Something in the air

. . . And I don't mean just the jasmine, which has turned out a trillion trumpets on both sides of the parking space, with most of them just at the edge of the porch.

The other scent comes from that truck you can hear coming a block away, making a clattering sound like a card-flapping bicycle on mega-mambo steroids. It's spraying mosquito-killer, and the noise at least gives you the chance to dodge indoors until the mist settles.

Mind you, I'm not complaining, because we've just had (at least) two cases of dengue fever, the first in Florida in 40 years or so, and the health department is testing all around Old Town to see if there are asymptomatic carriers.

About 400 bucks of our annual property taxes goes to the Mosquito Control District, and at least I'm getting something for the money.

Quite the prize

Little did I know, as I snapped this on the Sebago cruise for Ralph for King, that I would walk home with the top raffle prize. (That's Ralph on the right; at the mic is his honey, the incredibly talented Michael McCabe.)

All the items were donated by Leathermaster -- and we've recycled most of them into the Sunday bingo slush pile -- but it was the packaging that really got my attention:

Yep, a big box of conch meat.

Why I live here, again

It ain't chicken salad

That's Gene's friend Vicki Gordon, who's running on a Green Queen platform for Fantasy Fest, under a canopy at the Cypress House pool, waiting for a chicken to, um. . . .

See, there are 100 squares, and when all 100 raffle tickets are sold, the chicken wrangler, barely visible with the big white beard in the background, lets the rooster loose, and then the crowd yells and whoops, and the rooster, erm. . . .

Let's just say he doesn't lay an egg, and where it goes determines who gets half the pot (which you are of course free to donate back to AIDS Help). Good time had by all, especially when I noticed the little campaign stickers everybody got, along with cool green glow bracelets and a drink or two.

"What's the difference between a Green Campaign supporter and St. Peter's Church?," I asked Vicki.

One has a Vicki sticker. The other, of course, a sticky vicar (bada-bing), speaking of laying eggs.

Cut flowers

When I was here over the summer, and Jon and his landscape crew came in to fashion some trellises and plant a few bougainvilleas on the back deck, as they were cleaning up I asked them not to cut the palm blooms along the street.

My rationale was that if you let the blooms stay, the fronds don't drop to make way for new ones, and there's less chance that people think you're away if the pathways are fallen-frond-free.

Jon's head guy, Martín, put the question into the most direct perspective: "We don't cut the flowers?"

I had thought of palm blooms and how they look like airborn coral, but not flowers, and I explained my plan. He agreed.

And the strategy worked: When we got back, all of the palms were in flower, and all the fronds looked fresh. So I got out my tree saw, and this pile of dead reproductive bits was at least 5 feet long.

I look forward to a regular flower/frond harvest this winter.

How'd he guess?

So, we'd been down to the Oldest House garden for an orchid auction on behalf of Stacy for Queen of Fantasy Fest.

She's Karl's wife, friends of friends, and we've known them for a few years, and . . . there were orchids.

So we went, and we bought two beauties: dendrobiums, one white and yellow and green, and the other a Key West flag blue (actually the cross is called "Robert's Delight," which I didn't know until I bought it), with roots that trailed at least 3 feet under the plant.

And there we were on our way home, walking up Duval, past Cowboy Bill's, where the barker was shouting at the passing throngs: "Coun-try MUUU-sic . . . COUN-try MUUU-sic . . . !"

I was walking with my blue one held high by necessity to keep the roots off the sidewalk, and Robert was walking with his yellow-green one just a little less so, but with wrist definitely up.

"Country MU-sic," he was calling to the sidewalk crowd. "COUN-try
MUUU . . ."

He halted, looked us up and down, had a little grin, and said:

"Maybe not so much."

It's always something

That was the title of the immortal (I wish) Gilda Radner's auto- biography, and it's been the coda to every moment back here so far.

Arrived Saturday. A little general cleaning, starting to unpack.

Sunday, finish unpacking and stowing. Then Gregory comes by to introduce us to Patrick, who's new on the island. Then Robert brings a bunch back from bingo: Gregory, Patrick, Dwight, Michael, Mitch, Otter and Ike, and an impromptu pool party breaks out. . . .

Monday, tend to the gardens in front: rip out the diseased (and sole surviving) hibiscus, trim associated diseased parts from the ixoras, prune the palms, rake, sweep. . . .

Tuesday, pressure-wash the porch (hence that clean-railing photo) after spritzing it with a bleach solution to kill the mildew, and then attack the mildew that invaded the car we left here. (We noticed damp carpets last year; this year they were awash.) Then Jeffrey went by, walking Boo-Boo and Bear (the vicar's in New York), and dropped in for a cold beverage or two. . . .

Today, it's trimming up the buttonwoods on the back deck, tying up the underplantings. . . .

And all of this between rainstorms, which make the humidity a bit much when the temperature's 90 or so.

I wish Robert would get the hell back to bridge.

Roadshow

Just before we left Tennessee, the sculptor, Brad, swung by for a look at the oak tree and a chat about where we might go from here.

It was our last day to nail things down, and we'd packed the day full of appointments and errands. He had the 11:30 slot.

Late start from Cookeville, so he called to push it back to 12:30. Engine in his van overheated, so it got later. He finally arrived at about 3:30, and I understood why he needed the van.

He'd brought a dozen or so pieces to give us the full flavor of his work, which you just can't get in a photo -- though this one shows a piece in holly wood (that antlerish thing in the middle -- amazing color!) and a "bowl" on the right with one of his signature orbs.

Robert had to scoot into town before the full sculpture show, so I'm blowing up the pictures I took on the big digital screen down here to
. . . give him the flavor of Brad's work.

Which you just can't get in a photo.

Digging in

Robert got the catch of the day, which was lobster, and I got the prime rib, and we both got a bottle of wine after Patrick dropped by the table. He knows he owes us big time for parking in front of the house when nothing else is available.

But we took the long way to get here: half a block up from the house, half a block to Duval, half a block down Duval. We took the quick way home: quarter block, half block, quarter block.

Give us a few days and we'll be better adjusted, but this is pretty good for starters.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Just after reading that Mary Travers had died, and thinking about her rich alto. . . .

From The Times:

It was a promise neither man would have wanted to keep. Yesterday the funeral of a Black Watch soldier killed in Afghanistan took a bizarre turn when his best friend arrived in a bright green dress and pink leg warmers to honour a pact that the two of them had made.

Private Kevin Elliott and his friend, Barry Delaney, had agreed that whoever survived the other should wear a dress to the dead man’s funeral. Mr Delaney duly fulfilled the pledge as a tribute to Private Elliott, who was killed aged 24 while on foot patrol in the southern province of Helmand on August 31.

Mr Delaney wept on his knees at the graveside in Dundee as shots were fired during the military funeral. His dress plans are believed to have been known about in advance by other mourners.

Private Elliott’s other friends wore Black Watch tartan ribbon pins with the words “Kevin Elliott Our Hero”. His young cousins wore T-shirts emblazoned with his photograph. His army colleagues wore their regimental uniforms and carried his coffin, which was draped in a saltire. Earlier, hundreds of mourners had lined the route outside St Mary’s church in the city centre, clapping as the funeral cortège left for the cemetery. . . .

Gone to graveyards, every one.

¡Azúcar!

"The Mambo Kings" is playing on cable these days, and I tuned in to watch it for the first time since it came out in the early '90s. What a joy.

Not just the grand Cuban tragedy of it all. Not just the seamless "I Love Lucy" scenes, with Desi Jr. playing Daddy. Not just the spectacular soundtrack (which I got as soon as it came out -- Tito Puente! Machito! Mambo Nagilah and Copa culture and those glorious ballads!), or the eye candy of the young Antonio Banderas (his first movie in English, I think), or the only time I've really liked Armand Assante.

No, I think it's because it's the first time I saw the great Celia Cruz -- by no means a raving beauty, and almost 75 when she made the movie, but what soul, what presence, what moves, what pipes, what style. No wonder 75 gold albums, plus a National Medal of Arts. That song-dance she does alongside the closing credits says it all.

Give it a look if you can, chicos.

More, please, sir?

I know I get obsessed by food sometimes, so if you don't get it, click off.

But it was the con- vergence of Franny thoughts and my mom's pasta machine that made me cook Franny's chicken lasagna for Monday's on-premises bridge.

I have to remember at some point that three eggs and 3 cups of flour yield more pasta than one can deal with readily. But beyond that, and the amounts of bechamel and its thickness, it was a sealed deal.

Poached chicken breasts, cream and chicken-reduction sauce, herbs, Jarlsberg, Parm-Reg, garlic -- makes life worth living . . .

And enough noodles, with a bit of the leftover bechamel and pork with juices from the weekend appetizer, ground and augmented, for tomato-red lasagna to give to my mom to serve for a little party while we're away. It'll be the freshest thing in her freezer.

The bridge bunch sent back clean plates, anyway.

Meanwhile, at WomenFest . . .

First course for 40

We got an invitation from Kathy and Carl for a red-wine tasting -- apparently something they'd bid high on at a charity thing -- and in accepting offered to bring something edible to the party.

Ken had naturally responded the same way, and both of us got a note back joining two of us for the first course. It was to accompany a Beaujolais.

Robert and I had, of course, been through the onset of the great Gamay promotion years ago. Aside from the waiters doing the down-the-streets dance with bottles of nouveau fresh from across the Atlantic on the third Thursday of November -- marketing, marketing, marketing! -- and the discounts on the restaurant menus, the wine was . . . unexciting.

Still, an assignment is an assignment. I consulted various wine guides on the recommended accompaniments and, in half of them, found the advice to choose a different wine.

Well, the rest suggested at least a few charcuterie go-alongs. So there we were, in Ben and Ken's kitchen, assembling and packing the stuff we plated at the party: Roast pork roulades around cornichons from our pantry, salamis with grainy mustard, dates filled with goat cheese, niçoise olives green and black, radishes, pineapple.

At the tasting, every time the distributor's guy talked about the wines and said "soul," one half of the crowd turned to the other and translated: "soil." (Oh, the terroir a region brings!) But we ate and supped well, however we wrapped our mouths around it.

I got to talk to Jo about her doorbell, Meg about her delicious arancini, Mike and Phyllis about living in Red-state dysturbia, Susan about life, another Mike about his truffles and his road trip to visit Muslim and Hindu communities just to tick destinations off his life list and tick off everyone else . . . . Wonderful place, wonderful people, wonderful wine, wonderful food.

Though I did think about walking a block to buy a bottle instead of driving to another county.

A place for everything

I'd hardly give it a thought in Key West.

After all, I've found far stranger in my yard, on our little street, along Duval, at the beach. . . .

Dirty-slogan T-shirts draped over the fence, the odd hat next to the trash bin, various articles of apparel -- intimate and otherwise -- discarded in the heat of the moment (or the month, or a lifetime).

But this made me pull over: It's not every day you find a patent-leather spike, size 11, on little old Sanford Road.

Pineapple punch

Soon after we got to Tennessee in the spring, I noticed that the bronze wind chimes that our late friend Franny gave us in the early '80s had lost their clapper and wind-catcher.

Oh, they still made a rich clang in a really stiff wind -- and sounded like an explosion in a bell tower when I hit them inadvertently with the handle of the pool equipment -- but I missed them terribly, and couldn't find the clapper and catcher anywhere in the sweet bay garden where they've hung since we moved here.

The light bulb went on this week: A wooden ball with two screw eyes for the clapper (softer tone than the original metal disk) and, considering that it's hard to find bronze at the crafts store, a piece of sheet tin for the wind-catcher. I dug out the pattern I'd given Arnold for the pineapple cutouts around the Key West balcony, scrounged some tools from the workshop and . . . bingo!

I think I'll use weatherproof matte-black enamel on the new additions, so they don't outshine the amazing patina on the chime tubes, which we're taking with us when we migrate South.

Shark attack(ed)

And it's not even season yet. From the Crime Report on Page 2 of Thursday's Citizen:

"A man wearing a coconut bra, red skirt and black thong allegedly attacked another man, who was in a shark costume, in the 300 block of Duval Street.

"Police couldn't find the alleged assailant, despite the coconut-bra getup, reports say.

"Witnesses said the attacker . . .tackled the shark-costumed victim from behind, then ran through the Hard Rock Cafe and out the back entrance onto Rose Lane.

"The victim said he was merely walking down the street dressed as a shark when he was hit from behind and knocked down to his knees. He said he didn't get a good look at the suspect due to the limitations of his costume, but that he wanted to press charges. Both his knees were scraped, but he declined medical treatment, the report says.

"Three cruise ship employees allegedly walking with the suspect before the attack said they had just met and knew him only as 'Daniel.' They reportedly didn't know his last name or where he was from, but added that he had an English accent.

"The officer took photos of the victim's knees, gave him a case number, and sent out an alert to be on the lookout for the coconut-bra suspect."

Another direction

Just something to offset the symmetry of 09.09.09

I'm reminded of a confession Brendan Gill made about his education at The New Yorker.

Gill had been cultivating a "fancy" style, but editor Rogers Whitaker, "circling a long and elaborately balanced sentence of mine . . . had scribbled on the margin of the galley, 'If you tapped this sentence at one end, it would never stop rocking.' After that, I took care to be as little Gibbon- esque as possible."

Truth be told

At long last, someone with the cojos to provide perspective on those with such big mouths and such small minds:

Novotny: John, what about this controversy over opposition to Obama's speech to schoolchildren?

Harwood: I've got to tell you, Monica, I've been watching politics for a long time and this is -- this one is really over the top. What it shows you is there are a lot of cynical people who try to fan controversy -- and let's face it, in a country of 300 million people there are a lot of stupid people, too, because if you believe that's it's somehow unhealthy for kids for the President to say, "Work hard and stay in school," you're stupid.

Novotny: Ouch.

Harwood: In fact, I'm worried for some of those kids. I'm worried for some of those kids of those parents who are upset. I'm not sure they're smart enough to raise those kids. . . .

Old friends

These are my friends,

See how they glisten.

See this one shine,

How he smiles in the light,

My friends,
My faithful friends . . .

Speak to me, friend.
Whisper, I'll listen. . . .

Well, I've come home
To find you waiting!
Home,
And we're together . . .
And we'll do wonders . . .
Won't we. . . ?

Not the implements Sondheim had in mind, but if the pan fits. . . .

Scrambled, eh?

Great minds, almost on the same frequency:

As I walked into the kitchen to whip something up for supper, Robert looked up and said: "How about some scrambled eggs?"

I'd been thinking eggs, too -- but also the tomatoes and sweet pepper that Mom had grown and insisted I bring home, and a few other things I had rattling around in the fridge: some Vidalias near their dotage, some cheeses I'd grated for other meals, a little pepperoni. . . .

How about a quiche, I asked.

Robert shrugged: "Eh. It's still scrambled eggs."

Late bloomer

Perhaps I wasn't entirely fair the other day when I was so flat in saying the gardens had played out.

Robert was crafting a centerpiece for Saturday's little get-together -- Ben and Ken (and Toby), Ahmed and Greg, two of their friends from Atlanta, Jerry, Ward from Knoxville -- and came back from the cutting gardens just after dawn. . . .

With one of the most radiant dahlias I've ever seen.

Seeing double

I had a little periodontal work done Friday morning -- not the sort of thing I look forward to on my most optimistic days -- and some errands to run afterwards with half my face reminding me of what my stroke felt like.

So when I got home, and napped for a bit, and then was making myself some soup, I was still a little spacey from the drugs I need to calm the dread before and during, and to blur the pain after.

But not so much so that I knew the full moon in the lake out the kitchen window wasn't something Thomas de Quincey would have taken as a routine hallucination.

I swam through a little of ocean of maple syrup to grab my relatively new multi-megapixel camera, but it wasn't up to it: For all its tricks and skills, its software just doesn't understand "subtle." So I pulled out the trusty old low-rez Olympus, braced myself against the wrought iron at the edge of the veranda and again found La Luna singing with herself in liquid late-summer counterpoint.

- - - -

P.S. to Scheherazade: We have now reached 1,001 posts.

Fern berries

As usual, we started with one foxtail fern years ago, sitting upright in a pot and putting out . . . foxtails.

Divide and conquer.

And now there are a couple in the sweet bay garden, still in regular pots. But also one hanging on the Bradford pear by the courtyard (it has at least a 3-foot drape) and another hanging high over the bench at the north end of the shuffleboard court (at least 4 feet).

And watered right, fed right, shaded right, they're putting out fruit.

Who knew?

In memoriam, a mousse

I bought "The Silver Palate Cookbook" years before I met Sheila Lukins, one of the co-authors.

And that was almost 25 years ago, even before I had the chance to peek into the newspaper's test kitchen every day, to see (and taste!) what wonderful recipe was being tested before we published it.

Lukins died last weekend, but what a legacy she leaves behind: That book, written with Julee Rosso, is one of the top 10 best-selling cookbooks of all time. It deserves it -- though, truth be told, I mostly used it for advice on methods and combinations; I thought some of the recipes could be improved. To each, his own taste.

So, as refined and proved by the Holly Hill Test Kitchen, here's my take on her chocolate mousse -- which Robert has said (along with others) rivals the best he's had in France. It serves between 8 and 12, depending on your gluttony quotient. Eat it in good health.

1½ pounds (24 oz.) semisweet chocolate chips
½ c. espresso or very strong coffee
½ c. Grand Marnier or other flavoring *
½ tsp vanilla extract
4 egg yolks
8 egg whites plus a good pinch of salt
1 c. heaviest cream, chilled
¼ c. granulated sugar

Melt chocolate chips in a heavy double-boiler or a copper bowl set over medium-simmering water. Add espresso by dribs, and whisk to incorporate and re-smooth chocolate. Remove from heat, add vanilla and add flavoring by drabs, again whisking vigorously to re-smooth chocolate. Add egg yolks one by one, whisking each till smooth.

Beat egg whites and salt to soft peaks; in another bowl, whip cream and sugar to soft peaks. (You can do these steps, IN THIS ORDER, without cleaning the beaters; if you reverse the order, the fat in the cream left on the beaters will keep the egg whites from reaching their maximum volume.) With a rubber spatula, carefully fold egg whites and cream together. Do not overmix, because each mixing drives out some air, and this finished mousse is quite dense enough, thank you.

With your spatula, blend one-fourth of egg white/cream mixture into chocolate mixture to lighten it. Gently fold the two mixtures together completely. Again, do not overmix. You'll know when the mixing is complete when a good turn through the bottom of the bowl results in no dark-chocolate ribbons.

Pour/scrape the mousse into individual serving cups/bowls or into one large bowl for the table. Cover with airproof wrap and chill an hour or two until set. It'll hold for a day or so, refrigerated.

Serve by itself for a pure chocolate encounter, or garnish with whipped cream and/or fruit, or pass cream/fruit separately.

* You may also use Kahlua, Amaretto, Framboise, Frangelico, creme de menthe or any other chocolate-friendly liqueur. Non-alcoholic hazelnut syrup (Da Vinci Gourmet is a good brand) is also good, but cut the amount to a tablespoon or two, or to taste. Alternatively, try a few drops of tangerine essential oil and garnish with candied citrus peel.
----
For whipped cream to garnish:
1 c. heaviest cream, chilled
¼ c. granulated sugar
(up to 2 tbs liqueur to match mousse flavoring, optional)
Mix well, then whip into soft peaks. Chill bowl and beater for best results.

From a distance

. . . Everything looks fine. But take a closer look, and the little marigolds are end-of-season parched, and everything in the beds has gone gangly.

In the pots, either the underplantings have crowded the bananas, or the bananas' babies have crowded the underplantings; in either case, they're both sickly, and the soil is so packed with roots that it's hard to hold water.

Around the corner, the herbs are OK, but the tomatoes just look worn down. They've done their job, and they're tired.

It's September, after all, and these things have been doing yeoman work since the first of May. Hydrangeas may be named "Endless Summer," but reality trumps hyperbole with every dwindling day.

Just about time to clear the slate, thank the annuals as we toss 'em and let the rest take a long winter's nap.

Wrong number

The phone rang Monday afternoon, and the sweet, young female voice chirped, "Hello, is this . . . ?" It was, I said.

She gave her name and said, "I'm calling on behalf of the National Republican Senatorial Committee, and I'm so happy I got in touch with you today."

I explained, briefly and politely, why I was not as happy as she was that she'd gotten in touch with me.

Yes, she said, she'd take my name off their call list.