In a week it will be October, but it felt like summer at the Imagination Playground around 5 o'clock.
Daughter and I walked a half-loop around the park; we encountered a warbler (unidentified species), a saxophonist, more bread-tossing Tashlich celebrants, and a Brazilian soccer team on the Parade Grounds. We walked about 2 miles, just enough to get good and hungry for dinner. I made butternut squash flavored with sage, because, well, even at 80 degrees, it's fall.
Thanks to a friend's generous invitation, I went along to Tashlich for the first time at the lake in Prospect Park. In this Rosh Hashanah ceremony, bread is cast upon a body of water (it should have fish in it, and the lake certainly does). This symbolizes the casting away of sins and the purification of the heart for a new year.
Cast away from yourselves all your transgressions,
And create within yourselves a new heart and a new spirit.
--Ezekiel 18:31
Before our latest snowfall is completely vanquished by a thaw, behold an impossibly serene shot of the 1783-vintage Lefferts Historic House taken last week by its education curator, Elyse Newman. To date, AYITP has given this fascinating homestead too little attention. Here's a glimpse of life in the surrounding village, from the nostalgic history-cum-memoir The Social History of Flatbush published in 1881 by then-elderly family member Gertrude Lefferts Vanderbilt:
Note: With great sadness, we mark the untimely death of Robert Guskind, worthy Brooklyn blogger of Gowanus Lounge, who was a kind supporter of AYITP. I've written about Bob on my other blog, CrazyStable, here.
Prospect Park and I achieved a new level of daring intimacy today: I planted daffodil bulbs in broad daylight. (The red 'x' marks the spot, at left; I chose it because, if those suckers bloom next spring, you'll be able to see them as you exit the Cleft Ridge Span, on the far side of the Lullwater that I used to imagine was inaccessible.)
The whole affair felt hurried and illicit; I brought along the sheet handed out with the bulb giveaway sponsored by New Yorkers for Parks, just in case Parks personnel questioned my digging. The park's soil is clay, just like mine at home (a quarter-mile away, so no surprise), with plenty of worms still active. I uncovered some nifty little pink mushrooms.
However, I had not counted on just how many bulbs the good folks at NY4P had given me: about 3 dozen! Halfway through my hacking away at holes, I realized that I haven't felt well for days. I also hadn't bothered to bring garden gloves (hate them), so my hands were caked with dirt. The swans coasted by and looked at me curiously. I gave up after about half the bulbs were in, scuffling leaves back over the gravesites planting holes.
As I turned around to leave, I realized that I had selected a site protected by a mighty Ent, which I presumptiously named Groveheart. This is the view my daffodils will have next spring.
"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." (Hebrews 11:1)
ASIAN BRIDES, X-TREME WHITEWATER EDITION
Yeah, it's just one of those candid, casual wedding moments—when you have your groom toss a faux-fur throw over some boulders, and fling yourself, gown, lace gloves, veil and all, across a waterfall in December. The Asian wedding photographers outdo each other in coaxing and bullying their nuptial couples into unlikely poses in the park, but this one takes the wedding cake. (I think this adorable young lady was a very good sport.)
So much gorgeousness at 3 p.m. on a crisp November Monday--plus a Media Bonus.
On this Asian Bride Monday, we had at least 8 couples getting photographed (with much shivering of bare shoulders). For a moment, in the Cleft Ridge Span, there was nearly an incident of "bridelock" or, at the very least, hot and cold (mostly cold) running brides and grooms.
One of my favorite multi-trunked trees, near the Audubon House, was arrayed just as magnificently; I'm glad the car was there, it gives you some idea of the scale of this tree.
Across the Lullwater Bridge, the woods are very open and symmetrical, like a church with columns but no pews.
A few yards up the hill, the Binnenwater (below) splashes down on its way to the lake. I wonder if the crayfish I met here last summer has buried himself deep in the cold mud?
But wait, there's more!
These familiar-looking fellows were striding along, with a video crew in tow, talking about the park, "Brooklyn's back yard." We had stumbled onto a shoot for the newest installment of This Old House!
Landscaping guy Roger Cook (left) was probably praising Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux to Handyguy Kevin O'Connor (right).
The crew was happy to pose on the bridge, and dragged Daughter into the shot; they must have intuited her lifelong experience being raised in That Old House. The producer assured me that they would be breaking the news tomorrow about their upcoming Brooklyn project, in Prospect Heights. Well, sort of breaking; it's been known in the Brooklyn blogosphere, right down to the rumored address, since last month (and we will mercifully spare the project-house family any further spotlight).
On a crisp afternoon with gusty winds, one of at least a half-dozen Asian bridal parties posed for pictures on or around the Lullwater Bridge. I think these are purely photography excursions, not the actual wedding day; they are usually accompanied by casually-dressed friends, although everyone arrives by white stretch limo. I never tire of observing these glamorous brides—and the interactions among the attendants between "takes."
While these kids posed (and froze), they were serenaded by the brawwwks and braaappps of an unmistakably beginner-level trumpet player somewhere nearby. In following the cacaphony, I found another little trail I'd never taken, to another rustic shelter (one I'd seen from here across the lake).
The park plays visual tricks on me; for some reason, I'd thought of this side of the Lullwater as an inaccessible Neverland. Now, guided by my tune-impaired herald, I found it. I was touched that he had bicycled to such a remote locale to practice without tormenting others.
On my way back across the bridge, I couldn't resist one more bride. And groom—especially his colored highlights, which seem to be de rigueur for these parties. Having just celebrated 25 years of wedded bliss (with a spouse now going silver, not magenta), I felt like breaking into a chorus of "Hello, Young Lovers," but the trumpeter took care of any need for a dissonant soundtrack.
Somewhere I read that Prospect Park's lake is used for the Rosh Hashanah ritual of tashlikh, in which breadcrumbs are thrown into a body of water to symbolize the casting off of sins. Unfortunately, yesterday (apparently the day for tashlikh) I didn't go to the lake. (Did anyone else perform, observe, or photograph it in the park?) The closest I came, on this second day of the Jewish New Year, was to this young man feeding the Gluttonous Waterfowl. Well, mostly he was chasing them, fast and furious, tzitzit flying. Notice that his victim is actually goose-stepping; not to mix belief systems, but I'm enjoying the thought that karma is at work here, and the harried bird was a Wehrmacht flunky in its last life.
I missed going to the park yesterday—we traipsed around art studios in DUMBO instead—but before the day was out the park came to me.
As usual on a Sunday night, we heard the drums and cacaphonous horns of the rara band at the edge of the Parade Grounds, several blocks off down Caton Avenue. But last night, for the first time, I witnessed the "walking rara," as the band took off on foot in the steady drizzle and marched up between the soccer fields. From my front porch, I could just barely make out the undulating wave of 20 or 30 souls, some bobbing umbrellas, as they made their way under the dripping trees by streetlamp. It was a ghostly procession, if ghosts could be that outrageously cheerful in the rain. The music, raw and infectious, kept me lingering outside as mosquitoes feasted on me. A man passed by alone in the dark and said in a Kreyol-tinged accent, "The music! Good, right?" as he nodded towards the park. This morning, as the sun washed over a still-wet street, it seemed as though the whole thing had been a dream.
Image: Domelus, "Rara painting," Haiti Art Cooperative
On this last September Saturday at the Greenmarket, the rain was more like a mist that occasionally intensified. The clinging droplets made everything look as if it were freshly groomed for a food shoot.
There are still peaches and corn and watermelon,
but they're slipping past their peaks. The cruciferous guys are the rising stars, and red peppers are piled high. (For today's nearby pepper-worshipping rites, see below.)
Our last heirloom produce photo quilt was a tomato montage; here, also from the amazing folks at Evolutionary Organics, is a Squash Quilt.
These names, too, are poetry. Top row, left to right: Sunshine Kabocha, Sweet Dumpling, Thelma Sanders' Sweet Potato. Bottom row: Muang (a Thai variety), mini pumpkins, and Pink Banana. ("Dont get all freaked out by its size," reassures a helpful little sign.)
GREENMARKET DOG OF THE WEEK
Even a Super umbrella didn't quite give these fellows the courage to pet Audrey, a four-year-old Shepherd mix. They needn't have hesitated; she was gentle as a (rather wet) lamb.
GREATER PARKOPOLIS BONUS:
THE BBG CHILE PEPPER FESTIVAL
A damp, dark day failed to keep the Brooklyn Botanic Garden's fall fiesta from sizzling. On the Cherry Esplanade, we fell in love with the "Indie Hindi" rock of Falu and her band.
Later, demure Thai dancers took the stage as Spouse and Daughter scarfed down chili.
We didn't stick around to revere Pete Seeger, but headed to the conservatory, where we tasted incendiary comestibles until our sinuses melted. I bought a jar of dazzling mint chutney from Bombay Emerald (and spoke to the gentleman who helps make his wife's recipes by hand—an architect whose entire family seems to be involved in a business worthy of a Jhumpa Lahiri novel). We sampled South African sauce made with elephant-repelling chilis and baobab fruits; Guyanese barbeque sauce sweetened with strawberries; and something habanero from Philadelphia that reduced me to tears (good pain).
Just as we left, an actual Brooklyn chile pepper winked out from the Herb Garden border.
The West Indian Carnival parade kicks off just as most New Yorkers are sinking into that end-of-summer funk called Labor Day. It starts in Crown Heights, surges down Eastern Parkway in deafening and desultory bursts, and spills its revelers onto Grand Army Plaza and the entrance to Prospect Park.
The crowds were hemmed in, and the Plaza restricted, by an elaborate set of police barriers. Below, right: Stilt-walkers and cops play "Abbey Road." (The traffic sign instructs the giant sound-truck floats to "Lower Music.")
Trinidad, Jamaica, Barbados, and many more flags proclaimed pride in the place that many of our neighbors still call "back home." But there were lots of Caucasian faces in the crowd, too. (Spot the one below, right; hint, she's wearing a sweater in case it gets a little breezy.)
It's a day of rampant gorgeousness, with enough confident plus-size ladies to blow the "Campaign for Real Beauty" into the stratosphere.
Spandex and sequins know no age limit, either.
Admit it: Have sensible shoes, natural fibers, tasteful neutrals and a BMI of 25 ever looked so...sad?
As the marchers dispersed, almost every one whipped out a cell phone (no easy thing to stash in some of the scantier costumes), to arrange a rendez-vous amid the chaos with friends and family.
Turning my bike back into the park, I met a couple, toddler in tow, seeking directions to the zoo. Hesitantly, the dad added, "What is...that?" (motioning to the seething ocean of feathered humanity on the plaza.) Turns out they moved to Cobble Hill from Florida a month ago. A perfect Brooklyn learning curve: Set out for the zoo on a sunny afternoon, and stumble onto a world-class bacchanale under a haze of jerked chicken smoke. Welcome home!
