Last November I planted over 200 flower bulbs in our tiny Brooklyn backyard, crouched and digging into the dying evening light as the cold soil turned my hands into claws. Over the next few weeks I watched out the window with dismay as fat squirrels rooted through the beds where my footprints still showed in the dirt, frenetically preparing themselves for a winter that never really came.
Now it is April, and we’re into our fourth week of “New York on Pause” (a.k.a. stay the F home). Our little yard is filling with greenery; the daffodils and tulips and grape hyacinths I had written off as pilfered are opening so that each morning brings a new pop of color. It feels like a miracle.
The Brooklyn back yard is its own special thing. The houses’ rectangular lots are conjoined and hemmed by fences, and from above you can see into your neighbors’ yards: fire escapes and barbecues and blossoming cherry trees. Some of the yards still have old-fashioned laundry towers at the far end, which look like tall, rickety deathtrap ladders, tapered at the top. A few of these are still in use, with clotheslines strung across yards to second story windows or higher; there’s a simple pulley system that allows the line to be reeled in or out. Some days, our neighbors’ laundry billows in the breeze like Tibetan prayer flags of sheets and shirts and giant undies.
We share sounds. Neighbors arguing, neighbors laughing. Dishes clattering through the trees. A kid practicing violin. This spring, the birds have been unmistakably louder and sirens, unfortunately, too. Every evening at 7, people lean out their windows and step out onto their stoops to cheer for the medical workers, some adding a raucous measure of pot and pan banging.
With nowhere to go and less to do, and because growing things feels like a salve, we are turning to our little kitchen planting projects to get us through. They’re humble: we put a cut-off bottom of romaine in some water, and it’s now sporting some tentative new leaves; we are unreasonably excited about that sprouting lettuce butt. We might get the chia sloth going again. Outside our kitchen on the back patio are some herb planters where we’ve put in a sprinkling of arugula seeds, some peas and radishes. Those are still in the two-leaf stage but their little stems are getting redder and thicker by the day. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself, but I can’t wait to pull them out of the soil and serve them with my favorite: anchovy butter. It’s a winning combo. If you’re not convinced you can chop up some chives, super fine, and fold them into softened butter with some flaky sea salt. Chives are always the first thing to peep out of our herb boxes and maybe you have some, too.
Happy Passover, happy Easter, or however you choose to celebrate mercies and new life!
recipe: anchovy butter
Ingredients:
4 TBS unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
6 anchovies, oil-packed (or fewer—this is on the strong side)
Instructions:
Chop anchovies very finely, or mash to a paste with a mortar and pestle. Don’t worry about the little bones. Mix well into the butter and serve at room temperature with cold, snappy radishes, or on good bread.
radishes with two kinds of flavored butter