Dusting

No, I'm not talking about cleaning. Me? Dusting? Don't be silly. On Friday, I was driving at an ungodly hour to pick up my client, coasting up 580. Lo and behold I glance over at the landscape before me and to the left is Mt Tam dusted with snow! This truly is an occasion to be marked. It doesn't happen all that often, visible snow in the Bay Area. It lighted my heart to see that mountain top looking like a pointy cupcake heavily dusted for confectioner's sugar.

Inspired by the of snow at high elevations, another blog, and well, just what I see every day I took to outdoors and took some photos.

One of the charms of living in the Bay Area is all the citrus trees, trees in backyards their branches reaching over fences daring you to pluck the fruit, dreaming of the juices running down your chin.


I love roses at the early stages, like this one. The contrast of colours always strikes me. The sense of breaking free from the safe womb of the sepal leaves. This one looks like a burlesque dancer dropping her sheaths, one at a time, offering glimpses of what lies beneath.

This is our dropping plum tree in early bloom. Actually all of these photos were taken in our fruit yard, which is planted with a lovely assortment of botanical beauty, thanks to Rebecca who owns this house. Somehow last spring we entirely missed the plum harvest. Shameful, I realize. It won't happen again, I assure you. Feel free to call me on this promise in about, um, two months to remind me. I'm afraid last year was the bountiful year and this year will be a palty showing. I don't actually know if plum trees run in this type of cycle but the apple tree in Brooklyn that I grew up with did. Our apple tree produced very tart green apples which my stepmother turned into the most wonderful pies. These apple were definitely cooking apples, straight off the tree they were extremely tart but had a nice crispness. When we had a large harvest Fran would became a one woman apple pie factory and the freezer would be stocked. Every so often, usually when company was over, one, or if we were lucky two would emerge from their frosty home, the oven warmed and soon the aroma of a hot summer day would waft through the palour floor of the house. Sometimes it would be served with a scoop of Breyers vanilla ice cream, which when it melted would create a creamy river speckled with cinnamon. A few years ago the tree had lived it's full life, produced bushels of apples over many years, began to wither and was carefully removed by an arborist. Now great amounts of light fill the back end of the yard, offering a better view of the neighbor's yard space, not as lovely a sight. I miss the flavor of those pies - sweet, a biting tartness, cinnamon, a buttery crust and that unmistakeable scent of youth.