a picture's worth

my morning fruits

2007-03-14T17:48:00.000-06:00

MY MORNING FRUITS : MARCH 14, 2007

When I was young, I never much liked fruit. I suppose like any kid I liked the staple type of summer fruits—watermelon, juicy peaches, and the occasional handful of raspberries. For me, fruit seemed like a food with an intense amount of labor associated with it. Even watermelon had to be eaten outdoors so the seeds could be spat onto the lawn. Cherries, too, had pits that had to be avoided. I never enjoyed the flavor of bananas, and oranges had all that white pith to remove before they could be enjoyed. I wouldn’t say I was picky, but I was definitely more of a veggie girl (in fact, I still am!).

My sister, Amy, and I reminisced with my dad the other night. We remembered the “snack trays” he used to make for us every night when we were young. While we watched our pre-bedtime T.V. shows like Road to Avonlea or Rugrats, my dad would faithfully and dutifully work his magic with a small paring knife upstairs in the kitchen. Every single night sometime around seven o’clock, my dad would bring our small “snack trays” down the stairs. Simpletons that we were, we had no idea that these special little trays were nothing more than deep Tupperware lids filled with commonplace little foods from our kitchen. However, my dad, with his imagination as active as always, never ceased to find ways to dazzle us with his special little creations.

He made us “roll-ups”, which were veggies rolled in a Kraft Single or a thin slice of lunch meat. Our favorite veggie fillings were long string beans or thinly cut strips of carrots. Once in a while a quarter of a dill pickle would delight us from inside the tiny roll. Apples were another staple of the snack tray; Dad reminded us just this week that apples were included every single night. However, as you might expect, the appeal of regular apples started to wear off for us after not so long. So, to get us to keep eating our fruit, my dad would cut the apples into various shapes, convincing us that they were altogether different fruits. I still remember, as I mentioned to him this week, what he used to call “cucumber apples”; he would core and peel an apple and then cut it into little apple rings. Because we were tired of apples but loved cucumbers, he convinced Amy and I that these special types of apples grew into these little cucumber-shaped rings and were, in fact, not apples but cucumbers. We were sold. We loved apples again.

To this day, apples have remained my favorite fruit. I often joke that I was always meant to be a teacher since I eat at least one apple every day. Oranges, bananas, and more exotic types of fruit have yet to grow on me, though. And, I’m still more of a veggie kind of girl who would rather eat a handful of cauliflower than a mango any day.

When I met my husband, Derek, I started to feel a bit of fruit guilt come on again. He and his family were major fruit-a-holics. They consumed more fruit juice than anyone I’ve ever known, and they were just crazy for cherries, blueberries, mangos, and all sorts of other exotic fruits. They would mix fruit into their pancake batter, eat it with their salads, and have it alone for dessert. In order to fit in, I knew I would have to like fruit, too.

I started trying bananas again. I still hated them. I hid them in things like smoothies and peanut butter sandwiches, trying hard not to notice their potent, ripe taste. Sometime this year, I found out I have become allergic to bananas. I still eat them occasionally to “get my potassium” (as my dad would always urge), but when I do, my mouth and throat get itchy and tight. I am told this is a common allergic reaction for people to have to raw fruits and vegetables. I am also told it is merely uncomfortable and usually causes no harm. I could go on eating bananas, I’m sure, but why subject myself to the discomfort? I have officially quit eating them on their own. Sometimes when I hear medical reports of the power of the mind over the body, I secretly wonder if somehow my hatred of bananas made me become allergic to them …

I’ve retried mangos repeatedly but still cannot stand that pungent, piney sort of flavor, even in ice cream or mousse. Blueberries are good for me, I know, but I can’t bring myself to enjoy them.

I have managed to wean myself onto all sorts of melons and citrus fruits, though. I find cranberries divine and pineapple heavenly. When I heard one kiwi fruit could provide me with an entire day’s worth of my daily recommended Vitamin C content, I decided I should start liking them. Kiwis now frequent my fridge on a weekly basis. Two little swipes with a spoon, and I am loaded up with all my needed Vitamin C! I confess I quite like their tangy flavor and don’t mind crunching the tiny little black seeds in between my front teeth once I’m through eating the vibrant green flesh.

My newest love is for red grapes. I could still pass up their sour relative, green grapes, but I can eat an entire bushel of red grapes if I’m not careful. The price of them has dropped now that spring is coming, and I’ve been eating them non-stop for the past few days. Last night I washed and plucked another bunch of them, leaving them in the fridge for their skins to crisp up.

This morning, while reading emails, I caught a sunbeam in my office, a small plate of fresh kiwi and crispy red grapes at my side. There could not have been a more pleasant start to my morning. I suppose maybe I do like fruit, after all.

WORD COUNT: 1000

asparagus

2007-04-01T11:46:00.000-06:00

ASPARAGUS : APRIL 1, 2007

So I’ve been on spring break for the past nine days, and today marks the official last day of my holidays before I head back to school to teach the kiddies. Although spring officially came sometime while I was still in school teaching (around March 21st or thereabouts, I believe), I didn’t actually absorb the fact that it was spring until I had these few days off.

I went for walks outside all week to soak up the sun’s new rays that streamed through still-winterish-looking skies. I ate an ice cream cone one day. I contemplated washing the salt off my car (and probably should have), but didn’t. I relaxed.

Asparagus went on sale in all the grocery stores and markets this week. To me, that is a surefire way to know that it truly is spring. Somewhere, somehow, the ground knows that the warmth has come enough to start pushing up those gloriously delicious little green shoots. At $1.98/lb, I had to pick up one bunch. I’m sure I will continue to buy bushels and bushels of it, too, until spring officially begins to morph into summer and $1.98/lb somehow turns back into $4.99/lb.

Derek and I ate our asparagus with spice-rubbed chicken and fettuccine one day this week. The day after that meal, Derek went back to work for a six day stretch, which left me to eat all my lunches and dinners alone. Never in the mood to cook anything fancy for myself, I puttered through the cupboards and fridge to come up with something that could suffice as a simple meal for just me. I spied a can of tuna, long forgotten, in the cupboard above the microwave. From the crisper, my hand emerged with a bag of long green onions, a bag of celery stalks, and the bag of asparagus. I can do something with this! I realized.

I toasted up a few slices of bread in the toaster-oven while I poached (blanched?) several asparagus stalks, snapped in half, in a shallow saucepan. I diced the celery and green onions and mixed them with the tuna, adding some Miracle Whip to act as the emulsifier. After I had assembled my two open-faced sandwiches (recipe follows), I sat down on the couch to enjoy them with a little bit of the Food Network. I didn’t get much TV watching done as I sat completely immersed in my own food! I moaned and groaned over the perfect flavors of the sandwich and have completely discovered a new favorite for myself. I’ve included the recipe here for you if you’d like to try your own hands at my new favorite springtime meal.

ASPARAGUS AND TUNA ON TOAST

ONE. Toast whole wheat bread till it is nice and dark and crispy.

TWO. While toast is toasting, gently simmer asparagus spears (halved) in one inch of boiing water.

THREE. While asparagus boils, dice one stalk of celery and one long green onion.

FOUR. Open tuna. Mix tuna with desired amount of Miracle Whip, add in salt and pepper to taste; then add diced celery and green onion.

FIVE. Drain asparagus. I like to make sure mine are still firm and crisp but are tender when pierced with a fork.

SIX. Retrieve toast. Smother with tuna mixture. Top with short asparagus spears. Top the open-faced sandwich with more fresh-ground pepper.

SEVEN. Eat, MOAN, and crave another sandwich.

And, I ought to mention my other favorite way to cook and eat asparagus, in case you’ve never explored this tender shoot as an edible option.

SAUTEED SPRING ASPARAGUS

ONE. Take a bunch of asparagus. Rinse and clean them gently under cold water. Snap off dry bottom end where breakage naturally occurs.

TWO. Bring a shallow saucepan of water to the boil (approximately two inches of water will suffice). Add asparagus spears to water when it is at a gentle boil.

THREE. Allow asparagus to boil until they are tender when pierced with a fork. They should still be somewhat crisp.

FOUR. When asparagus are tender, drain them. Return the pan to the burner over medium heat. Add drained asparagus stalks back into the pan.

FIVE. Add to the asparagus in the sautee pan: one tablespoon of butter, a sprinkling of sea salt, and a generous amount of fresh-cracked black pepper. Sautee for two to three minutes, ensuring that all the stalks of asparagus are coated in butter, salt, and pepper.

SIX. Serve immediately while still hot and crisp. Can be served alongside meat or fish or on top of a pasta dish or toast.

Okay, okay, here is one last recipe for today that includes asparagus. I made this earlier in the week, and it was absolutely divine.

FRESH SPRING CAPELLINI WITH ASPARAGUS AND SALMON

ONE. Bring a large pot of salted water to the boil for the pasta.

TWO. Dice 4 roma tomatoes, seeds removed. Place diced tomatoes in a small bowl and cover with olive oil, salt and pepper, and two cloves of crushed garlic. Leave at room temperature for flavors to marinate.

THREE. Season 4 salmon fillets with salt and pepper. Broil or grill the fish until it is done to your liking.

FOUR. When pasta water is at a rolling boil, add one package of capellini (angel hair) noodles.

FIVE. In a sautee pan, cook off asparagus as described in the above-listed recipe. While the asparagus is still crispy, add tomato-oil-garlic mixture to the pan to heat it up. Add one more clove of garlic and a few more tablespoons of olive oil (this will become the pasta sauce to coat the noodles).

SIX. Drain capellini noodles and immediately add them into the sautee pan with asparagus and tomato mixture. Toss noodles so that they are coated with oil and so that vegetables mix throughout. Remove from heat.

SEVEN. Plate the pasta onto four plates. Top each heap of pasta with a sprinkling of freshly chopped basil leaves and one salmon filet. Enjoy while it is still warm.

Enjoy!

WORD COUNT: 1000

township

2007-03-18T17:39:00.000-06:00

AFRICAN TOWNSHIP : MARCH 18, 2007

Jeffreys Bay is a tiny little town on the eastern coast of South Africa. It has maintained a quiet sort of status and is only now coming into the limelight because of its reputation for being an amazing surf spot. The town is filled with quaint little shops sponsored largely by the surf companies—Billabong, Quicksilver, and Roxy. Calamari shops dot the street just one block off the sandy beaches. Quaint little cottages and million dollar homes are available for rent, and most people zoom around town in their nice European-imported cars.

The apartheid ended in South Africa in the ‘90s, but the effects can still be seen and felt, even in (or perhaps especially in) a town as tiny as Jeffreys Bay. There are various races of people living together sometimes in outright, evident strife and at other times in feigned harmony. There are the white descendents of British colonialists; then there are the white Afrikaaners who are of mixed European descent but are classically “white” Africans. Then there are the formerly despised black and colored people, who are descendents of different black African peoples (one group is comprised of the descendents of Zulu warriors who made their way down to South Africa, and the other group are the traditional South African natives). Not only is there strife between the blacks and the whites, but the different white people fight against groups other than their own, and even the black and colored people remain separate from one another due to discord.

The town of Jeffreys Bay is owned, run, and inhabited mainly by all white people. As a white South African friend told me, only in the past few years have colored people been allowed to start working at the small retail stores along the strip; by and large, however, the black people are still not permitted to work in town due to racism. And, despite the employment advantages that are slowly becoming available people who were formerly suppressed in nearly every day, the wages do not yet reflect an equitable and fair treatment of all peoples. A colored person working as a waitress will still make only a fraction of what a white waitress will make at the same restaurant.

Aside from the few scant employment opportunities, the town still offers little to the colored and black people who are still forced to reside outside of the town’s borders. As there are outside of all of South Africa’s major towns and cities, a township lays on the outskirts of the town. Less than the equivalent of two blocks past the massive Billabong factory outlet and posh seafood restaurant is the township. Basically a ghetto or slum, this massive shanty-town is home to thousands upon thousands of people. The township is, in fact, made up of two separate townships that, over the years, have ended up blending together due to growth. One side of the township is exclusively for the black people while the other side is for the colored people. Due to dissention, these two groups generally do not mix, and when they do, violence and murder is frequent.

While the town of Jeffreys Bay has an approximate population of 40 000 people, the population of the two blended townships also has a population of 40 000 people. The ghetto covers hundreds of acres of land, even though each individual family only occupies a small shack roughly the size of a North American bathroom. It is only in the past five years that the township got electricity, which flows into community-shared outlets through above-ground power lines. Running water was also brought in around the same time, and there is roughly one communal tap and bathroom for every several hundred people. These projects were brought in by the government as a way to “help these people out.”

Because most people cannot make a decent wage in the city, the community is quite self-reliant. Every Thursday is market day where peddlers line up along the main strip of road to sell their wares. Each man or woman seems to specialize in something—where they’ve obtained these items from, I’m not entirely sure, but there was everything being sold from simple pairs of shoes to canvas bags to cell phone air time (usually one guy owns a cell phone and lends it out by the minute for a price; this is convenient because other than this, there are no phones in the township).

While we were in Jeffreys Bay, we would travel into the township every day to work with a local community center that was being run by some Dutch aid workers. We helped them renovate and fix up their building with some of the money that we brought into the country. We painted a mural and built some furniture for their mess hall. We replaced some broken and vandalized windows. One other girl and I taught English to the local kids from the township. Before the sun went down, we played street soccer with some of the older boys, who were better athletes than all of us put together. We also helped do some work on a new community center that was being built to house a church, a school, a daycare, and sports and arts programs.

This photo was taken just outside of that new community building that was under construction. I turned and snapped a few photos of the surreal surroundings—the African red earth road, the power lines above, the dogs wandering in the streets, the shacks made of whatever refuse could be scrounged or spared.

I am still haunted and inspired by my memories of the township—it was beyond my realm of understanding that anyone in our world today could live in that scene of permanence. And yet, I was inspired to meet the hearty, persevering people that managed to live and survive and sometimes thrive in such an adverse environment. It proves that the human spirit is capable of more than we realize.

WORD COUNT: 1000

columbine

2007-02-26T17:55:00.000-07:00

COLUMBINE : FEBRUARY 26, 2007

My mother has kept a garden for what seems like forever. I remember as a child I would be running around the yard excitedly, with sisters and brothers and puppies and neighbors in tow; sometimes we would be wearing dresses and too-big high heels; other times we would be barefoot and looking like hooligans or street urchins. My mom would always laugh and play along; aside from lending us her cut-off bridesmaids dresses and braiding our hair for us, she would oftentimes try to get at us with the garden hose as she worked in the yard. Pressing her thumb firmly over the nozzle’s opening, she would increase her spray radius and send us squealing and shrieking back behind the playhouse.

My mom was always out in one of her many gardens. In the back she had three main gardens--a water garden, a vegetable garden, and a flower garden. When I was young the flower garden was by far the least interesting of the bunch. After all, the water garden had shimmering goldfish, and the vegetable garden had chives, the only item we were allowed to pick ourselves and eat on a day-to-day basis. I remember Mom questioning my sister, Amy, and I, asking if we had been at the chives again. “No,” we would lie, onion breath giving us away. Later on we would feel sick from the potency of the herb, but that wouldn’t stop us from sneaking back to the chive patch the next day, or the day after that.

I did like certain flowers from Mom’s flower garden, though. Amy and I would play at squeezing open the mouths of colorful snapdragons, envisioning their wild tongues and fiery breath licking out at us. We would run our hands over the straw flowers, enjoying their scratchy texture, so reminiscent of beach mats or Easter baskets. Our favorite of all, however, a flower I’m sure all little girls love to gaze adoringly at, was the bleeding heart plant. To this day I find these little dangling hearts amazingly perfect—and the fact that they are pink, of all colors, seems another one of nature’s supernatural wonders. We would daintily touch them with our little girls’ fingers, but we would never dare to pick one. Those are not the picking kind of flower, after all. Besides, if we left them there in the haven of Mom’s garden, we would have the dangling little gems there to gaze at time and time again.

Aside from those three peculiar little floral wonders though, my mind was absent when it came to paying attention to the colorful section on the north end of the yard. Even as I grew into my teenaged years, I couldn’t figure out why my mom would spend upwards of eight hours some days just puttering around in the earthy beds. She would lovingly trim, water, and nourish her plants, no matter how big or how small. She would spend hours in the greenhouses and grocery stores picking out a mere handful of healthy looking plants. She would color coordinate things and pay careful attention to a plant’s needs—“That one will scorch in the sun”; “That one loves the heat up against the fence”. She would occasionally glance at the tiny tags that came with the plant, but more often than not she would already know the information by heart. Sometimes she taught me the scientific names of some of the plants, the memorization of strange foreign words being something she has always enjoyed.

In more recent years, my mom has paid the price for her gardening as premature arthritis has caught up with her. All the joints she uses to dig and turn the earth scream at her the next day—fingers and elbows being the worst, and knees being a close second since she spends the majority of her time on them. The pain, however, can not slow her down—a few Tylenol and a bit of moaning and groaning get her out and about the next day.

All this loving tenderness towards her plants has most certainly paid off as can be seen in the photo above. This bright pink Columbine (aquilegia vulgaris) peeked out over a bustling anthill, above the grove of luminous purple daisies you see in the background. Appropriately star-shaped, it really was the star of her garden in the summer of 2005. We were all sad to see it go once its time was up.

This photo was taken quickly, simply, and without much thought as I pranced through my mom’s garden one sunny mid-morning with our family’s puppy, Josie. I threw a Frisbee for Jo, and in the time it took her to give it a good shake and return it to my hand, I was able to get in a couple of good photos. I never expected to find this photo two years later, in the midst of my February doldrums, in a dusty corner of my camera’s memory card. A few loving touchups and a bit of an Orton effect really made this photo something special. It is just as lovely now as I remember that original flower to be—just what a soul needs on a dull, gray day in February.

And now, with my mom helping me plant my own miniature balcony potted garden this year, I am looking forward to producing some pretty little things of my own. I realize that the type of magical beauty seen in this photo can take dozens of years to achieve, but I won’t let that stop me. My photos of Mom’s garden can carry me over in between my visits to her backyard, as long as I have even one or two vibrant petals to wake up to on my own sunny balcony every morning.

Perhaps my spring and summer endeavors will surprise even me—we’ll see if I can eke out a photo or two from my teeny potted gardens in a few months’ time!

WORD COUNT: 1000

about

2006-03-03T00:00:00.000-07:00

a picture's worth {a thousand words}

This photoblog was created by Lisa from *daintee on February 26th, 2007. By the time all the programming and html glitches were sorted out with the site, it was posted to the internet on March 3rd, 2007.

The premise of this site is to shed some light on the old adage that states: "A picture is worth a thousand words." For every photo that is posted, a one thousand word composition will accompany it. All photos and writing are created specifically for this site by Lisa. Readers are encouraged to think about whether the photo or the writing was of more value in each case; of course, comments, insights, and shared experiences are welcome and encouraged.

Posting will be irregular and will not follow any set pattern. All old entries will be catalogued in the archives section in chronological order.

Information about the author:

Coming Soon. In the meantime, please see Lisa's site, daintee.