This morning the black beans that soaked all night were ready for slow cooking with onions, garlic, and spices. They'll cook all day. We'll eat them tomorrow--always better the next day.
I walked down to Lincoln Road, then to the Epicure for tea, where I met M. who is hoping to start a new business importing fish from the Bahamas. He was eating toast and jam and told me he loved toast. So do I.
From the Epicure I walked south to Sobe Thrifty, rummaged around and spent a little money--very little. J. picked me up. We went to lunch at Las Olas at 6th and Euclid. Five dollars for the two of us: tamales with hot sauce, platanos, rice and beans. We ate outside and watched the passing scene. Cab drivers stop to eat at Las Olas.
Do you know about these Spanish names for food: medianoche, medialuna, ropa vieja, quimbobo, moros y christianos? I'm learning them. Quimbobo, is okra; the word quimbobo must have African origins. Shredded beef is ropa vieja, old clothes.
Then to our allotment at the community garden. I came home with parsley and cilantro. This weekend the mesclun will be ready to pick.
We checked out books and films on dvd from the Miami Beach Library. Back home now, I look through The Sense of Place: The Artist and the American Land. The book opens to page 41, Marsden Hartley, "Smelt Brook Falls," and his poem, "Waterfall," which begins, "From the breast of the tired horizon/ this milk of vague, deserted mornings . . . " I'm looking for paintings of Florida. Here's one by John Button, "Everglades." An utterly simple, utterly flat landscape: swamp and sky.
