Fleur-de-Veggieday

SkylineIf you haven’t figured it out, let me put it in black and white: I have a new love affair…with Ghent.

Photos of the ornate and ancient brickwork, tile roofs, and canals with arched bridges captivated me long ago. On two previous trips to Belgium, I got as close as a two-minute stop at the train station on my way to somewhere else, each time saying, “I’d really like to visit Ghent.”

This year, I was able to. The storybook views of the medieval city disguise a youthful vibrancy that seemed to spill off the pages the more I explored Ghent with my fork, spoon, and camera.

Check out Ghent’s recent claims to fame:

  • In 2009 Ghent became the first city in world to adopt a weekly vegetarian day. Some say Ghent has the highest number of vegetarian restaurants per capita across the globe.
  • Ghent has the largest car-free city center in Belgium—the more biking and walking you do, the more hungry you become.
  • The KAA Gent team (The Buffalos) won its first Belgian Football (aka soccer in the US) Championship in 2015. Must have been all of those vegetables.

Here is the rest of the story:

GravensteenShortly after the United Nation’s Food and Agricultural Organization issued a report saying meat production was responsible for 1/5 of the world’s greenhouse gases, the Ghent city councilor decided that encouraging residents to abstain from meat one day a week would be good for the planet’s climate, good for his citizens’ health, and good for everyone’s taste buds. And that is how Donderdag (Thursday) officially became Donderdag Veggiedag (Thursday Veggieday) in this city of 230,000 residents 30 miles west of Brussels.

According to the visitgent.be website, the average Belgian eats 1,800 animals in his lifetime: 890 chickens, 789 fish, 43 turkeys, 42 pigs, 24 rabbits and other game, 7 sheep, and 5 cows. By abstaining from meat one day a week, each person could save 250 animals over the course of a lifetime.

On Thursdays in Ghent, vegetarian meals are served in schools and government offices have veggie lunch meetings. Non-vegetarian restaurants are asked to limit meats to an alternative section on menus and the city has a Veggie Street Map highlighting vegetarian restaurants, vegan bakeries, and health food stores.

I went to two of Ghent’s vegetarian restaurants, twice.Avalon

Avalon is in the shadow of Gravensteen Castle. If you get lost in Ghent, follow the tram tracks toward Gravensteen and they will take you right to Avalon. It is open one weekend a month, Friday and Saturday evenings for a five-course meal, and reservations are hard to come by. Otherwise, it is only open for lunch. Marina was lucky enough to arrange a reservation for the two of us while I was visiting.

The menu for that night was:

Triomfbal: An apple and celery deep-fried dumpling made with chickpea flour.

Aspergerisotto: Risotto with thinly sliced asparagus, fried onions, and halved cherry tomatoes.

Bloemkoolsoep: Cauliflower soup with almonds and a green herb oil with lime sauce.

Groenteburger/witte bonen/gele bietjes/radijs: Sage puree with yellow and red beets and kale.

Chocoladecake/rabarberijs/aardbei: Chocolate cake with strawberries, and rhubarb-soy ice cream.

The meal was paired with white and red wines throughout the night. Review: Lovely presentations, delicious and unusual combinations, and small but satisfying portions.

The only complaint for the entire evening concerns a table of four on the other side of the room. When each course arrived at their table, out came the camera and FLASH! Food photos are all the rage, but I consider it rude behavior when others are dining.

The restaurant has a cookbook—Avalon: Grow-Eat-Share. Although the title is in English, the rest of the book is in Dutch.

I returned one afternoon for lunch, and serving sizes are much more ample (I ended up leaving a portion of my pasta on the plate—I simply ran out of room. The waitress, the same one who served us two weeks earlier, recognized me and handed me an English menu. The dish of the day was Pesto Pasta with Vegetables. The pasta had “homemade nut cheese” which is something new to me, as well as baby eggplant sliced lengthwise, caramelized red and yellow onions, grilled scallions sliced lengthwise, halved cherry tomatoes, and, of course, basil. Yum.

LekkerLekker GEC (Gent Ecologish Centrum) is across from the Gent-Sint-Pieters railway station and is a perfect place to eat before or after a train journey. You can also get a “take-away” meal for the train ride.

At Lekker, food is served cafeteria-style. Each plate costs 2 Euro, and then you load it up with what you want. The plate is then weighed, and you pay E 1,65 per 100 grams. I paid about E 8 after filling my plate with a red beet, pear and onion chutney, roasted vegetables with creamy dill sauce, tempura vegetables, a mixture of green peas and black beans in vinaigrette, and a salad of pureed avocado with chopped celery and dressed with cilantro and lime. That also included a cup of coffee with a cube of a brownie with hazelnuts.

On my last day, when Sabine, Richard and Lais arrived to go on a canal boat tour of Ghent, we had a late lunch at Lekker. Salad, fresh baked bread, and a table outside shaded by a large umbrella made the perfect afternoon meal. Eet smakelijk(D), bon appetit(F), or as they say in the good old USA, Enjoy your meal(E). Laurie Lynch

Café Culture: One of my favorite morning stops was for a cup of coffee. In Belgium, each cup of coffee is served with what I refer to as a sweet amuse-bouche, often with a delicate demitasse spoon. At Barista in Ghent, it was a 1-inch cube of bread pudding. At Le Pain Quotidien in Charleroi, it was a similar portion of raspberry cheesecake or brownie. At Bread Fast in Ghent, it was a tiny Speculoos. No matter where I went, there was always a little something to make my cup of coffee a treat while watching shoppers pass my outdoor café table.B&W Pride

Forget Pennies…Strawberries from Heaven: After years of growing strawberries for our market, I learned the trick for the most delicious strawberries was picking them dead ripe (as well as growing varieties with excellent FLAVOR rather than ship-ability.) But they had to be consumed in the next day or two or they would become mush or mold. Well, in Belgium the strawberries were as good as anything I ever grew, plus they had longer staying power. They were red all the way through, ripe, juicy, and flawless. They didn’t have to be smothered in Belgian chocolate or sandwiched between steamy, crisp waffles and billows of whipped cream. They were exquisite as just plain strawberries.

When I got home, I did a little research. In Flanders, you want to look for the Hoogstraten Aardbei(D) label. Strawberry farms in northern Belgium produce 40,000 tons of berries for this cooperative. In Wallonia, Wepion Fraise(F) is the strawberry to buy. Farms in Wepion and nearby Namur produce about 4,000 tons of strawberries a year. Wepion also boasts an actual Musee de la Fraise with a 35-acre of Jardin des Petits Fruits that I put on my To-See list.

After a little more reading, I found out the secrets to Belgian strawberries, at least those in Flanders. First, the berries never touch straw, or the ground, for that matter. They are grown in raised gutters or troughs in greenhouses. The berry stems fall over the gutter and the berries hang in the air. The plants are watered and fertilized in the gutters, and prompted to grow with LED lighting from March through November. A series of varieties are grown for continuous fruiting. By not touching wet ground, which often harbors disease, the strawberries can be harvested at full maturity, full of sugar and taste. One added detail is that harvesters all grow long fingernails. They use their fingernails to cut the stems, without their hands ever touching the berries.

Kapsalon & Sauce Andalouse: OK, I love strawberries from heaven, but I’m no foodie angel. At times I stray from the healthy and organic and unprocessed. One night Marina and I were at her house, alone and exhausted. Marina suggested ordering out. I was game. She got on her computer and ordered two kapsalons to be delivered to her doorstep.

The translation for the Dutch word “kapsalon” is “hairdressing salon”. Apparently it was named after a hairdresser in Rotterdam who loved to go to the Turkish restaurant next door for doner, shaved lamb cooked on a vertical rotisserie and served in a wrap. But he created his own twist with the add-ons, and thus, the kapsalon was born. From the Netherlands it traveled quickly to neighboring Belgium.

Our kapsalons arrived in aluminum loaf pans. The bottom layer is frites (French fries). Next, thinly sliced lamb and melted gouda cheese topped with shredded cabbage and carrots, and halved cherry tomatoes. You can order a variety of sauces, and I decided to go with Marina’s choice—Sauce Andalouse. Sauce Andalouse is a Belgian specialty—a mixture of mayonnaise, tomato paste, roasted peppers and spices (curry, I’m guessing). Talk about pigging out. I was hooked. I packed a bottle of Sauce Andalouse in my suitcase.The Buffalos

OK, Last But Not Least, The Buffalos: The Flemish sports pages were not required reading to figure out that Ghent is proud of its national champion football team, De Buffalo’s (stet).

There was a two-story team jersey draped on one of Ghent’s stately buildings, and blue-and-white posters of the mascot, the profile of a Native American in full-feathered headdress, in windows of homes and businesses. What, I asked, was going on? The KAA Gent football association was founded in 1900. This, it appears, coincided with visits of William F. “Buffalo Bill” Cody and his traveling Wild West Show. The show toured Europe eight times, making its first visit to Belgium in 1891 and its last in 1906. The Native Americans in the show made quite an impression, and Ghent began its love affair with “The Buffalos” of the Wild West.

Fleur-de-Language

My kids laugh, but this whole language thing in Belgium had my mind spinning faster than the pinwheels on a balcony across from Café des Halles. It was at Café des Halles, by the way, that I saw a poster with Keith Haring figures—first Venice, now Brussels—his artwork dances through Europe.

Café des Halles, located at an 1882 market at Place Saint-Gery, has a delightful terrace and its menu is on a vinyl record, so unique that the following guilt-free message is found on each one: If you steal me, make us famous and post a picture on FB.Cafe des Halles

Belgium is one of those culturally divided countries, the northern portion is Flanders, where Dutch is the language of choice, and the south is Wallonia, where French is spoken. On the far east of Wallonia, there is a tiny section of the country where residents speak German, but that’s too much for me to deal with at this point—as are all the unofficial dialects. So much diversity in a country that is not much larger than the state of Maryland.

The city of Brussels(E)/Brussel(D)/Bruxelles(F) is the center of the European Union, so street signs are in both Dutch and French, making sign spotting and map reading twice as challenging. Marina and Richard spend their working days in Brussels, but Marina goes home to Ghent(E)/Gent(D)/Gand(F) in Flanders while Richard lives in French-speaking Charleroi (and, thanks to King Charles II of Spain, this city has been spelled “Charleroi” in English, French, and Dutch since 1666).

On the GoI needed to take two trains to get from one city to the other, which means Arrivals/Departures lists in the railway stations depends on geography. In Gent, the lists are headed with Aankomst and Vertrek while in Charleroi, the charts say Arrivee and Depart. Add to this mix that the translations of city names can differ dramatically, many times I didn’t know if I was going Oost or West, Nord or Sud.

Marina tells a story of when she was an au pair, a mere 18, waiting for a train somewhere in Flanders to go back to Liege. Trains kept coming, but they all listed their destination as Luik, and she had no idea Luik was the Dutch spelling of Liege.

Things got even more complicated with my rail pass. Before each trip, I had to list the day of the week, the departure city and the destination city. I figured if I was leaving from Flanders, I should list the day in Dutch. So, Woensdag was Wednesday. When I was leaving from Wallonia on a Saturday, I wrote Samedi. When I wasn’t sure, I made the day up, as in Mondag and Tuesdag.

What a long, long road language is. I have so much admiration for my kids and their friends to have navigated it so well.

Remember the 1969 comedy “If It’s Tuesday, This Must Be Belgium” about a busload of American tourists traveling through Europe? Maybe sticking to one form of transportation would have helped me get my bearings, but it wouldn’t have been as fun. At dinner one evening in Restaurant Matinee in Bruges, I went searching for the waitress to add a waffle to our dessert coffee order. I ended up talking to her reflection in the wall mirror, instead of the actual waitress. I caught myself about midway through the question—but so did Richard from the adjoining room. It will be a long time before I live that one down.

The next day, we were leaving Bruges and hoping we were headed for Ghent (we weren’t). I stopped to ask a couple for directions. Even though almost everyone speaks some English in Belgium, I always start out a conversation with: “Do you speak English?” before asking my follow up questions. Well, this time, the woman turned to me and said, “Dear, we are English.” I laughed and said I didn’t speak English, only American, and was very lost. She couldn’t help with directions but we had a pleasant conversation in our mother tongues.Where's Laurie?

While you might expect traveling to be confusing, surely I should be at home in the kitchen…well, not really.

I’ve grown, cooked with, and eaten herbs for more years than Koen has been alive, yet he taught me a simple trick for prepping herbs. He simply walks into the garden with an empty coffee cup, fills it with the herbs he wants to use, and returns to the kitchen. Then, he picks up a pair of scissors and just starts snipping back and forth in the cup. When he’s done, all of the chopped herbs are right there in the coffee cup, not spread out all over the cutting board like I would have done. Marina calls it, “The Belgian way.”

In Charleroi, as I was going to bed one night, Sabine told me she put oatmeal on the counter for my breakfast. I woke up the next morning and didn’t see the familiar Quaker Oats cardboard cylinder, so I rummaged around and found plain yogurt and Museli. Later during my stay, she asked why I never made any oatmeal.

“I couldn’t find it.”

Well, then she showed me a sack, similar to our bags of sugar, but much smaller—500g. It was chartreuse and red, with a Bio-Time (bio means organic) label. Below, was written Flocons d’Avoine,(F) and below that, Havermout(D). Next time I’m in Belgium, I must have a bowl of Belgian oatmeal, the Belgian way. Laurie Lynch

Sign Language: I love the large, green neon crosses in Belgium that indicate pharmacies. The pharmacies are called Apotheek, which is close enough to apothecary for me to understand. Unlike our CVS or Rite-Aide, which have turned into mini supermarket-perfume-and-whatnot stores, an Apotheek is simply there for what ails you, or makes you better.

I visited my first Apotheek early in my trip for citric acid to make a batch of Elder Blossom Cordial. Not only did the pharmacist have what I was looking for, measuring it into two plastic vials, but she knew why I wanted it. “Ah, it’s the season for elder blossoms.”

CompeedA day or so later, the blisters on my feet were pretty gross and painful. Marina introduced me to Compeed “blister plasters” that cushion and heal your blistered feet. Believe me, they work. The name “plaster” always bring a fond memory of Shauna King, our Northern Ireland summer visitor in the 1990s and early 2000s. Shauna always referred to Band-Aides as “plasters”.

Anyway, I was hooked on Compeed. After I went through Marina’s supply, I bought several packages, in a variety of sizes and shapes to fit individual blisters, and also found the plastic, teal-colored containers enchanting to Lais, who sucked on the rounded corners.

A Whisper from the 1600s: While in Belgium, Richard gave me a copy of The Miniaturist by Jessie Burton. I loved reading the tale Burton wove based on Petronella Oortman’s cabinet house on display at the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam. Although the historic novel is set in Amsterdam, it could have just as easily been Ghent, and it touches social issues that are as pertinent in the 21st century as they were then. I highly recommend it.

Fleur-de-ArtofBEing

canalThe customs officer looked at my passport and said, “Welcome back home.”

Tears veiled my eyes. I had to gain my composure. I had 45 minutes to catch a connecting flight and it was on the other side of Philadelphia International. I made it to the small commuter plane and upon arrival in State College was welcomed “home” by my mom, sister, and a surprisingly excited Sandy III, my mom’s Golden Retriever. Three weeks of bliss in Belgium. Now, back to reality.

Several times during the longest vacation of my working life I was afraid I might not make it. Just after I left the States to visit my kids and bicycle in Belgium, I heard John Kerry was coming back prematurely. He broke his leg bicycling in France.

I was luckier than the Secretary of State. I had two minor spills. The first—slow-mo—happened as I was getting off my bike to take a photo along the canal path. I fell into a bed of stinging nettles. My biking pant cuffs were pulled over my socks, my fleece jacket covered by upper body, and the strong hands of a newly graduated 23-year-old pulled me up and out of danger. For the second fall, a tram track caught my tire. What seemed like half of Ghent watched me tumble, and I ended up with a bruise the size of a 5 Euro note on my right calf, not to mention the injury to my ego.

Despite the mishaps, it is the joys of bicycling I’ll remember. Our rental bikes from Max Mobiel were, as Richard describes them, “One size fits none”, but what a world they opened. We had hardly left Ghent when we got lost—but found an ancient farm windmill, muscular cattle resting in the grass, and patches of red Flanders poppies peppering the countryside. We biked along the North Sea in Oostende, careened over cobblestones in Bruges, and successfully biked from Bruges to Ghent 55 km (34 miles) with only one false start.

Richard, Oostende

Richard, Oostende

During three weeks of traveling by train, tram, metro, bus, car, cobblestone-blistered feet, and bike, I have to say biking is close to perfect. Besides being able to Brake for Photos, it is a wonderful way to SMELL Belgium.

The intoxicating scent of elder blossoms massed in hedgerows along bike paths and canals is etched in my memory. I Googled “scent of elder blossoms” because I have a tough time putting the “nose bouquet” into words. The most common description I read was “they smell like summer.” Well, that may be so if you grew up in Belgium, or the UK, but growing up in PA, summer smelled like Coppertone and chlorine. I didn’t meet an elder bush (Sambucus) until 15-20 years ago. Ah, yes, a whiff of the fragrances of elder blossoms, shrub roses, lavender, and, I swear, the sulfur-bearing compounds created from consuming asparagusic acid that tinged the air as I passed a park-side urinal not far from Station Gent-Sint-Pieters.

I’m told Belgians are practically born on bikes, or fietsen, as they call them. We actually bought train tickets for our bikes (8 Euro a day) and there were special sections where you could secure your fiets (bike) with a Velcro strap. We met a fellow cyclist on the train who already qualified for the cycling event in the 2016 Paralympics in Rio. When he heard I lived in the U.S., he mentioned that he had raced at the velodrome in Trexlertown. Ghent, by the way, has two velodromes, so popular is cycling.

Big Red

Big Red

Each day I’d give myself little goals, such as biking to the BioShop for groceries and carrying them back home to Marina’s and Koen’s house. Or navigating to a museum and exploring a bike trail through the adjoining park. After three weeks, I almost broke the habit of swinging my leg over the seat to clear the bar that wasn’t there—Big Red was a girl’s bike. On my last day, it was time to conquer my greatest bicycling fear—riding a bike in a dress. I kept pulling and tugging at my skirt, trying to keep my knees covered while those same knees were pumping up and down over the pedals. Finally, I threw modesty to the wind, and just rode.

Back to my motto: I Brake for Photos. I have a few for this blog, but it is the missed photo ops that are the clearest:

–Marina carrying Italian Jasmine (Trachelospermum jasminoides) trellised on a bamboo tripod about 4 feet high with pot tucked under her arm after a Sunday morning shopping trip at the Bloemenmarkt (Ghent flower market) at Kouter Square. There, you can stroll through heady drifts of potted lavender, dianthus, lupine, and delphinium while a brass band plays “California Dreamin’ “ in the gazebo and more adventurous souls sip champagne and guzzle fresh oysters too early in the morning. I didn’t get a photo because I was busy balancing a bag on my handlebar. I was carrying a pot of Campanula carpatica to plant in the wall cracks of the patio garden

–A man riding a bicycle with no hands, playing a harmonica with both hands.

–A woman wearing a soft cast from just below her knee to her ankle, riding her bike with crutches in a sling across her back. We were stopped at a traffic light together. By the time I thought to ask if I could take a photo, she was sprinting down the bike lane and I could never catch up…

Where's my bike?

Where’s my bike?

Fleur-de-Family: The Art of BEing must include my ever-expanding Belgium family. Richard graduated from Vesalius College wearing my dad’s woven leather wingtips. They share more than a March 25 birthday. We had a post-graduation celebration with Richard, Sabine, and Lais, as well as Sabine’s family, Marina, Koen, and friends. I was entertained at Koen’s parents’ homes in typical Belgian fashion—quail eggs and ham on baguettes, lots of meat, potatoes, cauliflower, and homemade mayonnaise, plenty to drink, and, in not-so-typical Belgian fashion—sunshine. I met Koen’s twin brother, Sven, and Sven’s girlfriend Fleur, and ate a delicious strawberry tart with Koen’s grandparents.

I pushed a stroller, babysat, sang B-I-N-G-O, played peek-a-boo (coo-coo in French) and heard my granddaughter’s first words as she bent her tiny fingers toward her chubby palm: “Bye-bye.” Au revoir and Vaarwel. Laurie Lynch

Lais StrollerWritten on Slate: Bicycle means simplicity and simplicity means happiness! –Mehmet Murat ildan

Fleur-de-HighTide

A few weeks ago I got an email from Richard in Belgium with a link to an article in The Reading Eagle. Lisa Schnell, our Hottenstein Road neighbor, has published a children’s book, High Tide for Horseshoe Crabs.Horseshoe Crabs

Lisa, her husband Steve, and daughters were frequent visitors and strong supporters of Fleur-de-Lys Farm. Lisa and Steve gave Marina her first off-the-farm job, babysitting their daughters Marina and Fiora. When the Schnells went on vacation, Marina and Richard took turns caring for their cat. Before I left Kutztown, the family adopted a few of our farm hens.

I couldn’t make it to the book signing at Kutztown’s Firefly Bookstore…but my friend Laurel did. Today, a signed copy arrived in the mail, with a note from the author addressed to my granddaughter Lais and bound for my suitcase—after I had a delightful preview.

Although we are landlocked in Central Pennsylvania, my family went to Avalon, N.J., every summer. My parents continued the tradition, renting an Avalon home, sometimes two, for all of us: five daughters, our spouses, and a dozen grandchildren. We had the great fortune of growing up loving beach walks, Kohler’s cream-filled doughnuts, and, yes, horseshoe crabs. In another week or so, thanks to Lisa, I can introduce a fourth generation to horseshoe crabs, 3,757 miles away from Avalon. Laurie Lynch

Play Day: For Mother’s Day, I took my mother for a walk around The Arboretum at Penn State. Even if you don’t like exfoliating bark, blooming Fothergilla gardenia, or Creeping Jenny, it’s hard not to love the arboretum. It is such a playful place. There is actually a sign in the midst of the mass tulip planting encouraging visitors to Tiptoe Through the Tulips on specially designed paths. Childhood’s Gate (the name will ring a bell with all of you Penn Staters) Children’s Garden reflects the regional landscape with a limestone cave with walls you can write on (in chalk) and a creek where you can float a wine-cork sailboat. My personal favorite, if you must know, is playing the chimes in the center of the Discovery Tree in Mushroom Hollow…Set Sail

Written On Slate: “The voyage of discovery is not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.” –Marcel Proust

Welsh Saying: “Eat leeks in March and garlic in May then the rest of the year your doctor can play.”

T-Shirt Spotted: Give me coffee to change the things I can and wine to accept the things I cannot.

Fleur-de-Semps

The roofer life has got me in its grasp.

A few weeks ago my mom and I got a postcard solicitation from a company in nearby Clearfield. The front of the card is black with white lettering: got leaks? I posted it at my office workspace. Mondays through Thursdays, I’m Roof Leak Central.

Innocent sounding novels have me stumbling over characters or settings with roofing connections. How was I to know that Anna Quindlen in Still Life with Bread Crumbs would have 60-year-old divorced Rebecca Winter falling for a roofer?

Never would I have guessed that my escape from the long, brutal winter (with a record of 36 leak-frozen-gutter-ice-dam-scupper calls in one day) would haunt my nighttime reading. I travel to Italy via author Donna Leon. With one descriptive sentence, Leon leads me down the narrow passages of Venice only to burrow into my humble office. In By its Cover, Leon describes a home in need of new roof, gutters, and plaster: “Water streaks had dined for years on three places in the plaster and were now starting on the bricks for dessert.”

And how is it that in Leon’s Jewels of Paradise a minor character named Sergio owns a sheet metal factory in Marcon, on the mainland near Venice? I work for R.H. Marcon Inc., a roofing and sheet metal company, on the mainland near State College.

Now roofing is creeping into my gardening life.

My mom and I were plant shopping for planters on her deck. We came across a huge display of dozens of cultivars of Sempervivum. I’ve never seen such variety. Cultural requirements: full sun, little moisture. Sempervivum is one of those plant-it-and-forget-it kinds of plants.

Cobweb Buttons

Cobweb Buttons

These plants are perfect for a corner of our planter along the deck. It gets lots of sun, the beating, late-day sun, and rarely catches the rain because it is tucked under the roof overhang. My mom especially liked Sempervivum arachnoideum “Cobweb Buttons”.  We selected CB and four others to weave a tapestry in our tiny xeriscape.

In Kutztown I grew one species of Sempervivum, aka hens-and-chicks, on a stonewall surrounding my kitchen garden. My first plant came from Emelie, I think, and its offsets burrowed into nooks and crannies on the wall, spilling into the gravel path. Hens-and-chicks are chlorophyll-packed rock climbers who have a heck of a good time scaling limestone and granite. But to tell you the truth, the plant never excited me. I just let do its thing, and I did mine, cutting asparagus and picking alpine strawberries enclosed within the stone and Semp walls. We lived in harmony but without passion.

Now I’ve met the more exotic relatives. There is Commander Hay, Dream Catcher, Amelunga, Cobweb Buttons, and a distant cousin, Jovibarba arenaria, in our collection. So, I started reading more about The Sempervirums.

If you split the word into two Latin roots, you get semper (forever) and vivus (living). In Europe, Sempervivums are called houseleeks and are grow on tile roofs, where folk superstition purports they repel lightening and prevent fires. (They are not related to the edible leek, which is a member of the onion family.)

In this country, when we install green roofs, we often use mats of tiny sedums. In Europe, robust, fleshy Sempervivums are sold in rolls for roofing material. Sempervivums are succulent perennials native to the Alp, Carpathian, Balkan, Armenian, Caucasus, and Himalayan mountain ranges. Their “mother” rosettes spread by offsets or “babies.” When the “mother” flowers (it takes several years), she dies, creating an open space for all of those grandkids. With that thought in mind, from my rooftop to yours, Happy Mother’s Day!  Laurie LynchSunset

Written On Slate: “Life’s single lesson: that there is more accident to it than a man can ever admit to in a lifetime and stay sane.” –Thomas Pynchon

Fleur-de-GardenTranslations

I remember Richard telling me the French word for sunflower—tournesol—literally means, “turn to the sun.”

“Isn’t that beautiful,” he said.

The poetry of nature in a word: Sunflowers really do turn their faces toward the sun.

My kids’ adventures with languages are something we share, although their fluencies are beyond my grasp. Words—I can deal with words—but complete sentences and actual conversations are another story.

On my last visit to Belgium, I got the bonjour and merci down pretty well for the French-speaking folks.  And in preparation for the Flemish next month, I’ve mastered hallo and dank u.

But the words I am finding most fascinating are the garden translations.

An East Indian cherry by any other name...

An East Indian cherry by any other name…

Marina and Koen have a garden plot not far from their home in Ghent. It was overrun by Jerusalem artichokes, or as Koen would say, aardperen—earth pears. They harvested kilos of aardperen last fall, preparing them in a variety of ways in the kitchen, just as they fix aardappelen—earth apples—or what we call potatoes.

Now I don’t know why we call garbanzo beans chickpeas, I mean, what are chick peas? But in Dutch, chickpeas are kikkererwten, literally frog peas. I can see more of a resemblance between frog eggs and chickpeas than chickpeas and chicken eggs.

To me, chickpeas look a lot like nasturtium seeds—and that’s where this word story gets really crazy.  Koen was insisting on growing East Indian cherries. Marina didn’t know how they’d grow a cherry tree in their small garden plot or their even tinier backyard. Lo and behold, Google Translate came to the rescue. Oostindische kers—East Indian cherries—translates into nasturtiums in English. Now I’ve read that unripe nasturtium seeds can be pickled as a substitute for capers—maybe that is where the “cherries” come in. There is also a Dutch painter born in Indonesia, Floris Arntzenius (1864-1925), whose artwork includes the recurring theme of ginger jars overflowing with “East Indian cherries”.  They sure look like nasturtiums to me.

Now all of this garden word play is pretty cool—or should I say kool?   There is witte kool (white cabbage) and rode kool (red cabbage) and savooikool (savoy cabbage) and bloemkool (cauliflower) and boerenkool (kale), so much kool that one day Marina said, “I’m going to make coleslaw with all of these kools.”  Then, she said, it finally clicked. The Dutch word for salad is sla. Kool+sla = our English coleslaw…cabbage salad.  Laurie Lynch

P.S. A few comments from Koen, my Dutch-speaking editor and champion English Scrabble player:

Although Marina made coleslaw with several cabbages and English speakers make plurals by adding an s or an es…not so with Dutch speakers. Normally, when a singular word contains a double vowel, such as kool, the second vowel is dropped and an en is added. The plural of kool is not kools but kolen.  The word for the Dutch singular of banana is banaan; a bunch of bananas is bananen. 

It is one thing to learn how to spell a few Dutch words…but it is time, Koen says, for Marina’s mom to move onto pronunciation…

http://www.digitaldialects.com/Dutch/Fruit_audio.htm

 

Fleur-de-Faith

April Patch It happens as the tail end of winter slowly creeps into spring.

I wake in the middle of the night, as the snow starts to recede and before birdsong lights the morning, with a haunting question: Did the garlic make it through the winter?

Oh ye of little faith.

The final pile of sanded, salted, and cindered snow melted last week in Centre County. It was time to trudge down to my garlic patch to check on my babies. Whew, every row was highlighted in evenly spaced green sprouts of garlic leaves pushing up through the mulch of straw and oak leaves. One young garlic plant actually skewered a brown leaf, piercing through its center.

As the soil heats up, I will gently pull the mulch back from the plants, allowing spring rains to enter freely, piling the mulch between each row, suffocating any weed seeds itching to germinate.

I Skype with Marina and breathe with relief. “My garlic’s up. It made it through the winter.”

“My garlic’s been up for months,” she reports from the land of Ghent, where nary a snowflake settled on the ground.

“We had such a brutal winter…I was afraid it might not make it,” I whisper, with the regularity of Punxsutawney Phil.

Oh ye of little faith.

What it might come down to is garden guilt.  You see, I was reading the Penn State Vegetable Guide and it recommended side-dressing garlic in March with a quarter pound of ammonium sulfate for every100 feet of row. The plants, PSU seems to say, need a St. Patrick’s Day nitrogen fix.

I don’t know about you, but in March I was planted on the couch under an alpaca blanket, hibernating with yet another Catherine Coulter FBI-shoot-‘em-up-non-suspense (the good guys/gals never die) library book. Venturing out to the frozen, snow-covered garlic patch with a bag of fertilizer is not my cup of Earl Grey.

Then I was sorting through my piles of papers, ruminating on the winter of tragic accidents, close calls, near misses, and yes, even loss. I found a clipping from The New York Times. A garlic grower was boasting about growing garlic bulbs the size of baseballs. Mine are closer to golf balls. Comparison breeds gnawing doubt.

I’ve been nurturing my garlic, up to a dozen or so varieties, for more than a quarter of a century. I grew garlic in the limey soil of the cement belt in Coplay, in the shale soil of Maxatawny Township, now in the clumpy clay of Happy Valley. Forget bulb envy, golf-ball size is good enough.Sprouted Garlic

My winter garlic supply in the unheated garage is dwindling. It’s time for dinner. I reach for a bulb I moved to the kitchen and forgot about. There it is, in all of its glory, cloves full of spirit and sprout. It wasn’t planted and mulched with care, fertilized or coddled. No garden PhD coached those cloves, yet here they are, sprouting new green leaves, stretching out to capture the sun, and air, and life itself.

Oh me of garlic faith. Laurie Lynch

Written on Slate: “Of all the paths you take in life, make sure a few of them are dirt.”

– John Muir