the kitchen sink in the Studio that the earlier heat of the day was noticed in the orb. Remarkable. It came with a slight physical shock to the cheek. Something like being tenderly patted by Grandma; young newborn chicks might not have been a whole lot warmer. Delightful. Sun kissed no exaggeration. Remember Paris raced for such-like in order to win the famed beauty
After the tropics of course it was a startling contrast. The apples from Cold Storage or Giant had been the standby in Singapore, at $2.95 a luxury that always brought comment from the cashier. Picture book shape and colour had one chewing that fruit warily and guiltily.
Slowly, by the strangest, most bizarre osmosis, one was turning into a half pie Food Writer (more than Foodie per se); this morning a submission to a Canadian lit. mag. for their call-out on the theme. Might just be able to wangle sometime perchance.
….And news just in from the States: young Amos Ye granted asylum in the US for well-founded fear of persecution in his homeland. Three cheers for the resistance from the US Immig. authorities to the Trumpet. Lad punched in the face on the street in Singapore and the miscreant let off with wrist slap; mid-teens brought to court in leg irons; kept in solitary so many weeks, the author's correspondent recalled. Fair grounds. Bloody rogue state! the older dissident opined on the matter.
Missing Komala Vilas already here, where young Amos was encountered last year and bought lunch. Best of luck to the young rebel!
No comments:
Post a Comment