The 100+ heat index last week was good for at least one thing: hastening the ripening of the tomatoes in our “suburban vegetable farm.” The moment the backyard gardener waits all year for, that first juicy flavorful bite that banishes all memory of the sad waxy things passing for tomatoes the rest of the year.
Unfortunately, that first bite is sometimes taken by some other creature than yourself. Grab onto a big delicious looking specimen, and you may encounter a messy, gooey, open wound. Chipmunk, squirrel, bird, or something else that comes by night and chews…no matter, damage done and hopefully something left to salvage.
Most of our tomatoes were grown from seed. This year, I got several varieties from the Gurney seed company because they had a sweet introductory discount. I was intrigued by a variety called Mortgage Lifter, explained (at a farm museum I toured last spring) as being so prolific that it raised Depression era farmers out of debt. Makes a good story, and, if I have figured correctly, a good tomato too.
“Figuring correctly” is what one must do in our garden, since the varieties of tomatoes somehow always get mixed up between the seedlings and the planting, no matter how I try to keep them labeled. So you just have to wait for them to mature to find out what sort of tomato they will produce. Even then, I am not sure sometimes, especially since I purchased a “rainbow” package of heirloom seeds with a number of varieties mixed in. Is it a Cherokee Purple or a Black Krim? Is this one going to stay yellow or has it just not started turning red yet?
I call this “BT toast.”
Who cares, really. They are all yummy. If you don’t have your own, go find a farm stand or a farmer’s market and pay whatever it cost for a few pounds. It’s the essence of summer, and it’s gone all too soon.
For the first time since 1986, I had the 4th of July off, officially. Because I have worked on the Smithsonian Folklife Festival every year since then and it always incorporates the 4th of July. Only two times in all those years was I somewhere other than the National Mall on the 4th: sick, once and attending my great uncle’s 90th birthday party the other time.
This year, our shorter Festival did not encompass the holiday. Seemed, therefore, like a good time to experience Independence Day elsewhere. We picked the Brandywine Valley, and nearby Wilmington, Delaware. According to my research, Wilmington was reputed to have a good fireworks display, and there are plenty of DuPont mansions and other cultural wonders nearby.
With our destination about two hours from home and in no hurry to get an early start, our adventure commenced with lunch. Others might have enjoyed grilled hot dogs for the 4th; we dined on Mayalsian fare at Rasa Sayang, which is (aptly considering the date) located in a shopping center called Independence Mall a short distance north of Wilmington.
Next up, a trip to Europe via one of the lesser known DuPont estates: Nemours. At least I had never heard of it, as it seems to fly more under the radar than its sister estate, Winterthur. The 77-room mansion and extensive French gardens were the home of Alfred I. DuPont and his second, and then third, wife (until they bailed for Florida). It was built in the 1910s as a sort of Delawarian version of Versailles. Visitors are invited to wander by themselves around the grounds and house; friendly guide-staff let you explore at your own pace, but answer questions if you have any.
Next, a caffeine pick me up in the Trolley Square neighborhood, then finding a parking space near the waterfront in Wilmington to settle in for the 4th celebration. (Parking was delightfully available and free, the perks of a small city versus the nightmare of parking in DC.) We killed time riding up and down the Christina River on the water taxi, and then strolling nearly the entire length of the River Walk. Finally, it was time to find a place to watch the fireworks.
Our viewing space was directly across the river from the place they were shooting off the fireworks; any closer and, according to the security patrol, we would be in the zone where fireworks debris might fall on our heads. (The Christina is deep but not particularly wide, as you may have guessed.) Sure, the backdrop of the Washington Monument and the thrill of being in an excited hoard of half a million people was missing, but the show was just as impressive and the smaller crowd and immediacy of the display made up for not being in Our Nation’s Capital. Thanks, Wilmington, for making my first Fourth of July in over thirty years fine and DC-free.
Beaufort, South Carolina is a charmingly historic small city in “the Low Country” (aptly called this because it is just about at or below sea level, and when it rains as much as it did when we visited a couple of weeks ago, it almost recedes right into the various bodies of water surrounding it).
While on a family visit to Hilton Head, where our former Yankee relatives have retired, we took a side trip. My husband had seen a television feature about the National Reconstruction Era History Site(s) in and around Beaufort. Turns out the only one really open on a regular basis is the Visitor’s Center, but it was still worth the trip.
I for one learned many things I did not know about Beaufort and its surroundings. For one, that the city was taken over by the Union army early on in the Civil War, and consequently, after the war it had a sort of leg up on helping freedmen (and women) make the transition from enslavement to reach their educational and economic potential.
Sadly, along with these positive forces, there were the negative ones which led to what the National Park Service exhibition calls “unmet promises” which is shorthand for “legal (and also many illegal) ways to keep African American people from advancing.” The exhibit panel that most disturbed me was the Black Code laws which were voted into law in SC in December 1965. This included: “XXXV. All persons of color who make contracts for service or labor, shall be known as servants, and those with whom they contract, shall be known as masters.” Wait, I thought they abolished slavery. I guess not really.
We read all the very informative panels very thoroughly, because about five minutes into our visit, the sky opened up once more and poured more buckets of rain down on the already soaked earth. It subsided enough for us to go exploring around some historic neighborhoods, and to also have lunch at a nice Thai restaurant. We got back to our car just before the next torrential downpour, soaked in history and contemplation.
Inside the Visitor’s Center’s small but informative display.
A public art project of painted benches interprets Reconstruction.
We came upon the future site of a Harriet Tubman Memorial.
Robert Smalls was a Civil War hero and late a prominent citizen and politician.
Beaufort is chock full of historic sites, many of them churches.
Jeannette, Pennsylvania is a small city east of Pittsburgh, which I probably never would have even considered visiting before. But, then, at a meeting of Pennsylvania folklorists last year, a friend and colleague formerly from Arlington, Mary Briggs, reported on the community art space she was involved in downtown Jeannette called “You Are Here.” And, I wanted to be there.
Downtown Jeannette
It took about a year, but I finally achieved that goal this past week. I brought with me my husband (who said, more than once I think, “Why are we going to Jeannette again?”) and three boxes of used but serviceable art supplies for their resale shop.
Mary greeted us at the door of the narrow storefront on the main drag, and introduced us to her “partner in crime,” Jen Costello, and they gave us the tour. The first thing one notices in the entryway is a colorful display of carved and painted canes, part of the “Lean on Me” project that Jen initiated to provide canes to those in need, mostly the elderly. The canes are works of art and stories in themselves, and are often customized for their new owners.
Carved canes, each one unique.
Gallery space featuring work of local artist Larry Beaver.
Mary looks through my donation of used art supplies.
Jen shows off one of her favorite canes.
The second thing you notice is a big chalkboard with upcoming events: gallery openings, free movie showings, classes and workshops, and other fun stuff. (Mary joked about their taste in movies, reflected in the most recent offerings, “The Blob” and “Son of the Blob.”) Next up, the gallery, an open space that doubles for movie showing and other public events.
Tucked behind the gallery is the resale shop, whose name further illustrates the quirky humor of Mary and Jen – it is called “Oh, Scrap!” At the very end of the row is office space and a couple of small artist studios. The second floor, which is undeveloped so far, will eventually hold a couple of apartments for artists.
In short, there is a lot of “there” at You Are Here. If you find yourself in southwestern Pennsylvania, you should go there, too.
When we told the uninitiated that we were going to attend a “ramp dinner” in West Virginia a few weeks ago, they looked at us funny. “How can you make a dinner out of a ramp?” my husband asked, thinking of those slanty metal things that you use as an alternative to stairs.
Ramps, for those of you who also don’t know, are a type of wild leek found in the hills of Appalachia, in some of the same places you find ginseng. They are not worth as much money, but they are tasty and becoming a delicacy that fetch fancy prices in gourmet circles. But for most West Virginia’s, they are just an edible sign of spring and a way for some local organizations to stage a fundraiser.
My intrepid fellow traveler, Arlene, and I set off on a rainy Sunday morning from my house in Arlington, VA, speeding toward Bomont, West Virginia to make it to the ramp dinner at the H.E. White Elementary School before all the food ran out. When we pulled up in our rented VW bug convertible (it was the only compact car the rental agency had left), there were hardly any parking spaces left in and around the school. We knew we were in the right place, because: 1. Bomont is a very small, 2. There was a very large “Ramp Dinner” sign attached to the chain link fence of the school’s playground.
We payed our $10 and got in line for our ramp feast: ramps sauteed in bacon fat, ramps in fried potatoes, and a host of accompaniments, washed down with sweet or unsweet sassafras tea. We chatted up some locals, and soon our friend and colleague, Emily, who lives and works in Charleston, joined us. (Read more about her in my entry on Helvetia.)
We were in ramp heaven! Since we were going to be traveling around WV for the next few days, we were not tempted to bid on the leftover raw ramps which got auctioned off toward the end of the dinner. But, later in the trip, near Elkins, we did come across a large sign along the highway, outside an outdoor store: “Ramps Now Available.” Arlene doubted that they meant the edible kind, but we turned around to investigate anyhow. There, in the glass-fronted refrigerator in the corner, were plastic garbage bags full of the kind of ramps we still craved and wanted to try cooking ourselves.
In downtown Elkins, we noticed more ramp evidence on several t-shirts on display or offered for sale at some of the shops, one stating that “ramps don’t smell, people do.” As we had found out from eating big helpings in Bomont, ramps do cause you to – how do I say this delicately? – emit smelly fumes after their consumption.
Regardless, we highly recommend them. I sauteed mine in butter, not being a really big bacon fat fan, and scrambled some of them with eggs. Yum. Also, thanks to Marion Harless the “herbarist” we visited and interviewed before returning home, I learned the rudiments of planting the bulbs, which are now safely nestled under shrubs in my backyard. Tune in a couple of years from now to see if the ramp saga continues on home turf.
West Virginia may seem like an unlikely place for a tiny Swiss American town. But, as a folklorist, I often expect the unexpected. Cultural adventures that might surprise other people don’t faze me and my colleagues.
So, it was with delight that my friend and colleague Arlene and I set off, after interviewing ginseng trader Tony Coffman, for an evening in tiny Helvetia, WV, which was a stopover highly recommended by former Smithsonian co-worker and current head of the WV Folklife Program, Emily Hilliard. Emily was so excited about our visit to Helvetia that she helped, via email, to rally a bevvy of locals, which led to an impromptu creek-side party.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. First, we had to make sure to reach the town before five p.m., when the Kultur Haus (sort of general store and museum, as well as post office, rolled into one) closes for the evening, and in order to have enough time to eat dinner before six, when the Hutte (the town restaurant) shuts down for the night. The Kultur Haus is the home of a charming collection of Fasnacht masks – well, if you find giant leering faces and fancifully menacing creatures charming. Fasnacht is the Swiss answer to Mardi Gras, and during that wintry celebration, hundreds of people descend upon Helvetia.
But it was sunny and warm on this May evening as we parked near our abode for the night, the Beekeeper Inn, and there was hardly another person in sight as we took the short walk between the historic wooden buildings. After visiting the Kultur Haus, we settled into our dining experience. We met the keeper of the town web site, Dave Whipp, for dinner and he offered advice on menu choices, historic background on the town, and told us stories about some of the inhabitants, past and present. I had homemade sausage, which was covered in tasty tomato sauce and accompanied by sauerkraut, a potato pancake, and hot apple sauce. Arlene went for the bratwurst. Just when we thought we could eat no more, we surrendered to warm buttery peach cobbler.
Rolling out of the restaurant, we walked the short distance back to the Beekeeper and were greeted by Clara Lehmann and her husband Jonathan Lacoque, filmmakers, and their five year old twins, and Clara’s mom Heidi. Clara grew up in Helvetia, went away for awhile, but returned to raise her family. Thanks to the internet (which apparently they get there, although cell service was blissfully nonexistent for us during our whole visit), they can do work from this most isolated spot for big clients like Google. They are currently putting the finishing touches on a film about her grandmother, one of the biggest movers and shakers and promoters of Helvetia, who passed away recently.
Soon we were joined by the next door neighbors, a concert pianist/composer (originally from England), and his wife, a nurse (originally from Louisiana). Wine, beer, more food materialized, and the cheerful conversation punctuated by the babble of the creek stretched until darkness, the evening chill and some early mosquitos drove everyone toward warm beds.
The next morning, a sumptuous breakfast at the Hutte set us up for the whole rest of the day. Reluctantly, we pried ourselves away from the table and left for more West Virginia adventures. But the memory of the good company, local charm, and global connections lingers on. Aufwiedersehen, Helvetia. Hope to be back some day. There are still plenty of choices on the menu of the Hutte to try!
Arlene resorts to reading the paper map over breakfast.
Some of the many Fastnatch masks at the Kultur Haus.
I am privileged to have some old women friends (literally, now) who date back to high school, and even most of them to elementary school. It’s a small group, and we have done very different things with our lives, but we still enjoy getting together, doing stuff, and laughing over a few glasses of wine when we can manage to find a weekend to gather.
Back in late April, six of us converged at our friend Linda’s home in Western Massachusetts. We had all sorts of great plans to go on a hike, sit on her back porch, etc. but the weather was rainy and in the 40s. (At one point it even started spitting snow.) So much for the out of doors. Instead, we visited a couple of museums. And ate a lot. And drank more wine.
First up, the Norman Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge. The iconic portrait artists spent the last part of his career and life in this quaint Western Mass town, and this large spiffy museum has an impressive collection of his work. A separate building houses his studio. Special exhibitions highlight other American artists – when we visited, one of my personal heroes, Rube Goldberg, was also celebrated in a smallish side gallery.
One of Norman’s most popular paintings (at least for Stockbridge fans) is a Christmastime portrait of the town of Stockbridge, which is located a few miles down the road from the museum. He took some liberties in painting in the local mountains, which cannot actually be viewed from downtown, and also included a couple of buildings that are not really visible from the vantage point of the painting. But, otherwise, as witnessed by my own attempt to capture the town photographically, it was an accurate depiction. We ate lunch at the Red Lion Inn‘s pub, a step back in time for sure.
After an evening of camaraderie, and making plans for our next gathering, most of our party split for their respective homes in Vermont or Virginia, leaving only three of us to find a still-rainy day Sunday occupation. We decided (by process of elimination, since most local attractions were either not open for the season or not open on Sundays) to visit the Berkshire Museum in Pittsfield.
This is a very eclectic collection of art, history, and nature, which includes an aquarium in the basement, and a huge open room in on the second floor featuring a sort of “cabinet of curiosities” highlighting their vast holdings of – well – miscellany. Mummies vie with moose heads, full sized plaster reproductions of famous works of art like the Winged Victory, and a few examples of Bragg Boxes, a sort of early educational kit developed by the museum’s first director, “who believed that museums hold the power to educate and uplift the masses.”
I was personally uplifted by a multi-room exhibition of the machines of Leonardo daVinci, also inhabiting the second floor until next September. Leonardo is another of my personal heroes, and although most of these machine models were instruments of war, they were fun nonetheless. Many were working models that one could try cranking, lifting, or otherwise manipulating, which delighted visitors of all ages.
Good friends, good museums, and a great weekend all around. Here are some photographic highlights.
Norman’s view of downtown Stockbridge
My own attempt to capture the same scene.
Old friends looking cold outside Rockwell’s studio.
When we last checked in with the intrepid prop managers, they THOUGHT they had everything they needed for the upcoming play, The Savannah Disputation at the Alexandria Little Theater, sorted out. That was before final rehearsals started with the “real” props…
Prop managing is a constant learning experience. At first, my friend Susan and I thought it would be just a matter of rounding up a very specific group of stuff as per the script specifications. Hey, guess what…things change until the director is satisfied and the actors feel comfortable with the things they have to handle.
Case in point, a table dressed for that time just after a dinner has ended, which needs to be set in a hurry, on the darkened stage, after the lights go down between scenes. We were asked to make it the remains of a LARGE dinner (in Savannah, so Southern Style) and really fill up the table. And put some convincing looking food scraps on plates for scraping. All the items were to be placed on a big board, covered with a table cloth, and brought out to place on the table. Voila, instant dinner remains.
Problem #1: The board would not fit through the stage opening it needed to go through (IE the closest one to the table). Problem #2: Even if it had fit, it would have taken two weight lifters to carry it with all the stuff on it. Problem #3: All that stuff (which was then brought out on trays and arranged as quickly as possible on the table) ended up actually obscuring the actors from the audience. There were a few other problems, but these were the major ones.
Solution, naturally: less stuff. But, then, during the rehearsal run with a highly pared down amount of stuff, it was decided that it was now too muchless. So, the search for “just enough stuff” continued to evolve. Which it will, I have no doubt, until opening night. And by closing night, we will have it “just right.”
My personal prop obsession is the “banana pudding.” The first attempt at this concoction, which has to be eaten so must be, at least in theory, edible, included spray whipped cream; which turned out to melt into an unsightly puddle in the dish under the stage lights. Enter generic Cool Whip like substance, that age old standard which, I learned, could become part of a question on a standardized test, as follows: “Cool Whip is to Whipped Cream as Cheez Whiz is to [Cheese].”
Ah, the theater. Never a dull moment. But a lot of moments filled with some emotional lows and many (sugar) highs.
The annual deluge of tourists is diminishing as the cherry blossoms fade. I had a good dose of them in various locations and at various times of day and night, as per the picture gallery below. (Featuring the Tidal Basin, our own Cherrydale neighborhood, and Kenwood, Maryland.)
My small but devoted blog followers may wonder where I’ve been lately? Well, one place has been at thrift stores, discount stores and a couple of highly specialized shops, all in the name of rounding up props for the upcoming production of The Savannah Disputation at Alexandria’s Little Theater. My dear friend Susan got me into this, describing it as if it would be a giant, fun scavenger hunt.
Little did we know that we would be spending hours hunting down rosaries and grotesquely carved tourist candles, as well as devising relatively unmessy but convincingly food-like “remains of Sunday dinner.” We did some of this together, but we also forayed out on our own, consulting one another as necessary via text and shared photos.
Here is a typical text exchange, which seems to be in some sort of weird code, or perhaps the dialogue from a very obscure play:
Me: (at the Botanica Boracua on Columbia Pike) [photo of row of colorful religious candles] How many and what colors?
Susan: I like the gold Mary in 2nd row, 1st picture, how much?
Me: It’s actually St. Anthony.
Susan: That’s fine. $6.99?
Me: There’s also the holy trinity [another photo, close up showing candle with Holy Trinity]
Susan: I think I like the other one more gold on the label, although. blue would contrast and we do have a pale blue Mary. So whichever you like better!
I left with a rosary and two candles that we finally mutually agreed to after an additional phone call. And so it has gone, through photos and text of pudding cups, crosses, and candles.
Our next job (which we were sort of unclear that we had signed on for) is to organize all the props, scene by scene, and to write a detailed list of when they are used and where to find them when needed. In short, a lot more work than anticipated all around. But, it has been a fun learning experience, and I know sympathize even more with the Supply Staff of our annual Smithsonian Folklife Festival.
Here is a gallery of some of our texted photos. If you go see the play, keep an eye out for the ways they are used!
