Older Berries
Do you think we find new parents as our originals pass away? How is it that a person seems to come along to fill the vacuum?
I know I act that role for a bunch of youngsters. By the way, anyone under 50 is a youngster. That number grows as I myself age. Maybe we don't seek these special people out, but they appear in our lives as a kind of gift. I have a new friend like this, Irma. She is a woman who is exactly the age dad would have been now. I'd run into her many times at art events and parties in the neighborhood, and I think we even had a conversation or two over the years, but when I found my new studio it happens she lives a few floors above so we've gotten to be friends in the most interesting way. The first outing we had was a trip to the dermatologist. Her car was in the shop so I drove her over there, just about a mile away, in a cluster of doctor's offices that runs about 5 square blocks. It's a hideous area to drive around, and a nightmare to park, except in their lot, which costs 25 bucks for 3 hours. I have a few doctors over there myself, and I find my anxiety doesn't center around the actual doctor visit, but parking before it, and then afterward finding the stupid car and getting out of there...it's dark and confusing, and backing out of the tiny space without hitting something makes my heart race, and then paying all that money is an added insult. So on this particular morning, Irma said to me 'Maud, I never pay for parking!' She led me to a hidden spot, a parking lot at the bottom of a great hill that leads up to a Frank Lloyd Wright building at the top. There is a small museum there, and a center where they give children's art classes. I never knew you could just PARK there! It seemed impossible in this neighborhood of horrid traffic jams and panicky drivers worried about biopsy results. It's about 2 blocks from the main medical building, just a short hop away....and with Irma, an especially short one. She walks with a cane, and I've come to the conclusion that the cane is not for stability, but for speed and for authority. Dad had the same tactic, walking down Broadway with his cane. He used it to shoo people away on the street, and then in Zabar's he would actually lift the cane up like a kind of magic wand to clear a path to the deli counter.
The parking trick is really the least of what Irma has shared with me. There are the stories! The wild stories of travel and adventure in places like Budapest, Basel, Berlin...places I've never seen, and probably never will since I only seem to be willing to travel in a ten-mile radius from home. I think she had a job transporting cars from city to city throughout eastern Europe. This was at a time when most females were at home in aprons. So here is this trail-blazing woman who has wandered into my life like a tiny tornado, standing about 5 feet tall. Her stories will start with the statement 'You know Maud, it used to be called Constantinople!' Of course, Irma comes from New York, like most of my friends out here...the feisty ones, ready to rumble. Don't get in the way of a New Yorker! You will never win.
Then there was the trip to Costco. Last week Irma and I ventured over to the big warehouse space where they sell everything from smoked salmon to ski equipment. She had a list, in order of placement in the store...Aisle 1/shampoo and beauty aids, Aisle 2/nuts and chocolate. The place is the size of a city block, and she really knows her way around. When I've gone there I tend to drift, like many of the shoppers. It's a vague museum experience, wandering around looking at stuff I don't need or want, but find fascinating in it's sheer bulk and variety. What does anyone do with 20 avocadoes? So on this trip I maneuvered the giant cart, and Irma was ahead of me picking up the things she needed. I got to watch something of a miracle as the red sea of Costco humanity parted to let her pass on through. Along with her undeniably strong presence there is also a joviality, in the way native New Yorkers will talk to one another in the subway or on the street when watching something odd. Two men were passing us over by the yogurt, one singing to the other. The silent one apologized for his friend, saying 'Esta loco!' 'No!' said Irma. 'Continua! Me encanta!' So the men both went on their way, singing. We wove our way through the huge cheese area, the bakery department, and to the corner of the store where they keep the vegetables that must remain very cold. It's a shock to walk in there from the main area...like entering the arctic circle in your t-shirt. This is where the lettuces, carrots, grapes, and BERRIES are kept. The beautiful organic berries- blue, black, red, in big fat boxes. She got blueberries, and I, strawberries. 'What on earth will I ever do with all these?' was the thought, and here about 10 days later, having had strawberries for breakfast every day, I've come up with an idea. This is the perfect solution for a bunch of strawberries that have seen their peak, and are getting a bit tired.
Strawberry Vinaigrette
15-20 over-ripe strawberries, tops removed along with any brown spots
¼ red onion, chopped coarsely
1 inch of fresh ginger, chopped fine
juice of one lemon
¼ teaspoon dijon mustard
½ teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon honey
3 tablespoons of rice wine vinegar
¾ cup grapeseed oil
Place all ingredients except oil in the food processor, and first pulse. Then as the machine is running steadily, pour in oil slowly. The dressing will emulsify slightly. I like to use grapeseed oil instead of olive oil which I find too heavy for the delicate flavor of the strawberries to shine through. This is a knock-out to dress a simple salad. As Irma says 'I HATE to throw away food!'