Blake street has been the scene of some pretty fruity activity of late. A while back Tyler and I came home from somewhere and there was an old couple in the yard, dressed in bathrobes, beating a tree with a broom. I believe they may have been South Asian, Indian or something. They saw us looking at them but this did not bother them one bit. They continued to abuse the tree, the old man up top, shaking the shit out of the branches while Mrs. Bath Robe stood below collecting what was loosed. They stayed doing this for sometime, unhindered by either their attire or knowledge of their trespass. It’s pretty cool when you think about it, them feeding off the land in such an urban environment. I would not have guessed that hunting and gathering would be a viable option a block from San Pablo but these two geezers obviously knew what they were doing. I bet they make the rounds of the neighborhood, figs here, plums there. I noticed after this, that there are a lot of fruit trees in my neighborhood, a whole lot, with most of the fruit ripening and dropping to the ground, getting squished and making a mess about town. What a waste! Go, go granny gatherer! Go, go pappy peaches! Bless them in their quest for free, local produce. The fucking Farmer’s Market can suck it! Am I right oldies? Can I get a cane shake? 

Around the same time, I hosted a Garden Party in my side yard. The Incredible Creeping Vine that was choking and swallowing everything in sight perplexed us all. It’s a beautiful plant, with vibrant purplle flowers turning to strange, bulbous yellow, teardrop like fruits.

 So voracious is this plant that it made its way into my closet and killed my water heater! My guest, Christopher was the first to open one up and have a peek inside. Well, inside looked like a fishy egg sag. But the smell was intoxicating. It emanated just the most fragrant, floral-tropical aroma. It tasted not nearly as good as it smelled, bitter and quite sour. We guessed it was a passion fruit. There was a similar but not identical creeper on the fence. That flower was one of those crazy alien looking things you see sometimes. The fruit on this vine was hard and green. We guessed a different kind of passion fruit. Well, we are a smart bunch because I looked that shit up online and we were right! One is a Yellow Passion Fruit and the other is a Purple Passion Fruit. Last week, inspired by the robed oldies, it checked the YPF and noticed that there were many fully ripe looking fruits so I picked them. A few had fallen to the ground and were completely hollowed out. Some neighborhood critter must eat them. It’s like a little Wild Kingdom right out my window! I tasted one and it was still too bitter to eat but the flavor and smell were too fresh and pleasing to waste. I decided to make Passion Fruit syrup. I have NO idea what made me think to do this. I have a secret desire to be like Julia fucking Child I guess. I really had no clue how one goes about making this but I took a chance and winged it (wung it?). I opened the fruits and scraped out the pulp into a saucepan. I added some water, sugar, and a little vanilla. I brought it to a boil and then added some vermouth, because Julia always seems to add some kind of booze to everything and its what I had on hand. I lowered the temp and simmered it for a while. Then I strained it. It tasted damn good! A bit tart, very aromatic and passion fruity! I didn’t know what to do with it then so I put it in the fridge. Later in the week I used it on vanilla ice cream, made an Italian soda with San Pellegrino, and made a vodka cocktail. All were delish!

In fruity continuance, I think it is generally agreed that tomatoes are fruit, right? Well in the front of the house, in a scabby looking bit of dirt next to the driveway, there is a tomato plant and it is encased in chicken wire and there is a sign on it that says “WARNING (skull like this one) : Toxic soil test in progress, do not eat, may be harmful to humans and animals” or something like that. It is a very professional sign, its dated, has the intersection written in, and is all governmental in looks and attitude. I’m like what gives? Why there? Is there something the city needs to let us know? Is this really how they test the soil, with tomaters? The maters are big and lovely looking. I had my suspicions. THEN, yesterday I see my neighbor picking some and I’m like, AHA, I knew it. Nicely played Elmo, nicely played. His name is Elmo, by the way, how cute is that? I remembered that once when collectively, we as neighbors sharing recycle bins were remiss in our sorting diligence. There was paper in the glass bin, glass in the plastic bin, it was a mess. The city wouldn’t collect our recycling for almost a month. Then Elmo took it upon himself to go out and resort everybody’s stuff. After, we were all presented with printouts detailing the RIGHT way to recycle and gently reprimanding us. For the record, I was not the one mixing; it was the hippies next door. Anyhow, it makes perfect sense now. Elmo must know about the hunter/gatherers, the oldies and whoever else might want to steal his lovely tomatoes.

 So there you have it, fruits abound in the urban jungle. Whether carefully cultivated in a tiny spit of dirt in a driveway or wild and feral, mother earth; she will provide if you care to partake. I for one will no longer take gifts of this nature for granted.  I’m going to try some basil again. My coworker inspired me by binging me a nearly hefty-sized bag of the stuff. He said he planted just a little plant and it went bananas and he had it coming out of his ears. Pesto I say, pesto!