There is a wonderful little known fruit that hails from the southeastern United States. Its appearance closely resembles that of an everyday grape, but its size resembles that of a ping-pong ball. One might think that this fruit is the product of a mad scientist’s crossbreeding experiment, but in all truth, the Muscadine is it’s own genus.
The Muscadine (vitis rotundifolia) has been cultivated since the 16th Century, and used in wines, jams, and juices. These wonderful fruits’ colors range from a deep-set bronze to a dark, almost black shade. The bronze Muscadine are hilariously called “Scuppernongs”, and do not have as sweet as a palate as the dark purple ones.
The taste of the Muscadine can quite possibly be summed up as everything you ever wanted in a grape, but more. The Muscadine has a rich and full-bodied palate, enclosed in a crisp, fibrous skin that is tart to the taste. The Muscadine’s “pulp” tastes like an intense winemaking grape with a somewhat “wild” and “gamey” flavour. The scent is quite overpowering if one does not care for the scent of grapes. But if grapes are you’re kind of fruit, then a Muscadine may just be the fruit that you have been longing to try.
My first experience with the Muscadine brought me back to my childhood when I would hunt for wild grapes in the nearby forest in northern Illinois. Granted, coming upon ripe, tasty grapes was always heavily dependant upon whether the deer had gotten to them first, but once in a while I had struck gold. But unlike the wild grapes of my childhood, Muscadines are larger, tastier, and much more fun to eat. With only two-to- four seeds in every Muscadine, eating them is neither messy nor time-consuming; in fact, spitting them out is half the fun! The next time you find Muscadines in your grocer’s produce section, don’t be afraid to give them a chance. After all, they may just be exactly what you were looking for.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Sunday, September 16, 2007
A Personal Thought
(Appeared In My Kind of Alaska, issue 2, vol. 1, spring/summer)
I am not being bourgeious.
I am not fantassizing.
I am not being facetious.
I am spilling the beans, firing the horn. I am going to hope that there is some sort of therapeutic onslaught that will become of all of this...of bearing my private emotions. but there is always the fear that too much is said. That too much will be misread, misinterepreted, misunderstood. But that is not too far from the daily fatigue that I try to explain to people...no, that is a lie. I don't say much to anyone about these troublinig enigmas.
I don't want to being anyone down with me. Besides, I do not believe that anyone is sincere enough to sink 600 leagues with me.
That is why I am so alone.
He's gone. My best friend. My commrade. My confidante. The only person besides my mother, that I can trust. He is on his way to Oregon to find a better life for himself...and perhaps to pick some berries on his trek. I can honestly say that it wass fantastic having someone so close, so caring as he. He was so good to me, and one of the greatest friendships that had ever happened to me andone of the greatest people that had ever come into my life.
And like that, he was gone.
Our last few days together were calm and fruitful. He was probably wondering how I maintained so kept together and lacked sorrow during our last days together. What he didnt know and what I will never tell him, is that I cried my eyes out the week before, when I was up in Chicago ( I have been going up North more frequently for the desolation of Carbondale hass made me more unstable that usual). I sobbed when I woke up in the morning, I cried in my afternoon cup of tea, and I whimpered my way into my dreams at night.
"Que te pasa,nina?" my mother would ask. I mumbled, choking on tears and mucus, that Joey was moving to te West coast. Upon hearing this, she thought that I had lost my poor mind, and that I had been crying for an unreasonable reason.
"He is not dying. He is not moving to Russia. You're so silly" was her reply. "Besides," she continued, "if you love him so much, then why aren't you WITH him?'
This statement hit harder than a falling piano from the cartoons. I did not know what to say, besides the fact that I could not picture him playing the role of my significant other...a love interest.
My only explanation to that is that he is so much more that what a significant other can be. But, I did come up with a reasonable solution: If in a few years neither of us are completely satisfied with our lives, and we are not in a loving relationship with someone, we should become life partners. Fantastic best friends who will spend time indefinite with eachother laughing, drinking, eating, enjoying life...enjoying each other.
And I would like that very much.
Oh, I miss you.
I cannot stop the teardrops from falling. I hate having perma-red eyeballs. I hate sitting in a bed of tissue roses. I hate not having you here with me. That is why I cannot stay here any lonoger. I dont have anyone important in my life. No love, no companionship.
I have never felt so alone.
I am not being bourgeious.
I am not fantassizing.
I am not being facetious.
I am spilling the beans, firing the horn. I am going to hope that there is some sort of therapeutic onslaught that will become of all of this...of bearing my private emotions. but there is always the fear that too much is said. That too much will be misread, misinterepreted, misunderstood. But that is not too far from the daily fatigue that I try to explain to people...no, that is a lie. I don't say much to anyone about these troublinig enigmas.
I don't want to being anyone down with me. Besides, I do not believe that anyone is sincere enough to sink 600 leagues with me.
That is why I am so alone.
He's gone. My best friend. My commrade. My confidante. The only person besides my mother, that I can trust. He is on his way to Oregon to find a better life for himself...and perhaps to pick some berries on his trek. I can honestly say that it wass fantastic having someone so close, so caring as he. He was so good to me, and one of the greatest friendships that had ever happened to me andone of the greatest people that had ever come into my life.
And like that, he was gone.
Our last few days together were calm and fruitful. He was probably wondering how I maintained so kept together and lacked sorrow during our last days together. What he didnt know and what I will never tell him, is that I cried my eyes out the week before, when I was up in Chicago ( I have been going up North more frequently for the desolation of Carbondale hass made me more unstable that usual). I sobbed when I woke up in the morning, I cried in my afternoon cup of tea, and I whimpered my way into my dreams at night.
"Que te pasa,nina?" my mother would ask. I mumbled, choking on tears and mucus, that Joey was moving to te West coast. Upon hearing this, she thought that I had lost my poor mind, and that I had been crying for an unreasonable reason.
"He is not dying. He is not moving to Russia. You're so silly" was her reply. "Besides," she continued, "if you love him so much, then why aren't you WITH him?'
This statement hit harder than a falling piano from the cartoons. I did not know what to say, besides the fact that I could not picture him playing the role of my significant other...a love interest.
My only explanation to that is that he is so much more that what a significant other can be. But, I did come up with a reasonable solution: If in a few years neither of us are completely satisfied with our lives, and we are not in a loving relationship with someone, we should become life partners. Fantastic best friends who will spend time indefinite with eachother laughing, drinking, eating, enjoying life...enjoying each other.
And I would like that very much.
Oh, I miss you.
I cannot stop the teardrops from falling. I hate having perma-red eyeballs. I hate sitting in a bed of tissue roses. I hate not having you here with me. That is why I cannot stay here any lonoger. I dont have anyone important in my life. No love, no companionship.
I have never felt so alone.
Welcome Home Stranger: A New Life in Kentucky
It was a place all too new and unfamiliar to me, yet the sheer beauty of the greenery and the rolling hills made this region called south central Kentucky a place that I could call “home”. The landscape was identical to a scape that I had eyed in a picture book; the serene setting seemed to have manifested itself here. The bluff lines, in particular, reminded me of the many years that I had spent venturing the Shawnee National Forest in Southern Illinois. Carbondale is where I had called home for the past seven years and where I thought I had left my heart.
I had grown up in the North shore of Chicago, and my adulthood was cultivated in Southern Illinois, as I attended the University there. Now it seems that in my adult years, I only wish to navigate toward southern cities. With my relocation to Bowling Green, I seem to fully enjoy the Southern custom of daily life. For example, there is not a need to rush. Taking time to enjoy the scenery, to stop and make conversation with folks, to sit out on the porch and enjoy the season, has become a wonderful routine that I had never fully taken advantage of. The hustle and bustle of any city can squeeze out almost any trace of tranquility and serenity from one’s system. The phrase to “stop and smell the roses” has never made any more sense. The folks here (Kentuckians, as I have learned) are quite cordial and have even helped out with a substantial amount of driving directions and business recommendations. As I took in all of the natural beauty of Kentucky and it’s people, the only quandary that arose in my mind was, “where is the nearest grocery store?”
Food has always been the center of my universe and quite possibly the highlight of my everyday life. Therefore, finding a place where I could nosh on good eats at any hour of the day and a reliable grocery store which carried fresh (organic and/or local) vegetables and meats was my only dilemma. So far, my shopping experience has not been entirely fulfilling. I had visited several grocery stores in the area, but had not found anything that was compared to any of the stores that I had shopped at prior to moving to Bowling Green. A farmer’s market (one of my most favorite places), a local butcher shop, and a wonderful International grocery store have paved a semi-traversable path in my hunt for groceries. This in turn, has kept morale up, and I am once again a happy camper. The other side of the coin is that Bowling Green is said to have a wonderful assortment of eateries, and I believe that I have concurred with this statement, for my tummy has not been disappointed since I have taken my first bite in Bowling Green and my pants feel a tad tighter.
On the silver screen, it seems as though southern towns are portrayed as always throwing some sort of fair to celebrate country-time goodness. Indeed, fairs are a wonderful place to indulge in rides, artery-clogging sweets, and blue ribbon winners. With this mind, I am anxious to attend one of the many festivals and fairs Kentucky has to offer. What other way to experience wholesome fun in the Comomonwealth? So with a bigger waistline and my grandmother’s prize winning banana cream pie, Kentucky, thank you for the warm welcome.
I had grown up in the North shore of Chicago, and my adulthood was cultivated in Southern Illinois, as I attended the University there. Now it seems that in my adult years, I only wish to navigate toward southern cities. With my relocation to Bowling Green, I seem to fully enjoy the Southern custom of daily life. For example, there is not a need to rush. Taking time to enjoy the scenery, to stop and make conversation with folks, to sit out on the porch and enjoy the season, has become a wonderful routine that I had never fully taken advantage of. The hustle and bustle of any city can squeeze out almost any trace of tranquility and serenity from one’s system. The phrase to “stop and smell the roses” has never made any more sense. The folks here (Kentuckians, as I have learned) are quite cordial and have even helped out with a substantial amount of driving directions and business recommendations. As I took in all of the natural beauty of Kentucky and it’s people, the only quandary that arose in my mind was, “where is the nearest grocery store?”
Food has always been the center of my universe and quite possibly the highlight of my everyday life. Therefore, finding a place where I could nosh on good eats at any hour of the day and a reliable grocery store which carried fresh (organic and/or local) vegetables and meats was my only dilemma. So far, my shopping experience has not been entirely fulfilling. I had visited several grocery stores in the area, but had not found anything that was compared to any of the stores that I had shopped at prior to moving to Bowling Green. A farmer’s market (one of my most favorite places), a local butcher shop, and a wonderful International grocery store have paved a semi-traversable path in my hunt for groceries. This in turn, has kept morale up, and I am once again a happy camper. The other side of the coin is that Bowling Green is said to have a wonderful assortment of eateries, and I believe that I have concurred with this statement, for my tummy has not been disappointed since I have taken my first bite in Bowling Green and my pants feel a tad tighter.
On the silver screen, it seems as though southern towns are portrayed as always throwing some sort of fair to celebrate country-time goodness. Indeed, fairs are a wonderful place to indulge in rides, artery-clogging sweets, and blue ribbon winners. With this mind, I am anxious to attend one of the many festivals and fairs Kentucky has to offer. What other way to experience wholesome fun in the Comomonwealth? So with a bigger waistline and my grandmother’s prize winning banana cream pie, Kentucky, thank you for the warm welcome.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
