Friday Flora Memorious Orchid Edition

Friday’s Flora is a striking hybrid orchid, Sophrolaeliacattleya “Red Berry.”  According to the tag in my Mom’s neat script, it cost $35 at Santa Barbara Orchid Estates on October 2nd, 2010.

If you look back through this blog far enough, a line you’ll see pretty often in the first few years is “My mom’s garden is better than yours.” (Here's some examples)  For a very long time, that was definitely true.  Now, I can’t say that so absolutely.

My mom’s garden reflected the passion of more than a single lifetime.  She was the granddaughter of a horticulturalist who literally wrote the book on citrus in California (and had the linguistic distinction of introducing the word clone into the language).  She was the daughter two botanists, one of whom was head of the California citrus research station, and the other a PhD who also wrote and illustrated children’s science books.  For a long time, when my brothers and I were the sort of kids who could carelessly wreck a garden, I’d say that my Grandmother’s garden was better than yours—a canyon slope in the Berkeley hills, with a majestic live oak and a wondrous array of natives and exotics growing in its shade.  The porch was lined with Epiphyllum and other cacti in pots.

Although she was not a professional botanist, her background was such that my mom could not help but be knowledgeable about plants.  Living in coastal Los Angeles, she had a brilliant climate in which to indulge in plant collecting as a hobby.  So, while I remember a garden that had plenty of “mundane” plants such as roses and a fair amount of lawn, I also remember as a lad spending Sundays going shopping:  to Lohman’s Cactus Patch and Grigsby Cactus Gardens and Abbey Gardens (all closed, alas) or to the sale days at Huntington Gardens to find a new Rebutia or Lobivia or something really odd like Lophophoria or Oberegonia.  Her interest would meander—for a while, it was cacti that would be happy in a pot and produce a nice flower; then, perhaps, Asclepiads, relatives of milkweed that produce flowers that smell like dead meat; then, Aloes.  And so the garden ended up having patches—a mass of one type of succulent here, a whole mess of another type of succulent over there.  Eventually, my grandmother’s Epiphyllums found a home in her garden.

This pattern continued all her life—and the mundane plants, the lawn, the ground-covering ivy all got squeezed out and replaced with a class that would seize her attention for several years.  Sometimes her choices were guided by travel.  A Lapageria lily and a Palo Barroche were sentimental reminders of postdoctoral years in South America.  A sabbatical year in Australia kindled a passion for Banksias and Grevillias.  A trip to South Africa sparked a consuming interest in Cape bulbs and Aloes, which came to occupy a large area.

Although though new interests would be kindled, old flames would never be forgot.  A few plants died out; some were just too fussy to be bothered with, or if they grew boring they would be exiled to the nether reaches of the garden.  There, some might get buried in leaves, while the near-ideal climate of coastal SoCal would let others thrive in neglect.  It’s also worth noting that my mom not only grew so many plants, but painted them.  So, while the Ceropegia tribe may have moved from the center of her attention, the dining room of her house still has a beautiful painting that she made of them.

Even though her location was about as good as possible for growing a wide variety of plants outdoors, her garden was by no means a low-maintenance affair.  Some plants did well let alone, but others required precise watering schedules or other maintenance.  In addition to the bookshelves full of botany books, there were lots of notes on the provenance and maintenance of every plant.  Keeping the garden going was most what she did in retirement, and the garden kept her going.

So, there is that orchid.  My mom had always had orchids, mostly Cymbidium varieties.  However, the last genre that took over her attention was small orchids.  I remember her describing trips to Santa Barbara Orchid Estates starting in the 2000’s, and went along with her for a couple when I was in the area. (True story—when we were checking out, the proprietor saw the name on my dad’s credit card and asked if he was related to David Appleman.  It turns out that my grandfather taught the man botany at UCLA.  When my dad noted that I was David Appleman’s grandson, he was amazed—“no way.  He was only that tall!” He said, pointing at my sternum.)  Trips to “SBOE” grew less frequent as my dad’s descent in to dementia accelerated.  This orchid was bought in 2010, so it would have to have been a trip where one of my brothers or I took her along.  I don’t know the date of her last plant-buying trip; I think there may have been only one after my dad was bedridden, in 2011.

Mom was able to keep up things in the garden for a while, no longer expanding or diversifying, but at least holding decay at bay.  Her own health started failing, the first hints of dementia and frailty showing up about seven or eight years ago.  Bits of the garden started getting somewhat less taken care of, with some weeds starting to crop up.  The bit of the garden that was on the slope of the canyon, down a rickety stairway and out of sight of the house, became neglected.  A balcony perched on the edge of the canyon started tilting down the slope.  It was festooned with bromeliads and vining Ceropegia and Hoya succulents, which mostly did well despite a lack of tending.  The Cape bulbs—Freesia species and so on—did fine, because bulbs are hard to eradicate once they’re settled; but a couple of years of drought did damage some of them.

The one constant chore in all the garden was picking leaves.  There were established trees—Avocado, Gingko, Liquidambar—that were always dropping leaves, and they always needed to be picked out of this densely populated garden.  My mom kept at is as long as she could.  As dementia and frailty worsened, it was all she could do to get a bucket and toddle out, with a home-care nurse alongside, and fill the bucket with leaves pulled one by one out of a thicket of aloes or orchids.  The nurse was always surprised by her endurance and drive to do it, but my brothers and I were not.  But she pretty much stopped doing even that early last year, as health and mind failed.

Starting last year, every time I or one of my brothers went to visit, we’d take away as many plants as we could find room for.  I’ve given homes to such orchids have survived, and a handful of other plants: we can grow some indoors, but Roseburg is not as hospitable to delicate flora as Pacific Palisades.  Still, I cherish what I can.

My mom died earlier this year, in February, not a great time of year for gardens, but it was still possible to find some flowers to put in her room.  My brothers and I reconvened in the spring, and remembered her by taking a trip out to Anza-Borrego State Park, where years ago we had followed her on quests for Elephant Trees and unusual hybrid cholla cacti.  We managed to catch the tail end of a “superbloom,” which was wonderful.  And, of course, we found a good, if diminished, supply of interesting flowers in my mom’s garden.  Which, in my memory, will always be better than yours.

Tuesday Tool caseous microtome edition

I think the tool today is...

The cheese plane.

Six months ago, after milking the goaties, I took the twelve liters of milk into the kitchen and got it to about 30 degrees C.  I inoculated it with a mixture of mesophilic bacteria--some specialized in fermenting lactose to short-chain fatty acids (SCFAs), some specialized in fermenting lactose into SCFAs but also some interesting ketones and aldehydes and whatnot.  After letting them do their thing for an hour, I added some coagulant--a protease from a fungus that has the same specificity as the major component of rennet.  Over the course of about an hour, the combination of acid and coagulant curdled the milk.

I cut the curd up into chunks about a centimeter on a side, and slowly warmed the curds and whey up to 39C.  After about an hour, I removed half of the whey and replaced it with cool water, bringing the temperature down to the mid-20's and removing much of the lactose from the mix.  A half hour later, I removed all the whey and put the curds into a form, and pressed them with ever-increasing pressure for about ten hours.  The curds mostly stuck together, but preserved some of their individuality.

I removed the nascent cheese from form the next day, and immersed it in a saturated brine solution, and let it sit there for twelve hours.  As far as salt is concerned, cheese is a liquid, and it dissolved into the cheese.

Then, I let the cheese dry out for a bit, and then put it into a wine 'fridge in my basement, set to about 12 C.  And there it sat; I'd turn it every so often, and brush off the mold.  The exterior turned a golden yellow color, and turned hard and tough and horny.  The interior lost some moisture, becoming quite firm.  The curds, having been "washed," did not stick together as completely as they might in other cheese processes, leaving a few gaps or "mechanical spaces" in the cheesemaker's parlance. As it aged, organic compounds in the cheese became further oxidized and recombined; though the bacteria were mostly dead, their enzymes lived after them and continued their work.

Today, I dug the cheese out of the basement, brushed off a bit of mould, halved the 2 kg wheel with a cleaver, and then cut one of the halves in half.  I shaved off a bit with the cleaver and tasted it--it was very, very good.  The taste had elements of a tangy cheddar, elements of Parmesan, a little carmelized sweetness, a pleasant salty buttery-ness, and a firm texture.  What one should do with such a cheese is serve it after a nice dinner with some fino sherry, some membrillo or raisins and almonds...and cut it with a cheese plane.

Tomorrow I will go out and thank the goaties for their miraculous ability to eat spring grass and alfalfa hay and water and turn it into such amazing milk.

Monday Musical Offering Not Instant Dislike Edition

I am always glad to discover music with which I was unfamiliar, and that gives me new pleasure.  Last week's new thing was not disappointing, inasmuch as I fully expected to hate it just as much as I did.  A few weeks ago, though, I heard something that I wouldn't have even suspected existed, and I liked it.

Every year, on or about Yom Kippur, every classical music radio station will play Bruch's Kol Nidrei. Our local station, KWAX, played Kol Nidrei by...

...Arnold Schoenberg.  No, really.  And it's from well after his embrace of the 12-tone system.  And I really liked it.  I liked a piece by 1930's Arnold Schoenberg.

Here's a linky-thing with lots more about it. Check it out, if you feel like you need a clean slate to face up to a new year.

I Believe the Women

"I Believe the Women"--Mitch McConnell, on Roy Moore's accusers.

“A CONTINUING PATTERN OF THE MOST WRETCHED ABUSE”

In a searingly emotional joint press conference held at their home in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the embodiments of Truth and Research laid out a history of unrelenting abuse at the hands of many members of the Trump administration and Republican Party.  Their revelations are only the latest in a growing number of accusations of indecent, immoral, or illegal acts committed by members of this and previous administrations.

Speaking without a lawyer—as she pointed out, Truth needs no lawyer or explainer when she speaks plainly—but backed up by one of her half-sisters Clio, muse of History, Truth recounted in detail examples of President Donald Trump abusing and molesting her.  In a calm and unemotional voice, she described occasions on which Trump had violated her in full view of other elected officials, political appointees, the media, and the general public; indeed, she noted that these assaults were part of the public record.  As Clio nodded vigorously in agreement, she noted that these instances have been broadcast and reported widely, though not on all networks, noting that she has been effectively banned from speaking on Fox News.  She described the harm that had been done to her as damaging to her reputation, career, and even her very existence, noting that some have described the current era as “post-Truth,” as if she were dead. 

Clio then joined her half-sister on the podium and distributed annotated lists of all known events when Trump had violated Truth since he was sworn in as President.  The list was long; Clio pointed out that Trump violated Truth on average more than five times a day.  Truth then came back to the podium and made further charges, against members of the President’s administration and staff, saying that they had treated her no better, and indeed, that they had willingly assisted the President in violating her on a daily basis.  She cited the President’s Press Secretaries as a group as being particularly bad in this regard.  Clio drew the assembled reporters’ attention to video of former Press Secretary Sean Spicer talking about inauguration crowds and Presidential Advisor Kellyanne Conway introducing “alternative facts.”  Truth, visibly shaken, asked the assembled reporters to “make it stop.”  She then introduced her assistant, Research.

Research spoke very quietly, apologizing and explaining that her ability to speak clearly has been harmed, possibly permanently, by the current administration.  In fact, she said, many members of the administration “seem to have a thing for gags,” and that in the course of her employment she had been subjected to such humiliation with grim frequency.  The President, she indicated, seemed not to be actively harassing her; she hypothesized that it was simply that Mr. Trump was unaware of her existence.  However, she held him partly responsible for a workplace environment that enabled her abuse.  

President Trump was at fault, Research said, for appointing individuals well known for histories of assaulting, brutalizing, humiliating, and even torturing Research.  She cited as particularly appalling EPA administrator Scott Pruitt and the nominated USDA Chief Scientist Sam Clovis.  Research noted that she had never heard of Clovis before he was nominated and that he was “obviously totally unfamiliar” with her, but within minutes of their introduction, “it was clear he was into abuse and that business with the gagging.  EPA Administrator Pruitt has been exactly the same way,” perhaps even worse; again, Clio came forward and distributed printouts of  examples of torture resulting in permanent distortion and numerous instances of gagging, all part of the public record.  Clio, as she handed out the printouts, was overheard by some of the reporters present to be mumbling “do your goddamned jobs!”   

Supporting documents produced by Truth, Research and History showed that President Trump and his administration are intensifying a campaign against both Truth and Research of disregard, abuse, assault, and gagging engaged in by many previous Republican administrations for almost half a century, with then-Governor Reagan abusing both Truth and Research by blaming trees for air pollution.  

When asked for comment, Presidential Spokeswoman Sarah Hucakbee Sanders stated “These are just allegations.  Look at the accusers, and you’ll see.  I mean, look at the way they’re dressed, they are inviting it.  And besides, Truth has a well-known liberal bias, Research is often found at our liberal universities, and both Truth and Research have long histories of lying and producing fake news,” and asked reporters to simply watch the Fox News Network for more information.  

Tuesday Tool Cream of the Crop edition

This week's tool is the Slavic Beauty hand-crank cream separator.  Krassnaya!

On the one hand, it's pretty mundane.  Milk goes in, up to three gallons at a time; vigorously turn the crank for fifteen minutes, and the cream comes out one spout while the skimmed milk comes out the other.

On the other hand, it's pretty darn cool.  It is a home preparatory centrifuge.  You crank it by hand, about 60 rpm, And the gearing takes the rotor to over 10,000 rpm.  From my life in biology, I'm used to sample centrifuges--a sample is loaded into a bottle or tube; after spinning, the tube or bottle is removed, and the partitioned sample is decanted.  You do one sample at a time. But preparatory centrifuges are magic; they can be continuously loaded and unloaded as they are spinning and separating.  The magic is in the rotor, the bit that spins so fast.

Milk is continuously fed into the port on the top of the rotor and subjected to an intense gravitational field.  Just as continuously, the cream is ejected from one escape port, on the left of the neck in the picture, and the milk escapes through the port lower down on the neck.  Even cooler, the heart of the rotor is a series of "cones."  These divide the volume of the rotor into a dozen stacked sections.  This has the effect of taking a sample of milk and subjecting it to an extreme gravitational field once; then taking the upper portion of that, and subjecting it to an extreme gratiational field; then, taking the upper portion of that, and repeating over and over again.  To get the same effect with a rotor with only a single compartment, the rotor would have to be meters in diameter.  (Interestingly, the technology dates to the 1800's; before, "skim milk" was the result of letting milk stand for quite a while and then skimming the top layer off.)

So, one of today's jobs was separating some cream, with which I will make mascarpone, which I use in place of butter.  I started with two gallons/eight liters of milk from our Nigerian Dwarves; it is relatively late in their lactation, and their milk is averaging about 7% butterfat.  I ended up with a bit shy of a quart/800 mls of very, very, VERY heavy  cream.

Yummers.  The skim milk has been mixed with whole milk, and is turning into a tomme as I write.

Monday Musical offering Instant Dislike edition

I was reminded of this:

By this:

I don't much care for Glass' "pure" music (his film scores/operas are sometimes OK), and I don't much care for the harpsichord (I still hold with Sir Thomas Beecham's impression that it sounds like skeletons copulating on a tin roof), but I tried listening to it.  I did not like it.  

Make "Lance the Abscess" the new "Drain the Swamp."

The news this week has given me a faint glimmer of hope.  There has been a certain repudiation of Trumpism in the Virginia gubernatorial election.  Karma started collecting some overdue bills: the state rep who was proud of his homophobia and wouldn't address his trans opponent as a human...lost to his trans opponent; a selectman who wondered if the women who marched against Trump would be home in time to cook dinner...lost his seat to a woman who was pissed off by his comment and so decided to run against him.  There was a gratifying scattering of immigrants, minorities, and other voices that won in local elections.

There has also been a growing number of women (and men) calling out those men who committed sexual offenses as a way to assert power.  The list of powerful people being undone by their own appetites keeps growing, adding show biz moguls and politicians daily.

I find myself wanting that number to grow.  It is impossible to credit that there aren't many more people who have such a distorted view of how society works.   I don't think that society will advance until more of their number are taken out of positions where they can do harm.  The process is, hopefully, reaching a stage where it is autocatalytic, where revelation emboldens revelation.

It feels like we, as a society, may finally be lancing an abscess, one that has disfigured us for so long that we may account it as a normal part of our physiognomy.  Lancing it will be disgusting, things will come to view that will make us gag and vomit.  But, if we don't, we will grow ever sicker and the toxins will poison us.

Wednesday Wordage Extreme Euphemizing Edition

If you've followed the news at all over the last year, you'll know that Wells Fargo Bank is a criminal enterprise--setting up accounts for clients without their knowledge or approval, and using those to extract money from them and make their lives miserable.  You'll know that they've been doing it for years, and it was essentially official policy, and that people who tried to stop it were punished.  It was only caught last year.  

For historical reasons, the Roseburg Dairy Goat Association has its money at Wells Fargo, and as nominal Treasurer of the Association, I get notifications, etc, from them (we are planning on moving the money to a credit union, or some more reputable bank).  Here is the intro to today's email:

Dear Wells Fargo Customer,
Customers like you have told us they want to hear more about what we've been doing to address our challenges over the past year. 

"Challenges."  

That's a pretty boggling abuse of the language there; I can't even think of anything sufficiently witty to say about it..."Noted bank challenger John Dillinger...". Just doesn't do it.  

Tuesday Tool: the Ballot.

Election day, here.  The one issue on the ballot has to do with changing the county charter, basically de-professionalizing county government.  It's brought out much of what I don't care for in local politics.  When I first heard of this issue, it struck me as an expression of the generalized all-government-is-bad sentiment of the area, as well as the no-expertise-or-knowledge-is-necessary-for-governing sentiment one sees nowadays, especially on the conservative side of the spectrum.

But then, somebody noticed that this charter would have allowed citizens to block or delay logging on certain county lands.  Indeed, one of the people who proposed the new charter was involved in protests against the logging of a county park.  That led to a county-wide blossoming of signs urging us to STOP EXTREME ENVIRONMENTALISTS! And vote no on the charter.

Then our county sheriff jumped in.  He's absurdly popular around here, because during the Obama administration, he sent a letter to the Vice President--apparently because the President wasn't legitimate?--saying that he wouldn't enforce any gun regulation laws.  (He also had on his Face book page a link to a video suggesting that Sandy Hook was a "false flag" operation.  Trucks all around here have stickers saying "I SUPPORT SHERIFF HANLIN").  Well, the new charter could possibly be interpreted to possibly maybe limit his powers, so he came out against it.  So, a picture of him making a Mussolini face is now up on the "no" posters, which urge us to SUPPORT SHERIFF HANLIN VOTE NO!

And then there's the letters to the editor in the local paper.  Hoo boy.  "Fight Communism--vote no!"  "New charter is first step on road to Nazism."  One of the originators of the charter (a woman) apparently has been subject to menacing, grotesquely threatening phone calls, mail, and social media.  Around here, if somebody says they're coming after you with an AR-15, it's believable.

I don't think the charter will pass.  Backers have been massively out-spent (by a hundred to one), out-postered, and have no support from the business or education community.  I don't care for the charter, because government requires skill and professionalism, and nobody worthwhile will serve as a volunteer county commissioner.  But geez, it sure has brought out the ugly in Douglas County.

Monday Musical Offering of Thanks

This has been a rotten year for practicing--a combination of farm work, family stuff, stiff hands and other excuses.  When I am in good shape, I try to keep three or four pieces in practice.  There has to be some Bach, a Classical piece (Mozart/Haydn/Beethoven/Schubert and their ilk), something from the Romantic repertoire (Mendelssohn through Rachmaninov), and one or two other things, maybe something by Shostakovich or Byrd or whatever.  As my time (and hands) have withered, it's gotten pared back to just Bach, and nothing big, maybe an Invention or a number from the WTC.  Right now, I am working, piece by piece, through a French Suite, but a few pages of music that have taken me months to learn.  I am just starting the Gigue.

I could not survive this age without Bach.

The news, day in and day out, is awful.  Horrible.  The night of the election, I could not sleep--the demons of the future were gibbering in my head, warning me of all the terrible things that were to come.  Well, those demons were understating the case, and every day the news fills my head with excrement.  It is getting to be that one of the only things that can silence those demons is playing Bach.  I am chipping away at it, and by focusing very hard on moving my fingers in the way my brain wants them to, I can buy myself--or maybe steal--a half hour a day of peace, in which my neighbors and my government are not trying to poison the wells from which we all drink.  Bach is still the pure spring.