A Stay-at-Home Order: Sketches on Dining In

(And Other Divertissements)

I'm writing this post especially for True Concord Voices & Orchestra, one of the many organizations for which I perform. While musicians are grounded until further notice, arts organizations continue to connect with their concert goers in innovative ways.  Introducing performers to deprived audience members in a more personal way, as in this post, is one such strategy.  If you are able, consider supporting one of your beloved local organizations during this difficult time.

Happy, Healthy, and COVID-Unemployed! Let's Ride! Except...I'm not.  Of all my pursuits, tearing around on a Ducati is the one most likely to result in medical intervention.  So I've made the personal decision to remain out of the saddle while hospital beds are at a premium.  All the time in the world. A fully operational Ducati. Those two states of being have not coincided in years.  I won't lie.  Some days, I'm tempted.  But for now, we sit.  And wait. And wait and sit. Just like everyone else.

My last ride, over two months ago, was, appropriately, to a ghost town. Yes, Fairbanks, AZ is an actual ghost town. Even in long ago early March, a picnic lunch was a sanitized and distantly social affair.  It was with genuine sadness that I declined my friend's offer to pack my lunch for me. Is that allowed anymore?

Photo by Excellent Friend and Motorcyclist Missy Blair

So what have I been doing?  Some things, like hand washing and toilet paper usage data collection, have become nearly universal.

Other activities feel fairly unique.  In an arguably questionable financial strategy, I bought a flute*. And a roof.  In the same week.  Most days, I run between the front yard, checking on Baby Hummerbird, who had his flight feathers removed by a cat-of-unknown-origin the day after he fledged, and the back yard, assembling the contraption-of-the-day in an ongoing feud to keep a neighbor's cat from assaulting my Lucy's Warblers nestbox.  (If you read only one of my silly trademark footnotes, let it be this one**.)  Mostly, the cat is winning, although Miss Lucy is still sitting on her three eggs.  Time will tell if the eggs are viable.

Many mornings, I get a two-wheeled wildflower joy fix by bicycling on The Loop.

If you know where to look, you might find an abandoned trail side orchard.

The bicycle lunchbox proves handy for roadside finds.

My motorcycle/bicycle risk assessment may not have been entirely accurate.

Empty grocery shelves***? Bring it! Cooking with what's on hand is a daily creative opportunity for any budget minded eater, and the extra challenge of pandemic limitations only has me - zing! - sharpening my knives with a gleam in my eye and sly smile on my lips. Dosa, stuffed zucchini blossoms****, beet-walnut dip, okonomiyaki (of a sort),  roasted red peppers, lemon frozen yogurt, lion's mane sopes, pickled mustard greens, Thai beef salad, homemade ricotta, "Ground Beet Gnocchi" (so named because the mixture of pureed red and golden beets makes for gnocchi the color of ground beef), lemon curd barquettes, and, in a nod to pandemic skill acquisition goals, hand patted tortillas - no tortilla press needed, thank you very much - have all hit my dinner plate in the past weeks*****.    If I am so inspired, I snap a photo. Usually, I just settle down and eat.

Add chives to your walnut beet dip, lest you mistake it for raspberry sorbet.

Red Pepper Acquisition Credit goes to Good Friend and True Concord Voices & Orchestra staff member Shawn Campbell.

Lion's mane mushrooms. Not foraged. This time.

New favorite cross cultural snack: rice with pickled mustard greens and salsa macha

During the heat of the day, I often turn off the stove and shelter in place with the Metropolitan Opera free Stream o' the Day, while firing running commentary back and forth with an ad hoc chat group. 

But the real wild card of late? An online nature sketching course.  Typically, my level of patience varies wildly by activity. Practicing the flute? I got this.  (Even when I don't.) Motorcycle maintenance? Zero Zen.  Sketching has been an unexpected new window into my labyrinthine mind. Each time I sit down to draw, I watch myself tracing a predictable emotional outline, from one point on the serenity scale to the other. The simplest shapes can be infuriating, and when I'm not consumed with the urge to throw my sketchbook across the yard, I am perplexed and curious why I can not replicate the uncomplicated contour of a heart shaped leaf.  Like Mozart, seemingly straightforward lines are deceptive, and can take a lifetime to render with the grace they hold within.  Each time I open my little pink thrift store art box and begin, I reach a pivotal moment. Do I give in to discouragement and frustration? Or enjoy the process of exploration and discovery? The choice - and it is a choice - which I must make anew each time I draw, is an undeniable struggle for me, the proportions of which I am a bit embarrassed to admit. I take a breath, employ the eraser, and start again. I got this. Even when I don't.

* Buyin' ain't practicin', it turns out.
** Important disclaimer! PLEASE do not EVER "rescue" wildlife without immediate and direct consultation with a licensed wildlife center. It is not only illegal, but often harmful.  See here for some preliminary advice.  (Currently, Mama Hummerbird is still doing the work of tending Baby Hummerbird.)  Readers will know I like birds, especially Lucy's Warblers. See here for more information on our special little warbler, and, if you like, scroll down to see various updates on my own nestboxes.  UPDATE: Mama Hummerbird is busy sitting on news eggs, so she has stopped visiting Baby Hummerbird. Baby Hummerbird has moved to a new temporary home: Tucson Wildlife Center
*** Teensy tiny confession: Now that my evenings are free, I volunteer weekly at my Tucson Community Supported Agriculture Group.  Who knew one day I'd be thanked for my service simply for handing out cabbages?  In return, I come home with a bag full of beautiful, fresh, and interesting seasonal produce. And? They have eggs, bread, meat, cheese, milk, and other items available for sale, too.  So, in volunteering for the essential business of food distribution, I'm also, admittedly, cheating. Take, that, COVID.
****Don't be tempted by complicated fillings or batters. Pop a piece of anchovy and a piece of cheese into each flower, and twist it closed. Dip them in a simple pastella (flour and water batter) and pop them into a shallow bath of hot high smoke point oil until golden. Drain, sprinkle with a bit of nice salt, and eat immediately.  You'll be airing out your kitchen afterwards, but something has to keep us from frying food every day, right? 
*****Thatsalotta dish washing.

Two Wheels, One Key: Git Yer Mojo On

Err… so the wheels are unmotorized, and the key is an island, but I’m making the best of it.   Marooned in Flastistan again, I am.  So today, after deciding I might possibly manage to not get rained on, I tossed a stale arepa* in my pocket and headed south.

There is nothing pleasant about bicycling the Key Largo segment of the Florida Keys Overseas Heritage Trail.  I did not catch even a single glimpse of aquamarine waters as I pedaled next to the heavy traffic of US 1.  Five miles, 10, 15… still nothing but dive shops, gas stations, and restaurants with names like "Tower of Pizza." By the time I reached Tavernier Creek and the little bridge leading to Plantation Key, I knew enough to give up on tropical island scenery. Next time, I’ll pick a better starting point.  But for today, it was time to turn around. I’m only pretending to be a bicyclist, and 30 miles is plenty for these legs.

I could have easily ended up eating some “World Famous” Key Lime Pie, constructed from bottled lime juice and a tasteless hydrogenated oil crust, and gone home fully disappointed.  But no. I wouldn't have it.  The establishment I was looking for wouldn’t have a neon sign advertising its superlative status, or flags, or offer discounted snorkeling tours, or cater to tourists at all. It would be a little ratty, and no one inside would speak English, and…

BINGO: a Cuban grocery with a food counter.

Sixteen miles pedaled by this point and $3.23 paid.  Arroz amarillo con chorizo y unos maduros. Que rico!!  If you happen to notice the unremarkable sign, you’ll learn this place is the “Sunrise Cuban Café and Market.”  Sounds way fancier than it is.  But oh my, this was positively delicious.

John Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park is mostly under water, but if you are not equipped to snorkel or dive, don’t want to shell out the money for a glass bottom boat tour, and left your kayak at home, you can, instead,  get your toes wet, walk some short nature trails, gaze upon the little aquarium, and watch a dated but fascinating movie about the coral reef.  The last activity will give your legs the opportunity to cramp up marvelously.  Plus, if you enter by bicycle, the fee is only $2.50!

On the drive back to Miami, I hobbled out of the car to stop at the Robert Is Here** Fruit Stand (discovered last spring) for a Mamey Sapote Batido (milkshake). Honestly, this thing was magically custardy-creamy good.  Scrape the bottom of the cup even though you’re shivering violently from the cold in your belly good.  Superlatively World Famous good.

Recipe
If riding a bicycle 30 miles and change gives you an excuse to carbo-load the night before, boiled yuca with a Cuban Mojo will serve nicely.  Get yourself a yuca root (sold in every grocery in Miami), peel it (more like chip off the thick rind with a knife), cut it into big chunks, pull out the thin string of a core, and boil it until tender and translucent***.  Now get some mojo on it: a simple Cuban-via-the-Canary-Islands sauce of olive oil, bitter orange juice, garlic, salt, and perhaps some cilantro or cumin or... Sit down and eat the entire plateful.  I did exactly that last night.

*Arepas should be eaten still hot, or not at all, so don’t follow my example here.
**So named because Robert’s father (also named Robert) had Robert sit on a street corner to sell some cucumbers. When it didn’t work, Robert Sr. constructed a large sign proclaiming “Robert is Here” to attract customers.  It worked. More than 50 years later, Robert is still selling fruit (and shakes) on the same corner.
***Disclaimer: Don't eat it raw. They can have traces of cyanide if uncooked.

Everglades Pedal No. 2

Since I enjoyed my first two wheeled exploration of Everglades National Park so much, I expanded the idea to a 40 mile pedal trip this week, along the park’s main road to the Florida Bay.

Because nearly an entire continent separates me from my adventure toys,  I loaded up a borrowed car with a borrowed bicycle, borrowed helmet, borrowed backpack, and not borrowed lunch (garlicky lima bean hummus sandwiches*) and set out.  To buy water. Because even my Camelbak and sturdy refillable water bottles are in Arizona, and I had no faith in the flip top plastic water bottle at my disposal. Anyone who has lived in Arizona (or any desert) for more than, say, five minutes, develops a keen Desert Water Sense which is, really, a controlled form of paranoia. This is why I paid a mighty premium for Fiji brand water, because its cap and bottle look the least penetrable by any foreign object that  might be bouncing around with it in my pack.  And I bought approximately twice the amount I’d need.  It’s not possible to simply disengage one’s Desert Water Sense just because one happens to be in Florida.

The road was full of enormous colorful grasshoppers.  Either they stick to tires, or Darwin has done great work in adapting them, because I didn’t see a single squished one.

Lubber Grasshopper?

If you are, like me, not equipped to drink water on the fly, Nine Mile Pond is a good place to stop to pull your water bottle out of your backpack.  There’s no long access road that adds miles to your journey (I quickly came to understand the importance of this when rolling sans engine), and you can sit and contemplate the interesting signage.

Should I cover my bicycle with one of the provided “vulture tarps?”

 

 West Lake is even better.  Because it has shade.  And ducks instead of vandalous vultures.








Be prepared to do a bit of hill climbing.

Sweet victory at the summit!

Arriving at the Florida Bay is unexpectedly similar to arriving at the Grand Canyon.  After miles of arguably unremarkable flat and scrubby (or grassy, in this case) landscape - BAM!  There it is.  Sparkling turquoise waters speckled with green island jewels.

I really wanted this to be an amazing photo that captured what I saw and how I felt upon seeing the bay for the first time. It isn’t. And doesn't.  At all.  I’m convinced an aerial photo is the way to go.  Which is not out of the realm of possibility, as you may know.

I have actually been to this spot once before, on the back of a red motorcycle, even.  It was a Very Long Time Ago, decades before the age of my own motorcycle enlightenment.  Oh, how little did I know then!

Score one point for Desert Water Sense.  I told you so.

Precautionary Water Boil Notice for the Flamingo Visitor Center area.

The entire round trip from the Coe Visitor Center, at the park entrance, to the Flamingo Visitor Center on the Florida Bay is 76 miles. If you, like me, are only masquerading as a bicyclist for the day, you may decide that a one way trip is plenty.  If only the park had a return shuttle for us weary amateur bicyclists with our heavy bikes and packs!  It does not. So park your car at Mahogany Hammock and pedal your way to Flamingo Visitor and back.    With the Mahogany Hammock access road, your round trip will be about 40 miles.  It doesn’t quite have the glory as the 38 mile one way trip to Florida Bay, but at this point in my bicycling career it seemed prudent. 

I walked the short boardwalk at Mahogany Hammock when I arrived, victorious, back at my car.  It seemed like a good way to keep my legs from seizing up on the way home. I have to say, those first few steps weren’t pretty.  But the trees in the hammock were gorgeous!

No idea what kind of tree this is.  Anyone?

If you can manage to stumble along just a little bit longer, please do not miss the short but lively Anhinga Trail on the way out of the park.  This is the place to view wildlife, even if you do not have the energy left to photograph it.  And in the early evening, there’s plenty of action.  I saw an*** anhinga juggle a too-big fish for a surprising amount of time before ultimately losing hold of it. Plunk!  Alligators were slowly cruising across the water, occasionally slipping under the surface like sinister submarines.  An adorable baby alligator, 18 inches in length at best, was wiggling about in the dark mud, obviously up to something (what?), and I heaved a wistful sigh. Why can’t they stay cute?  A big one stealthily cranked open his (her?) jaws, and – POW!  It got itself some dinner.  I couldn’t see who was the dinner.

Speaking of eating, I did have a few food finds on the way back to Miami.

It’s a shame these folks were closed by the time I was done pedaling. It’s not often I can combine some modest wine tasting with two-wheeled touring****.  I have no idea if wine made from tropical fruit is any good, but I’d be happy to evaluate it!  Add one item to the “Next Time” list.




I was just contemplating turning around after carelessly driving past a sign reading “You’ve Seen the Gators, Now Taste ‘Em!”, when I found the “Robert is Here” fruit stand.  Of all the unusual fruits I could have chosen, I’m not sure why I got a mango.  I guess all my brain glucose had gone to my legs by that point.  Add another item to the “Next Time” list.  Still, it was exquisitely flavorful, juicy, and ripe – deliciously quenching after my day of pedaling in the tropical heat.

Now I know where to go for Mamey Sapote, as called for in my Charlie Trotter’s Desserts cookbook*****. Tastes like pumpkin cheesecake, I’m told.  I’m in.

 

  




*Because good cooks aren’t necessarily good, they just know what do to with their mistakes.  My recent inattention in the kitchen resulted in overcooked and undersalted lima beans. Blech.  Mash ‘em up with olive oil, lots of raw garlic, something spicy, and some lemon, (no tahini or even peanut butter on hand), and call yourself creative for making hummus out of dried lima beans.
**Come to think of it, I was once hit by a vulture when riding. Yes, it hit me.  Ouch.
***An anhinga?  A anhinga?  I dare you to say it aloud.  Have a drink or two, first.
****Alcohol does not pass my lips when mounted upon a motorcycle. Ever.
*****May he Rest In Peace.  He died suddenly in his home last November.  A stroke, they say.  The cookbook, incidentally, is not for the faint of heart. The desserts are all you would expect, but you’ll put in a good day’s work to make them.  Totally Worth It.

Flatistan Tour of Duty* (Bears vs. Alligators: YOU decide!)

It was so still, so improbably and artistically placed, so… statuesque… that I very nearly removed my helmet and took a self-portrait with it, my lips pursed upon the sculpture’s snout**.

It blinked.





If you happen to be riding your two wheeled machine through the everglades, your front wheel won’t turn five times before you have to swerve. One, two, three…  there they lay, sunning themselves like lazy (or stealthy?) beagles right next to, or even on, the narrow stretch of asphalt.  I had the opportunity to poke any number of alligators in the eye with my naked toe*** as I rode past, had I been so inclined.  I was not.  So inclined.  Instead, I was unreasonably longing for my boots.

I’ve said it before; fear is a funny thing.  Take, for example, this recent scene: a gated community in south Florida, accessible only by vehicle RFID tag, secret handshake with a Cuban guard, or [cue ominous melody in the cello section], a canal that slithers unnoticed under the wall…  You sit, over-nourished once again by Mom’s Best, and ponder a late night run.  What, do you suppose,  does mom caution you against?  And when you are abruptly assailed in the dark by the sharp, watery bite of a well timed irrigation system, what does your mind cry out?

“BEAR!!!”

Seriously, my mom will unthinkingly garden with her back turned to the long, reptile concealing grasses at the edge of the canal (“Pffft, all they do is sleep.”), but will not walk outside after dark, lest she be attacked by a bear****.  You can decide for yourself, but I stand steadfastly, proudly, even, next to my fear of alligators over that of bears, at least in this environment.

All concern for my personal safety aside, the everglades, like so many of the places I ride through, unleash in me a rush of gratitude and humility, that I might get to experience yet another wondrous and strangely beautiful land in what feels to be such an intimate fashion.





But for the first time in my two-wheeling life, I experienced a novel celebration of the straight road. An unusual reverence for the flat road.



I was, of course, riding a bicycle.    Ding ding!

* This is The Year of the Big Commute. I'm working in AZ and FL this season.
** No kidding, I thought for sure that first one was clever national park artwork.
*** Yes, flip flops.  I’ll ‘splain in a minute.
****Okay, to be fair, there was something on the news last night about another bear attack.