Prospect: A Year in the Park

Spring Park News: Goats and crafts and GOATS?!

Stuff happenin' in Prospect Park this spring: The "minds behind Smorgasborg and Brooklyn Flea," those uber-drivers of all things hipster and gentrified, are bringing a crafts market ("curated," of course) to Grand Army Plaza, according to the Prospect Park Alliance: "Beginning Sunday, May 8, and continuing every Sunday through October, Grand Army Plaza will host a variety of local artisans, makers and designers." Hey, don't overlook the delightful little free-range Saturday artisans' market that has spontaneously generated near the Greenmarket, which I profiled here (the faces and offerings have changed but there are always a few nice booths worth looking at). 

 

Photo: Julie Larsen-Maher/Prospect Park Alliance

And then...there are going to be goats.

Yes, goats. Again, the Alliance:

"Throughout the Park, storms like Hurricane Sandy have felled or damaged over 500 trees, enabling invasive plants to thrive and further harm the natural ecosystem. In the Park's Northeast Perimeter, where over 50 trees were damaged or destroyed, goats will be working alongside Prospect Park Alliance staff to restore the woodlands. The goats will eat these invasive weeds so that the Alliance can plant new native trees and plants next spring to beautify the landscape and bolster natural habitat for birds, and ensure the Park is more resilient against future storms."

Photo: GreenGoats.com

According to this account in today's New York Times, the eight goats (from goat-deployment experts Green Goats have been hired by the Alliance for the season for $15,000 to feast away on pesky vegetation like poison ivy, which they relish, in the Vale of Cashmere. (Will that make them Cashmere goats? Just a little goat-herding humor there.) That per-goat salary is more than my honor student is likely to make on a summer job; maybe I should teach her to munch invasive plants.

No one seems to have addressed the potential peril to urban goats, even in an "enclosure"; I fear for their misuse for meat or even intimate companionship in this notoriously secluded locale. (They have done their weed-whacking thing in Liberty State Park, but this appears to be their Brooklyn debut.) The park, however, does have a robust history of ruminants, including the Long Meadow's herd of sheep (said to have had an excess of Brooklyn attitude). I wish our Brooklyn goats much luck, hope to meet them at a wool-centric "Bleat and Greet" event on May 22, and look forward to bringing you more news of their progress against botanical entropy.

All kidding aside, these Green Goat folks, from the Rhinebeck/Red Hook area, are tough and tender-hearted innovators, whose herd was tragically lost in a barn fire last year; I'm happy to know Brooklyn will be a part of their resurgence:

Desire lines

 

That's what they call those shortcut paths beaten into parkland by human feet seeking the quickest route from A to B. There used to be only one way to enter the Long Meadow directly from the crest of the path from Grand Army Plaza: a desire line worn into the slope. But the park must've smartened up, because this log-girded walkway now welcomes visitors onto the vast expanse of grass. I took this shot a few weeks ago on a balmy December day, just after we bought our Christmas wreath at the Greenmarket; who could have guessed that the balminess would last through Christmas and beyond?

 

As their parents talked in boring adult fashion, these little guys found great sport in harvesting and rearranging bark chips on the log railing. In this year that saw an ugly high-rise condo pierce "my" side of the Prospect Park treeline, the Long Meadow maintains its air of secluded mystery, opening up like a miracle as you enter from the traffic and stress of Flatbush Avenue. The Long Meadow is long enough to be shrouded in mist at one end on a foggy morning, long enough to walk and feel as if you've really discovered something, long enough to clear your brain. Here's to a coming year of joy and discovery, of peace and health to all my friends and folks in Brooklyn and beyond. May your feet beat a shortcut to your dreams.

 

 

Chair views: The Fountainheads

Where can you chill in an Adirondack chair and see "Wisdom" and "Felicity" in a sun-spangled waterfall? At Grand Army Plaza, where a pair of the "Park It" project chairs face the spectacular Bailey Fountain. I've been lagging in my resolve to shoot the view from all ten locales; these refreshing shots were taken on August 22, after a hot trudge through the nearby Greenmarket.

In these chairs, you must steel yourself to the incessant swirl of traffic. Calvert Vaux created GAP to transition between hurly-burly Flatbush Avenue and Prospect Park.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This glorious traffic island is still hard to reach, and gets love mostly from wedding parties using it for photo backdrops. The fountain is named after its benefactor, philanthropist Frank Bailey (1865-1953), a college treasurer who started out in title insurance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From such bland beginnings came a $125,000 grant and the wild abandon of Neptune and Triton, sculpted by American artist Eugene Savage (1883-1978). Triton blows on a shell...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

...while Neptune leers at passers-by. From this self-portrait of Savage, he was the very picture of a WPA artist.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Sitting in the chairs with a powerful zoom lens, one can also capture the joy of water falling on mere mortals.

For the record, here are the plaque quotes on these two chairs: "We do not inherit the earth from our ancestors; we borrow it from our children." Native American Proverb

 "Walk as if you are kissing the earth with your feet." Thich Nhat Hanh, a Zen master, poet, and peace activist.

Grand Arty Plaza

THE LOCAL ASPARAGUS ARE IN! So is the spinach! Can strawberries be far behind?

And in other Greenmarket news...Under the radar, as it were, a small but gifted community of artists and makers have begun selling their wares at the periphery of my beloved Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket each Saturday. The scattering of stalls along the beginnings of Prospect Park West are notable for their delightful originality. Not all my favorites were there today, but four of them were:

The enchanted foxes and other creatures of Estonian-born Brooklynite Kristiana Pärn seem to have wandered out of a Wes Anderson dreamscape. Her works on wood panel, prints, and stationery are gently drawn (and gently priced).

 

 

 

 

 

 

We bought one of her bunnies for the Daughter's room years ago and I think we need some foxes. If you can't make it to the plaza, she sells on Etsy here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I love the celadon-glazed pottery of Frank Saliani of 20th Avenue Studios; love the rich, varied colors and the inviting, organic shapes. Craft fairs always seem to have way too many pottery people selling similar-looking stuff, but his work is really distinctive and elegant.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I would so give a set of these little bowls as a wedding present if anyone I knew were getting married.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bits of wood, pennies, Scrabble tiles are all jewels in the hands of Robert Heller, whose "Planet Ert" of rings, earrings, and greeting cards carry a happily hippie-ish vibe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

His rainbow of enameled earrings moved about in the warm breeze like petals. He's on Etsy here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vintage-look textile patterns adorn dresses for big and little girls and an array of handsome tote bags made by Maruska Saunders, who calls her sewing enterprise "Stinky Minky." According to her website, she once made cowboy shirts for Roy Orbison.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her work reminds me of my mother's; to this day, I can't see a cute pattern on some cotton without hearing her say, "I could run up a sundress in an afternoon." (I, alas, cannot.)

 

(Worth noting: no felted owls have been seen to date at this burgeoning craft market. The family and I have a bit of a "drinking game" around felted owls, which tend to figure heavily in the Brooklyn handmade scene. I love felted owls, don't get me wrong...but the borough is overrun with them! Perhaps they feed on artisanal pickles...)

Le January Hot

The very personification of post-holiday blues: A windblown, rain-soaked Saturday Greenmarket, on the day the Christmas trees get chopped to smithereens at the Mulchfest (tomorrow, too). I buy a few apples and some bread, get my hopes dashed that any greens have robustly survived the previous week's brutal "polar vortex," and even manage to be weirdly depressed by the sudden 50-degree temperature spike.

And then, just as the brief pounding rain abates, I hear it: an impossibly joyful trumpet, burbling within one of the columned shelters at Grand Army Plaza. My video cuts off before his final flourish, in which he somehow blew his few rapt listeners a little brassy "air kiss." Hours later, the delight has still not worn off.

 

Gold, standard

At today's Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket, a soft November sun turned so much to molten gold. It was like a child's picture-book version of Thanksgiving bounty.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peppers, incredibly, are still abundant, although one has to pick to avoid those with soft wrinkly cheeks; eggplant and zucchini from southern Jersey were also remarkably good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I gave the summer veg one last chance, deciding to wait on things like this golden cauliflower that peeked from its bonnet of leaves. These and the other cruciferous guys will be around a good while longer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Apples are still at peak. The Honeycrisp variety is more expensive, but has an extra flavor note that I think of as "gingersnap."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On hand today were Emily and Melissa Elsen, the enterprising young ladies behind Four & Twenty Blackbirds, a superb pie establishment I have haunted down near the Gowanus. Their new cookbook, The Four & Twenty Blackbirds Pie Book, looks phenomenal and has the magic instructions for making Salted Honey Pie, my current addiction. I enjoyed a wonderful conversation about all things Pie (although I stopped short of an exposition of my theory of the Pieness of Pie). and assured them that the book will shoot to the very top of my Christmas list.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The backdrop for today's market was a scrim of gold, russet, and a bit of green. This tree is one of the park's brand-new youngsters, a sapling with the mighty task of replacing some of the countless trees lost to Sandy and Irene. It sheds its leaves onto the history-rich soil of Prospect Park for the very first time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

GREENMARKET DOG OF THE DAY

Moses is a 7-year-old English bulldog who was born in Pennsylvania. His human says Moses likes chilling on soft blankets. I would love to join him in that.

 

Blue and gold

This morning's Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket was in pre-Hallowe'en Technicolor.

 

Pumpkins, of course, and gourds, and children begging and comparing and choosing. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peppers, still gorgeous.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Always some old-timey musicians on hand; this lad sought Mumford paternity (in vain).

 

We got a chunk of swordfish and a few delicata squash; grilled the swordfish by flashlight (the days are shortening so quickly!) and roasted the squash slices with apples and onions and rosemary. Between now and Thanksgiving is such a wonderful time of gold and orange; why is the commercial world so intent on obliterating it under a tide of red and green?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

GREENMARKET DOG OF THE DAY

Poor lute player; for high-impact facial hair, this Belgian Griffon named Milos had him beat. Milos's buddy, a black Griffon named Raspberry, was short-haired and resembled a bat-like pug, but wouldn't pose for me; Milosz is greeting a new acquaintance, in what turned into a freeform canine speed-date.

Don't blink

Decided to cut through the park to the Wednesday Greenmarket. Watched the preparation of the stage for tonight's New York Philharmonic concert. Enjoyed the flutter of a kite.

Then suddenly, a blue jay hectored loudly and every other bird went silent...followed by a very near cry overhead that sounded like Kyrie! Kyrie!

A red-tailed hawk coasted a few feet above my head and landed in a low branch near the Long Meadow. I crept closer to take shot after shot of him, as he glared down at me, for all the world as if he were sizing me up as prey.

Their eyes have a far higher "flicker fusion frequency" than ours, enabling them to see clearly at high speeds--a lesson not lost on the silent little birds around us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Those talons are impressive, and the feathers are marked like royal ermine. The guy just bears himself like he knows he's king (queen?) of the food chain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After a few moments, he took off, and within seconds the vigilant sparrows resumed twittering.

Green, back

Has this winter been more interminable than most? Last March featured a bizarre turbo-springing heat wave, and by now the magnolias had shot their bolts and the hyacinths were fainting. This year, on the verge of April, the park is still mostly bare (except for brave daffodils in the undergrowth), and in my own garden, the croci have mostly forgotten to party.

At the Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket, bags of increasingly aged roots still predominate, but a cheering mountain of spinach appeared before the arch. The sun was strong enough for shades, and hothouse tulips (and pink shirts) bloomed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Forced cherry blossoms are a fine choice for local residents, many of whom inhabit homes with 20-foot ceilings.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At the Blue Moon Fisheries stand, the mackerel are running;  Daughter was enchanted by the perky cartoon fishies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Saturdays, we park on President Street, grab a coffee from the Love Truck guy (who reminds us of Luke in "Gilmore Girls"), and cruise the market, then finish our errands while munching a pastry from Bread Alone (or, if we are virtuous, an apple). President Street should be aflame with forsythia by now, but they are barely budging; however, these enormous hellebores were nodding in a brownstone front garden. They are also called Lenten rose--how appropriate for this tardy spring, since Lent just ended!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A mere dusting

The arctic temperatures, not the token snowfall, were the story at the Grand Army Plaza greenmarket, where the lettuce was frozen and the snakes were grumpy at being made to wear lacy mantillas.

 

 

 

 

 

 Over on the Long Meadow, the parents and kids of Park Slope and environs bundled up and set forth in search of snowy fun. Everyone sort of kidded themselves that there was much more snow than there actually was. In fact, even in the frigid air, it was still muddy enough to smell the earth.

 

 

 

Spouse and I reminisced about bringing Daughter and her snow-saucer contraption over to the park in far deeper snow; meanwhile, across the street in the public library, said Daughter gamely endured an interview for a prestigious university.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Everyone talks about "surviving" various phases of early childhood, but by the time people are hounding your child for the umpteenth recitation of her scores, talents, grades, clubs, and "passion," the years when happiness could be bought with a snow saucer and a restorative lunch of Spaghetti-Os seem exquisitely simple. Today, we warmed up with a Thai lunch, assuring her over dumplings that it would all work out fine.