I have always looked at what is growing at my feet to know where and when I am in the world. And then I have tried to eat it.
In New York, a city more famous for its concrete and culture than for its plants, I see green. I find wild violets and edible knotweed shoots in Central Park’s Ramble in April and notice the English roses on a Brooklyn fence in May as a cab rushes by. I take note of rhubarb and ramps arriving at farmers’ markets. In June I pick ripe serviceberries beside the Hudson and East rivers. On the street I photograph cherry tomatoes hanging from a fire escape in August. I water my own heirloom tomatoes on the roof of our apartment. I pick meadow mushrooms and eat them on toast in September, and in October there are maitake in Green-Wood Cemetery.
For me, New York City is an unfolding, edible calendar.
This fabled place is one whose contradictions of wealth and poverty, ostentation and decay, visible congestion and personal isolation, lure of success and specter of failure, conspire to chew a person up and spit her out if a way is not found to make peace with them.
Our tiny urban lullwater, a very small terrace fringed with green above the never-resting street, is where I am able to press pause and shut out the noise.
I was born very far from New York in a small city called Bloemfontein in a kidney-shaped province called the Free State in the middle of South Africa. Bloemfontein means flower fountain. I grew up in a high-walled garden in placid suburbia in a city dotted with low, grassy hills called koppies.
In Bloemfontein I was given a narrow strip of earth behind the house, beside the enclosures and cages where my brothers kept songbirds, quails, and ducks, and where we shared guinea pigs and rabbits. I sowed my first seeds there—radishes. I planted muscari, sweet peas, and ixias. My mother’s herb and vegetable gardens grew nearby and later expanded to an acquired piece of land next door, where she made a terraced vegetable garden. Fruit grew all over the garden: plums, apricots, peaches, figs, gooseberries, and youngberries. Picking fresh chervil or a ripe plum, collecting green beans or a bunch of flowers, was a way of life, and exciting. Food and flowers were living things, from real places and plants.
My childhood birthday in October coincided with the first blooming of the roses in my mother’s rose garden, and I still associate that day with the image of a perfectly round and delicate pink glass vase of roses on my birthday table, filled with fragrant blooms—Peace, Pappa Meilland, Double Delight—surrounded by frosted cupcakes, wobbling jellies, and plates of cookies, baked for a sit-down birthday feast.
I grew up with good food. My mother is still the best cook I know, and she makes each meal a gastronomic experience. I remember her teaching me to stir béchamel in that kitchen, for cheese sauce to pour over cauliflower or broccoli, and how I was allowed to lick the saucy wooden spoon where pepper and salt had accumulated near the handle. I made the gravy for our every-other-Sunday roast—beef, lamb, or pork—stirring up the pan juices, adding wine and cream, and a brown powder from a box called Bisto (it was later banished). On the Sundays in between we braaied (barbecued), my father turning lamb chops and boerewors (sausages) over the coals beside the swimming pool.
When I was twelve, my father decided he’d outgrown his professional legal environment, and our family moved to Cape Town so he could pursue his career at the Cape Town Bar. For my mother, this was a return, at last, to the city where she had spent a happy childhood, playing under pine trees and pretending to be Christopher Robin. In Cape Town, a foreign and dramatic landscape replaced the grasslands and hills and corn fields of the Free State. Mountains serrated with vineyards and covered in indigenous fynbos loomed above strings of gleaming white and rocky beaches.
As a fourteen-year-old in Cape Town, in a new garden with no walls and a spectacular view of Table Mountain’s green eastern flank, I laid out my mother’s first formal herb garden and I began to immerse myself in books about edible plants, herbs, and wildflowers.
The first serious cooking I attempted was in Cape Town, when I was fourteen. My mother had caught chicken pox from me and was very ill. From her bed, for two weeks, she dictated the evening meals to me. It was a crash course in good cooking. The first dish I ever cooked was braised short ribs with juniper berries and bay leaves. The next was roast chicken.
Every September, until I left South Africa, we held a big garden party called the Spring Breakfast. My mother, assisted by Tipsy Titoti, our wonderful housekeeper, would cook for days to stock a massive buffet table with potted prawns, terrines and pâtés with homemade bread, several soups, poached salmon trout, mounds of asparagus spears, fluffy savory cheesecakes, a huge pot of lamb-with-a-spoon, cooked for a day, chocolate tarts, and heaps of strawberries. I contributed desserts and superfluous handmade chocolate truffles and made-from-scratch puff pastry pigs’ ears. Orange juice and sparkling wine flowed in a river of Buck’s Fizz, and pink umbrellas dotted the garden like giant flowers, in among the blossoming crab apples, jewel-like vygies, and indigenous blooming bulbs, all wrapped in the heavy scent of jasmine growing on the fence.
As the spindly young plane tree in the fledgling garden grew, ambitious weekend meals were eaten in its shade. Trestle tables and stray chairs were pulled together and friends stayed for long, bibulous lunches. Cats and dogs stretched out nearby. Recently a deck was built beneath the huge tree to accommodate over a dozen for a meal of many courses beneath the rustling canopy of ventilated shade in the hottest of summers in that beautiful garden.
I had caught the cooking bug hard, thanks to my mother’s chicken pox, and began cooking my way methodically through her kitchen library, starting innocently enough with hardcore French technique cookbooks bought on overseas trips during which my parents ate at restaurants bristling with Michelin stars: the brothers Roux and Troisgros, Roger Vergé, Paul Bocuse, Raymond and Georges Blanc, Nico Ladenis, Marco Pierre White. I made terrines and mousses and soufflés and tarts and consommés and puff pastries and reductions and served forth eight-course dinner parties, whirling around the kitchen like a fiend, the unflappable Tipsy as my sous chef and stager.
My mother’s great teacher, also from books, had been Elizabeth David, the English author who brought the light of French provincial cooking to the boil-everything British. And so I read her, too, and still do. My mother gave me David’s first cookbook, which my father had given to her and in which he inscribed: Not for instruction, but for inspiration. And hers is the sort of food we ate most often at home, and which probably still informs my cooking at an unconscious level. Reading Elizabeth David’s work is an immersive experience—and enormously pleasurable—and influences my approach to cooking the food from any country, as I take a deep breath and allow the cultural waters to close over my head, in order to capture the thing that makes that food what it is, and to speak with its accent.
These cooks, and the others that followed, taught me—and I did not realize it at the time—not only how to cook, but how to think about living. In the introductions to their books the chefs spoke memorably, longingly, of eating locally grown fresh produce long before it became an activist fashion and legitimate cause of the early twenty-first century. My mother’s edible gardens and Tipsy’s wild plant grazing reinforced their philosophy. Kitchens, gardens, plants, and pleasure were intimately connected.
I left South Africa to pursue a career in opera and lived up and down the East Coast, from DC to New Haven, working briefly in Germany, before gravitating naturally to New York. A bad bout of whooping cough at a vulnerable emotional point in my life and a delicate stage of my singing career prompted me to throw in the towel, and I set my sights on gardens again. I became a rooftop garden designer and returned to plants, my first love, learning about local conditions as I went.
When I moved to my tiny apartment with an attached terrace it was the first time in my New York life that I was able to keep my plants on something larger than a windowsill. It was thrilling.
It also meant I could now cook over charcoal outside, essential for any South African to whom braaing is second to breathing. I could eat a sunlit breakfast or dinner beneath the New York stars and high winking plane lights. At night I could sleep while enjoying the breeze that flowed in from the wide-open door that led to the enclosed and private little garden. I became intimately acquainted with the changeable city skies. The New York sky is beautiful. From above the tiny rectangle open to the weather rain falls, snow floats down, the sun blazes, clouds loom and diminish. The terrace faces east and I still greet the rising of the sun over this most storied of cities with a lump in my throat.
I started a blog to share the life of the terrace. I was writing long emails home to my mother, often about my little garden, or about what I was cooking, and I had just bought my first digital camera. I was realizing that the process of documenting the smallnesses of botanical and domestic life was as absorbing and exciting to me as capturing the bigger New York picture.
I called the blog 66 Square Feet, after measuring the length and width of my terrace carefully. As a designer of rooftop gardens within a high-end Manhattan real estate scene, I knew that square feet dominated city conversation. And that my square feet were laughable. The subtitle—New York, One Woman, One Terrace, 12 Seasons—was my ambiguous battle cry: Bring it on, I have a terrace! This new act of daily publishing connected me instantly to a larger world, and showed my small world to that large one. The sense of connection was like being plugged into something, and a light came on.
My inaugural blog post was about a party I threw for the May terrace roses, which were in heavy bloom. Friends came and drank Bellinis and ate little crustless sandwiches. They could not all fit on the terrace at once and had to revolve in and out. Writing about the garden and posting its pictures was a way of inviting more people in, and of sharing my great delight in small things with readers who seemed to take equal pleasure in them. I began to feel happier than I had for many years. Here I felt that I was able to live large, with little.
In my grown-up life in Brooklyn, with a 66-square-foot terrace, the grand scale of childhood has been telescoped to the bare minimum. Despite its constraints, this space has managed to be both a refuge from the teeming energy of the city and a source of inspiration and ingredients for my daily domestic life. A garden and a kitchen—regardless of scale—are my necessities.
The act of cooking has satisfied the hedonist in me; it is an act that gives pleasure. But it has also provided direction, occupation, and a sense of achievement when my life has been unhappy, method when structure has been needed. It has been a practical form of escapism, masking my tendency to withdraw. It has consummated celebrations in happy times and has always been a reward to look forward to at the end of a day. Cooking now is less about following recipes than about imagination, memory, desire, and inspiration; the latter often grows on the terrace outside, on the roof above my head, or is brought back from the day’s market or a foraging trip. In one dish I try to create a small pocket of perfection, an unassailable space in time when giving and taking pleasure in the present is the only goal.
Even if it is just melted cheese on toast.
While much of the food in this book is presented in menu form, be assured that we do not sit down to eat four or five courses every night. Any recipe can be taken from its context and enjoyed in its own right. At home in Brooklyn a typical meal for us includes a salad, a main dish, and wine, and I usually eat fruit afterwards, a habit learned from my father, who always chooses the least promising specimen first—one with a bruise, perhaps, because he knows no one else will eat it—and peels it carefully with a very sharp pocketknife.
The menus here are celebrations of a season, a month, an ingredient. Many of the recipes are old favorites—dishes to which I return again and again. Menus and dinner parties also speak to the lost charm of the shared table. I believe strongly in sitting down at a table to eat, even if the table is a cloth spread on the floor. It forces us to be still, to listen, to look into someone’s eyes, to see them, to share something good, something in common.
These meals were cooked in a very small kitchen.
Our kitchen’s length, if I may use that ambitious word, is ten feet. Between the sink and the stove is a short counter, eighteen inches long and just as deep, where I keep a large chopping board. That is essentially my work surface. Behind the chopping board live my four staples: salt, sugar, pepper, and extra-virgin olive oil. My one kitchen appliance is beside them—a blender. There is a small storage cupboard above the stove in which I keep a spice collection that allows me to summon up with ease the food of the cultures and countries I love. I keep other essentials there: unscented oils, cans of good tuna, coconut milk, tomato paste, bottles of honey and homemade jams and anchovies, boxes of cocoa and crackers and pasta and dried fruit, and a small basket of garlic, potatoes, and shallots. And cat treats. On the tiny piece of counter at the far end of the kitchen are the infused alcohols, the day’s loaf of fresh bread, my knives. The cupboards below hold a collection of pots. And there is a tiny dishwasher.
The fridge is permanently stocked with tamarind paste, fish sauce, and lemongrass. Southeast Asia in the house. Then there are soy, tahini, at least two vinegars, mustard, capers, cornichons, eggs, butter, cheese, and nonfat milk. There are always lemons. Running out of sour citrus makes me tremble with nervousness. A small supply of vegetables and fruit lives in the lower reaches, along with bottles of homemade pickles and relishes and syrups.
Finally, there is the living and variable larder on the terrace and roof farm. Depending on the season, the herbs I am able to use daily include thyme, rosemary, marjoram, sage, tarragon, chives, mint, parsley, basil, fennel, cilantro, summer savory, and shiso. There are strawberries from May until November, a brief week of blueberries, white currants, and black raspberries, and late summer figs. The roof produces wonderful summer tomatoes as well as cucumbers, peppers, and eggplants. There are salad leaves in the cooler seasons and parsnips in winter.
While I sometimes dream of an airy place to cook, with tall windows and a long solid kitchen table around which I can gather friends and hungry strays, I know that I am lucky to have a tiny garden, an enterprising spirit, and access to the world’s most diverse markets to help satisfy my hunger for beautiful food and thoughtful meals.
If a picnic is packed properly it can transport you quite efficiently, for a few hours, to a vacation within spitting distance of home. A good picnic is a state of mind.
I have only one rule: ACCEPT NO PLASTIC. It is unspecial. The sound of a fork against plastic is a dull, depressing thunk.
Pack real glasses. They may be cheap, but they must be glass. Size doesn’t matter. You can refill them as much as you like.
You need a tablecloth, for the grass, or bench, and something else to sit on.
Cloth napkins (you can roll the glasses and flatware in them).
Real knives and forks.
A small and very sharp cutting knife. I love Opinel. Vince loves Victorinox.
A small cutting board for cutting bread and cheese, and for balancing small dishes of things.
Pretty plates. I use pressed tin plates I found at The Metropolitan Museum of Art Store. Sidewalk sales, Chinatown, and camping supply stores offer wonderful enameled tin plates and bowls.
Cold wine or drinks. Find and buy a freezer sleeve that hugs your bottle.
Mason jars for patés, butter, salad dressings, and salt and pepper.
Thermos flasks or old wine bottles for transporting soup, to be sipped from glasses.
