The parson of F-field no longer threw his oyster-shell into the street, ambitiously luxurious! but supped in his garden upon codlins and cream, or a bit of soft cheese and a cucumber. - Graves, The Spiritual Quixote (1773)


We're supping at home again, after a week of mostly dining out. You scarcely can glimpse the layer of shaved cucumber at the bottom of these salads in waiting. The soft cheese, garden-fresh basil, and tomatoes, on the other hand, are all representin'.

Perhaps I might the garden's glories sing,
The double roses of the Pæstan spring;
How endive drinks the rill, and how are seen
Moist banks with celery forever green;
How, twisted in the matted herbage, lies
The bellowing cucumber's enormous size...
-William Hamilton (1704-1754), The Corycian Swain (from Georgics IV, Line 116)


We lugged a bundle of celery to Bayfield and back-- eating only a few stalks either raw or in tuna salad. Unwilling to let the well-traveled celery get the best of me, I made it into a chilled soup. Read my pedantic harangue on the lovely recipe here (I'm squireallworthy in Madison, WI, USA, of course).

The pomegranate sorbet I've been dying to try-- just pomegranate juice and maple syrup-- was tasty but unseemly. The dish needs something to bind it together. Lemon juice (with its natural pectin) will probably do. A picture will have to wait until I make an updated batch... In the meantime, pomegrante juice will figure prominently in my new Viking-blender lifestyle: the smoothie at long last has returned to my daily fare.