The Silly and the Sublime

Last week, after a day of wild rain and wind, my husband and I ventured out on the last day of our South Carolina vacation.  We biked along lush paths, sat by the pool to soak up some sun, and then drove to one of the beaches we have come to love.  We walked down the long path to the beach. On either side there were dunes and a creek and scrub pines laden with huge pinecones.  As we approached the fencing, we saw the vast expanse of sand, sea, and sky.

The sky was decorated with amazing clouds.  I gasped  and thought, “This is what sublime is.  Sublime is the surf and sky dotted with this dramatic cloud cover in shades that run from bright white to cream to pale blue to pink to lavender.  I said to my husband, “This beach is never the same twice. There is always something new and beautiful.  Just look at that sky!”

I started to laugh remembering a time I spent last year with a group of three-years-old children, who were observing the cloud formations and commenting on all the shapes they saw.  Some saw turtles and pirate ships, others saw castles and giraffes. Of course, one young pragmatist clearly proclaimed, “Don’t be silly!  They all look like mashed potatoes!” I wrote more about this here.

As a poet, photographer, and teacher, I am attracted to the elusive nature of clouds. They represent creativity and possibility.  They can shape-shift.  If I was a superhero, I think that’s the superpower I would like – to change my structure – to become something else and then something else again.  Clouds break apart and come together; they change color and shape and quality.  They embody what it means to be creative.  They are the definition of sublime. I wrote more my connection with clouds as inspiration here.

CLOUD PLAY

Doors and Windows

When my husband and I take photo trips, whether near or far, I am often attracted to doors and windows. I like exploring small quaint towns that have been revived by artisans and documenting what I see. Maybe I am drawn to doors because they signify possibility to me: “one door closes, another opens…” I am curious by nature and enjoy imagining what might be behind each door. Who”s inside? What stories do they bold? If the door is painted, why did the owner choose that particular color? How does that color reflect the mood and personality of the inhabitants? The door is like a dressed up package. Untie the bow, knock at the door, and find out what’s in store for you. There are so many choices – all is possible. Hope is at hand.

In the same way, I am also intrigued by windows. Where doors are solid and impenetrable, windows are translucent and reflective. I can see through, into the building and also see a collage of images in the reflection. To me, windows represent both the past and the future. I can look both back and forwards in time. What is created in the photograph is a connection been the past and future – what I left behind and what still awaits me. Photographing windows gives me the opportunity to play with color and light. I am able to compose and create a unique collage. Below are some examples of the photographic play I did on a recent trip to South Carolina.

Isle of Hope

Isle of Hope.  I am enchanted by that name.  You might think it’s a fictitious place, but it is very real and also historic.  The Isle of Hope is about eight miles south of Savannah, Georgia.  On this narrow strip of land lies Wormsloe State Historic Site.  In 1737, Noble Jones built his homestead here and raised a variety of crops. Jones died in 1775 and left the estate to his daughter who later passed it on to her brother, Noble Wimberly Jones.  The younger Jones, who also was a doctor, became a major figure in Georgia colonial history and was friends with Benjamin Franklin.  During the Revolutionary War, Wormsloe was burnt down by British forces, and Jones was imprisoned in St. Augustine along with three signers of the Declaration of Independence.  After several months, he was released and resumed his medical career.  Dr. Jones built another home at Wormsloe and planted a grand garden. Many subsequent descendants lived at Wormsloe throughout the Civil War and into the mid-1900s. Dr. Jones’ grandson came to live at Wormsloe in 1893 and planted more than four hundred live oak trees.  Wormsloe remained in the family’s possession until 1972 when they donated the land to the Nature Conservancy.

I love history, but I came to Wormsloe for the trees.  Live oaks amaze me.  Their grand appearance on either side of the main entrance roadway is quite astounding.  It is like entering a cathedral of trees, green and lush and brilliantly quiet except for the songbirds in spring. The oaks lean in reaching towards each other creating a leafy archway, and there is Spanish moss hanging in long tendrils from almost every branch.

I have long hand an affinity for trees.  They are steadfast and sturdy.  During my childhood they have served as both a refuge and a palace for my imagination.  Now, walking down the roadway under these live oaks, they offer solace and respite from the all-too-busy world.  I revel in the greenery, luxuriate in the canopy of solitude. Here, I feel cradled and secure.

More to Read on Wormsloe

  • Captain Jones’s Wormslow by William M. Kelso
  • Remaking Wormsloe Plantation by Drew A. Swanson
  • Wormsloe House and Its Masters by Robert Preston Brooks

Books About Trees for Kids

  • A Tree for All Seasons by Robin Bernard
  • A Tree is Nice by Janice May
  • Our Tree Named Steve by Alan Zweibel
  • Red Sings from Treetops by Sidman
  • Tell Me, Tree: All about Trees for Kids by Gail Gibbons
  • The Egg Tree by Katherine Milhous
  • The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein
  • The Hugging Tree: A Story About Resilience by Jill Neimark
  • The Great Kapok Tree by Lynne Cherry
  • The Magic and Mystery of Trees by Jen Green
  • The Red Tree by Shaun Tan
  • The Wish Tree by Kyo Maclear
  • Tree Full of Wonder by Anna Smithers
  • Wise Trees by Diane Cook

Much gratitude to TWT: Slice of Life and SOS: Sharing our Stories.
#standwithUkraine

Sand Dollar Sanctuary

This week as part of my spring break celebration, I was able to escape to the beach for a few days. Unwinding was so necessary – more this year than any other. Working at an elementary school, while incredibly rewarding, is also very stressful at times.  COVID has compounded the stress.  It is evident in the teachers and the students.  Although we try to handle and manage our stress,  we were losing the battle just before spring break.  We all needed some space to relax, renew, and revive our low spirits.  I definitely needed a time out, a time to sit on the sidelines preferably in the warm sunshine.

I was fortunate to be able to grab a few days in South Carolina.  The sun and seventy-degree weather immediately boosted my mood.  Blue skies, ocean breeze, southern hospitality all helped cure my stress-filled mind.  I sat in the sun by the pool and let my mind drift.  I forced myself not to take use technology until night time, and then only for short while. I gradually left the world behind.

One day at the beach, I walked along peacefully intent on taking photographs of shells and other bits of nature that the ocean tide delivered on the sand.  I sought out colorful shapes: golden yellow, pale pink, deep purple, and luminous blue.  I was deep in thought, in the flow of the moment.  I felt truly happy. Then all of a sudden a woman approached me, her blond hair whipping around her face.  She said excitedly, “There are sand dollars on the shoreline.  There’s lots of them along the ocean edge, if you want to take photos.”  I looked up at her, a little stunned trying to gather in what she was telling me.  “Thank you, I’ll go and look,” I said, heading down towards the waves.  I walked intently along the shoreline, head down and camera ready.  I found pearly white clam shells, rippled scallop shells, and a piece of a horseshoe crab.  Then I spied something round and sand-colored half submerged in the water.  I kept walking and quickly came upon sand dollar after sand dollar.  They were about three inches in diameter but all in a variety of shades from deep tan, to light green, pink, and purple.  I didn’t know they could be so many colors. I had never seen a live sand dollar.  As a child, I found a few pieces of white sand dollar, which means that they are not alive.  Only the test remains which is like a brittle white shell.  But these Carolina creatures were alive and there was a tribe of thirty or more.  I clicked away, trying to capture their beauty with my camera. I sloshed at the water’s edge, not caring that my sneakers were getting soaked.  I came to a rocky jetty that was encrusted with oyster shells.  People were bending over the tide pools between the stones picking up spider crabs, snails, cowrie shells, and a couple of huge conch shells.  The cowrie and conch had snail inside. What a wonder!  The ocean was alive, and I was able to witness these small wonders.  I didn’t want to leave the beach.  I could have stayed all afternoon.  This day reminded me of summer days in my youth when I would be on the beach for the entire day: swimming, digging in the sand, building sand castles, and walking along the shoreline collecting all manner of sea treasures. 

I am so blessed to have found this sanctuary. I was amazed, later that night,  to find out that the sand dollar is a symbol of luck, and I had made the acquaintance of thirty of them! Lucky indeed.  I read the legend of the sand dollar and how it reflects the life of Christ. The top of the sand dollar has five slits, which represent Jesus’s wounds when he was on the cross. The star on the sand dollar represents the star of Bethlehem.  On the underside of the sand dollar, there is an outline of what looks like a poinsettia, which is often called the Christmas flower. Indeed, I am so lucky that I came across a stranger who pointed me in the right direction. The day proved to be the sanctuary I needed so desperately. Nature’s beauty does so much to restore the soul.

Thanks for inspiration and encouragement from
TWT: Slice of Life and SOS: Sharing our Stories

Poet’s Notebook: White Mountain Color

September and October have buzzed by at a hectic pace. One week’s “To Do” list is accomplished only to be replace with the next week’s list.  I feel like I will never get off this seemingly never-ending cycle.  I keep arranging and rearranging my schedule trying to find bits of time to breathe.  The bits are not enough, and I feel stress and anxiety creeping in.  I know that I have to make myself slow down and concentrate on what makes me healthy and whole.  I need to go back to poetry and photography.  I need to return to natural beauty.

This summer, my husband and I planned an October trip to New Hampshire, and I’m glad we did.  We thought that because of COVID we might not be able to follow through on our plans, but we found ourselves in dire need of nature and restoration.  We headed out of New Jersey, up through New York state, into the Green Mountains of Vermont, and into the White Mountains of New Hampshire.  The nine-hour trip slowly melted all my tension away.  As we drove, I watched the lush autumn scenery and forgot about all the things that need to be done; that tugged at me for attention.

I started thinking about how to capture what I saw with my camera and how to put words to the beauty I was witnessing.  I focused on color and played with ways to express the fall foliage in a new way. 

Week on the Water

Something about water that is so pure and calming whether it’s in the form of river, pond, lake, waterfall, or ocean.  The flow of water fills me with possibility.  Water is smooth and easy.  It can carry itself anywhere.  It is versatile and resilient.  And water is strong.  It can sweep you away and wear great rocks smooth.  Water is a force to be reckoned with.  I try, in my daily life, to emulate the qualities of water. I want to adopt its beauty, tenacity and strength.  I want to achieve its clarity and purpose.

Being close to water always puts me at ease and allows me to center myself.  Whatever trouble I face or obstacles I encounter has always been set right with time spent by the water.  August calls me to come to the water, and so I obey.    Salt water and sand – just what I need to slow down, reflect, and write. I take my camera along to record the images that stand out to me.

Golden


Brave children stand 
At the edge of the sea,
While watchful waves
Tug at their tender feet.

Come in, come in
The wind whispers,
But the children run,
Scattering shells across the sand.

Their laughter lifts in to the air,
Bounces on the shimmering sea,
The roar of the waves
Always beckoning.

Closer the children creep,
Tan limbs in pools of white foam,
Ready, watching for
That next wave.

Scooping up sea glass,
Small shells, smooth stones,
The children splash,
Dancing with the sea.

As giant clouds climb
Over the slate-blue horizon
Like dangerous pirates
Waiting to snatch their treasure.

Come away, come away 
To a distant shore,
While the sun sinks in the western sky
Washing everything with gold.

Book Lists: Seven by the Sea

Picture Books:

  1. Come Away from the Water, Shirley by John Burningham
  2. Flotsam by David Wiesner
  3. Hello Ocean by Pamm Munoz
  4. Home for Hermit Crab by Eric Carl
  5. Mister Sea Horse by Eric Carl
  6. Stella, Star of the Sea by Mary-Louise Gay
  7. Wave by Suzy Lee

Middle Grade Novels:

  1. A Swirl of Ocean by Melissa Sarno
  2. Beyond the Bright Sea by Lauren Wolk
  3. Fish Girl by David Weisner and Donna Jo Napoli
  4. They Eyes of the Amaryllis by Natalie Babbitt
  5. The Tail of Emily Windsnap by Liz Kessler
  6. The Wanderer by Sharon Creech
  7. Turtle in Paradise by Jennifer L. Holm

Books for Adults:

  1. Gift of Sea by Anne Morrow Lindberg
  2. Summer Sisters by Judy Blume
  3. The Hungry Ocean by Linda Greenlaw
  4. The Lobster Chronicles: Life on a Very Small Island by Linda Greenlaw
  5. The Silent World:  A Story of Undersea Discovery and Adventure by Jacques-Yves Coustea
  6. The Sea Around Us by Rachel Carson
  7. Turtle Summer: A Journal for My Daughter by Mary Alice Monroe

Mountain Meditation

I believe there are places on this beautiful planet that are meant to heal, that are God-given.  They bring wonder and awe.  They summon peace and calm.  I am fortunate throughout my life to have experienced many of these places.  The natural world has always given me solace.

During COVID, it was near-impossible to travel far from home.  Last spring, I found myself driving out into the countryside near my home, taking in the rolling hills, passing herds of grazing cows, horses, goats, sheep, llamas, and the occasional donkey.  The animals had no idea of the death and stress that the human population was facing.  They just left the warm comfort of their barns and sauntered out onto the sunny fields to feast. How I longed to have their innocence. Watching them and being in the greening world helped me to focus on what is important in my life.

Finally, this summer we can travel again.  As we planned our first trip, my mood shifted, and I noticed my husband’s mood also became more hopeful.  It was evident that both of our spirits needed to roam.  Our first journey took us to Stowe, Vermont.  Something about the Green Mountains makes me all at once calm and joyful.  The rolling valleys dotted with farms and the graceful sloping mountains in the distance give me space for my soul to soar.

When we visit Vermont, we go to Stowe for much needed rest and relaxation.  This trip, I vowed not to turn on my laptop and to only check my phone twice a day.  I wanted to be completely present to the river, mountains, trails, and blue sky above me.  Even better, I wanted to take in the afternoon mountain rain without distraction.  I wanted it all to soak in and restore my body and mind.

Stowe is the perfect place for photography and poetry,  so I indulged.  I noticed and wondered, and made myself available to the nature all around me.  These happy surroundings made it easy to create.  I placed no judgement on myself.  I just looked around me and recorded what I saw and how I felt.  These excursions helped me to regroup and refuel.  I am ever grateful.

Mountain Meditation

The golden meadow
Laced with wildflowers,
The stand of pine trees
Gently sloping along
The quiet ridge,
Just beyond
The mountains rise
One after the other
A play of light and shadow,
Silver clouds drift
Swiftly north
Dusting the mountaintops,
Beckoning
Evening rain.

Moon Meditation

Dark Daubs of clouds
Paint the early evening sky
Above the green mountains,
Which rise like enormous waves.
Silent and still in the distance,
A sliver of moon appears
Through the mist,
A sideways smile
Brightening the dark
July night.
Moving Meditation

Step into the garden,
A flute plays lilting
Through the air,
My feet find the gravel path,
I begin to wind around
The plants and flowers:
Day lilies, raspberry thickets, 
Lush lavender.
Slowly stepping,
Feeling the pebbles
Under my feet,
Breathing in the flowers’
Lavish Fragrance,
Listening as the chickadees
Compete with the flute music.
My shoulders relax,
I close my eyes.
 Feel my way round and 
round the circle to its center.
I do not fall,
I am held,
Small and quiet
In the calm.

Finding Paris

A Paris State of Mind

This summer, not being able venture far away as I normally do, I have become very aware how important place is to my identity.  My identity has been definitely shaped by being born, growing up, and aging in New Jersey. But it was also shaped by my travels throughout this country and abroad.  The geography, natural resources, diverse people, food, and architecture have all impacted my sense of beauty and adventure.  I’ve been missing that sense of adventure this summer, and so I’ve found that I have been traveling in my mind through reading books.  For the past several weeks, I’ve been in Paris by way of Hemingway.  First, I read his memoir of Paris in the 1920’s, Moveable Feast.  After I finished the book, I was missing Paris so much that I found the novel, Paris Wife by Paula McLain, which is a fictionalized account of Hemingway’s time in Paris with his first wife, Hadley Richardson.  What so intrigued me about this book is that the author describes the same events from Moveable Feast, but from Hadley’s perspective.  It is clear that Paris in the 1920s shaped the identities of so many American writers and artists.  As a young couple, Hem and Hadley moved to Paris so that Hem could concentrate on his writing.  There, he met Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound, and countless others.  I traveled along with the Hemingways through the Boulevard de Montparnasse, past the many cafes they frequented: La Closerie des Lilas, Le Dôme, Le Select, La Coupole, La Rotonde, and The Dingo Bar. I envision their tiny tenement apartment on the rue Cardinale Lemoin. I can see the brown water of the Seine, I can hear the music of the dance halls, I can smell the sawdust of the nearby lumber mill.

When exploring cities, I love waking up early and taking long sensory walks, getting a feel for the people and culture.  Camera in hand, I focus my lens on the shop windows, the man sweeping the sidewalks, the young woman setting out trays of bakery treats, the pigeons swooping down on small crumbs scattered at the curb. I go down side streets, trying to find the secret places, the soul of the city. Many times, I’m surprised by the treasures I’ve found: a tiny shop with skeins of bright colored wool in the window; the brightly striped awning of a café, which serves a fragrant and rich mochaccino; the young, homeless family walking in slippers down the street with their daughter in tow, who is holding a large conch shell to her ear, which her father had retrieved from the garbage. These discoveries are what sustain me.  They are times of uncovering raw beauty that keeps me to connected to my place in the world.  I travel with a poet’s heart, always observing, always seeking the essence of the place to express its truth in that very moment.

Paris at 13

When I was thirteen years old (1969), I was able to travel to Paris with my family. When looking back, I remember the food first and foremost. We stayed in a six-story narrow pensione, which served continental breakfast every day: loaves of warm, crusty bread wrapped in white linen, glass jars of homemade thick strawberry jam, and strong steaming tea.  And some mornings we had eggs – deux oeufs frit – the first French words I learned to say.

I remember the Paris attractions: the Eiffel Tower, The Arc de Triomphe, the Pantheon.  I can see myself climbing the steps of Notre-Dame and Sacre-Coeur. I was astonished to see the Mona Lisa at the Louvre. It was exquisite – small and dark.  And I remember the walking through the Tuileries, down the Champs-Élysées, through the neighborhoods and narrow winding cobblestone streets.  I was mesmerized, walking slowly behind my family taking it all in like it was some lovely misty dream. I loved stopping into all the cafés: the long elaborate bars, the marble tabletops, the waiters in crisp white aprons, the blackboards with the daily menus etched in chalk.  I tried everything – croissants, raclette, croque monsieur, coq au vin, pot-au-feu, and even escargot. But it was the simple meals that made a lasting impression.  On our last night in Paris, we stopped at a small café, and I ordered jambon aux épinards, which was a small plate of cheesy creamed spinach with a paper-thin slice of ham on top.  It was the most sumptuous thing I ever tasted.  I could have eaten two more platefuls.  I vowed to come back to Paris one day when I was all grown up.  I have yet to go back.  But I know that the Paris today cannot compare with the Paris of my memory.

Paris in Montreal

Though I have yet to return to Paris, my husband and I have ventured to Montreal every summer for the last six years.  It was the place we also honeymooned thirty-six years ago.  Montreal is our North American Paris.  We have spent many a summer day walking the cobblestone streets of Old Montreal taking photographs, window shopping, and stopping to rest at sidewalk cafés.  My favorite patisserie is Cookies Stefanie because all their treats are gluten-free, which means I can sample pain au chocolat, apple and maple muffins, and rich gâteaux, worry free.  Another favorite spot on Rue Saint Sulpice is a lovely teahouse call Ming Tao, where the busy street life fades away with every steaming cup of tea.

One night, my husband and I stopped into a café on Rue McGill, and I coaxed him to try something new on the menu – halloumi, which we thought was fish and were surprised when the waitress set down our plates of farm-fresh sautéed vegetables topped with a firm square of grilled white cheese. We both had a good laugh together about that!

One of my favorite places to photograph is Jean Talon Farmer’s Market in Montreal’s Little Italy.  It is filled with fresh produce, honey, cheeses, bread, and pastries. It also has a creperie, which I must indulge in every time we visit.

Paris Metro

Standing on the platform –

Gleaming white tiles,

Everything clean and fresh

Even though we are underground.

It is a busy time in the morning,

The train screeches in –

I take a step back,

My father urges us into

A packed car and motions us

To get off again and then on again.

I get lost in the confusion.

They are on the train,

I am on the platform,

The doors slide shut.

My mother’s face is agony,

My sister’s face is amusement,

My father’s face is serious,

His hands motioning,

Wait for the next train!

Get off the next stop!

We will wait for you!

The train pulls out

Taking my family away.

The platform is empty now.

Just one lone American teenager.

I sit on a bench and lean

Against the cool tiles

I look at the bright billboards

I imagine myself in a new life

What would it be like

To stay in Paris?

I can see myself at school

Becoming fluent in French

Creating a new life.

The places I’d go,

The food I’d eat,

The person I was meant to be.

I hear a low, slow rumble

The next train arrives

Pushes the daydream

Out of my mind

I step aboard.

Memory is Hunger

Memory is hunger. When I read this recently, I paused, I underlined it, I wrote notes beside it in pencil. I’ve been concentrating on Hemingway this summer, and this quote came from his memoir, A Moveable Feast, about his time in Paris in the 1920s with his first wife, Hadley.   It is Hadley who says these words as they reminisce about shared experiences: “There are so many sorts of hunger.  In the spring there are more. But that’s gone now.  Memory is hunger.”

This summer, during this COVID crisis, my sister, cousin, and aunt often have running text dialogues that start in the morning and span into the afternoon, since we have not seen each other in months. These conversations always begin with a memory.  Often about our childhoods.  Often about my grandfather, Charlie.  The memory starts simply with one of us stating, “I remember thus and so.” Then each of us takes turns filling in details.  Most of the time, I read their descriptions one after the other, after the other, responding last.  Being the youngest, I find that their memories trigger my own, and I’m able to paint a more sumptuous picture of those times with him. 

Charlie had a large yard with a huge cherry tree, a grape arbor, a small garden, and several fig trees.  As with everything, he took meticulous care of these treasures.  Often when I’d visit in the summer, Charlie would be sitting in the shade.  A low table would be set before him with a fat watermelon, a platter, and a knife.  He would cut thick wedges and offer them to us as we sat to join him and talk.  Cherries, concord grapes, fresh figs, melons – all these remind me of Charlie and influence the way I cook and eat. All of these bring me comfort.  Summer would not be summer without these.

Indeed, both of my grandfathers kept gardens.  My Grandpa Tony had an amazing green thumb.  He had an apple tree on which he grafted a pear branch so that he could have two fruits on one tree.  I always thought he was magic. On his postage stamp-sized garden, he grew corn, tomatoes, squash, beans, cucumbers, spinach, lettuce, and all manner of herbs: rosemary, mint, oregano, and basil.  It is the basil that triggers the most memories for me.  Every time I smell basil, Tony’s face comes into my mind.  The smell of basil makes me smile, and I am home again. Ah…Tony! There he is bending to pick the ripest tomatoes, snapping off some long beans, taking a basil leaf and rubbing it gently, holding his hand up to my nose. “Smell,” he commands, and it all comes flooding back.

This summer, my 94-year-old father (Tony’s son) and I have weekly phone conversations.  We talk about his health, bad news, good books, but it is food that dominates our conversations.  My father does not keep a garden, but he still lives by himself and cooks his own meals.  In fact, he cooks for his housekeeper, his guitar teacher, and his young neighbors.  As much as he loves to read and write, I think he loves cooking more.  He is always inventing new recipes. Some of my most joyous memories of my father are our conversations about food. I want to write a cookbook with him where we start with basic ingredients like chickpeas and black olives. Then each of us would make recipes from these simple ingredients and see how diverse and inventive our meals could be. 

Usually, my summers consist of traveling north to New England and Canada. Always, they consist of finding and trying new foods.  Last summer in Montreal, I found so many wonderful places: gluten free bakeries, cafes, and tea shops (The Art of Cookies and Ming Tao Xuan). I miss traveling and making new food discoveries. So besides concentrating on Hemingway, I have been concentrating on many memorable meals for myself and my husband – always starting with simple, fresh ingredients. Here are three recipes inspired by three simple summer fruits: figs, watermelon, and apricots.

Fresh Fig, Ricotta, & Honey Toast

 Ingredients:

4 slices of your favorite bread

½ cup part-skim ricotta cheese

2 fresh figs sliced lengthwise

2 teaspoons honey

Directions:

  1. Toast bread.
  2. Spread ricotta cheese on toasted bread.
  3. Top with sliced figs.
  4. Drizzle with honey.

Note: The figs I use in this recipe and which are the most popular where I shop are Brown Turkey figs.  They are brownish-purple in color. Choose soft, plump fig with bent stems.

Watermelon Summer Salad

Ingredients:

¼ cup fresh Basil

4 cups Watermelon, scooped into 1-inch balls

¼ cup olive oil

2 teaspoons lime juice

1 cup Ricotta Salata, crumbled

1 ½ tsp salt

Directions:

  1. With a melon baller scoop watermelon into 1-inch balls.
  2. Place basil leaves on top of each other and roll tightly into a log. Slice lengthwise into thin ribbons.
  3. Combine basil slices and watermelon in a large bowl.
  4. Mix lime juice, olive oil and salt together in a small bowl
  5. Pour over watermelon and basil. Toss to combine.
  6. Chill salad before serving, at least 30 minutes.

Note: Ricotta Salata differs from ricotta in that it is a hard cheese from Sicily.  It has the consistency of feta cheese, but with a milder, creamy texture and a nutty taste.

Apricot Crisp

Ingredients:

4 cups apricots, coarsely chopped 

2 Tbsp granulated sugar

¾ cup light brown sugar

1 tsp cinnamon

¾ cup old fashioned oats

¾ cup almond flour

½ cup sliced almonds

½ cup cold unsalted butter, diced into small cubes

pinch of salt

Directions:

  1. Preheat oven to 350°.  Butter square baking dish.
  2. In a mixing bowl, add chopped apricots and granulated sugar. Stir to combine, then transfer to prepared baking dish.
  3. In a separate mixing bowl, add topping ingredients (brown sugar, cinnamon, oats, almond flour, sliced almonds, salt, and diced cold butter).  Use a pastry cutter to cut the butter into the oat mixture.
  4. Spread topping over apricots in baking dish, and gently pat to even it out.  
  5. Bake 40-50 minutes, until golden brown and bubbly.
  6. Serve warm, top with ice cream if desired, and enjoy!

Note: One summer in Rome, while staying with friends, I took total advantage of their apricot tree, which happily supplied me with a surfeit of this golden fruit.

The Art of Cookies

For our 30th anniversary five years ago, my husband and I returned to our honeymoon site – Montreal. Since that time, we make sure we return to Montreal every summer, sometimes twice a summer.  My husband found a wonderful boutique hotel in Old Montreal – Georges Marciano’s L’Hotel. Marciano, the founder and designer of Guess? Jeans, created this lovely hotel, which houses some of his vast collection of Modern art.

The first time we arrived at L’Hotel, to our delight, we noticed a cafe right next door – Cookies Stefanie. Since I am a foodie with Celiac, Cookie Stefanie was an amazing find for me because it is an exclusively Gluten Free bakery and cafe. In the past five years, I think I have sampled almost every item they have to offer: cakes, cupcakes, cookies, muffins, all kinds of grilled cheese sandwiches, savory soups, tartines, and fresh salads.  There are also biscotti ice cream sandwiches, pan chocolate, and carrot cake. Each are so delicious that I cannot tell you what is my favorite one.  However, they do make a tiny treat, which I favored this summer.  It’s a chocolate covered cherry.  The cherry is surrounded in a moist chocolate cake and then wrapped in a creamy chocolate ganache.  It is small, so I don’t feel too guilty, and it is so rich that it definitely satisfies my sweet tooth.  Many an afternoon I could be found retreating to Cookie Stefanie for a cup of tea and a delectable treat.  I cannot describe well enough the happiness I feel when I enter this gleaming white and pretty pink cafe.  My eyes feast on all the glorious desserts and because they are gluten free.  I can have my pick!

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Here are some other wonderful eateries in Montreal, which I have enjoyed.  I cannot wait to return next summer to seek out more sumptuous treasures!

Gluten Free Dining Options in Montreal:

I am so happy that Stefanie created this wonderful place!  I wish she’d bring her talent to New York City!
This cafe is located in the open-air market – Marche Jean Talon in Little Italy.  They make buckwheat crepes, which are gluten-free in all imaginable flavors both sweet and savory.
Great gluten free croissants and eclairs!  Really!
Amazing sweet potato gnocchi, quinoa fritters, and other wonderful delights. It is a Vegan cafe too.
Fresh and creative salads in a pretty light-filled cafe.
Love this teahouse!  A respite of CALM!
The BEST gluten-free pizza crust I have every eaten and I’ve eaten lots of pizza!  Their pasta is also perfect!
Great risotto!