Prohibited: Eating on the Deck

 Standing at the pool's edge - dreads pulled back away from his shades - a lifeguard aimed his pointer finger at each swimmer, counting. It was Sunday. It was 88 degrees in South Philadelphia. The community pool on the corner of Carpenter and 13th was at capacity.

With just two lifeguards on duty, the pool could accommodate 60 people in the fenced in area - each lifeguard can oversee 30 people. After completing his count, the lifeguard walked around the deck, hustling people who laid on towels, reading books in the shade. "We got a lot of people waiting," he says. "You gotta get in the pool or get out."

Seems harsh, but there was a line outside the gate. At the end of the line, a toddler shook her red curls as her dad sprayed her down with SPF. She jumped and twisted in her lime green tankini, perpetually on tiptoes in anticipation. About 10 people waited in front of her.

Two women left their chairs behind and walked through the gate with paper bags. They made space for two others as they left, but their intentions weren’t necessarily philanthropic. “We got yelled at,” Daneen said. Of course, eating on the deck is prohibited.

Daneen and Sara settled at a picnic table under an oak tree in the park bordering the pool fence. They’d picked up sandwiches at The Last Drop Coffee House (13^th & Pine) on their way to the pool in the morning. Sara unwrapped hummus with cucumber, tomato, and lettuce smashed between two pieces of Metropolitan’s 9-grain, whole-wheat loaf bread. Daneen had a chicken salad sandwich with tomato and lettuce (which she promptly removed before taking the first bite). “I haven’t had chicken salad in forever,” she said. “It’s good.”

Daneen works at Jefferson Hospital, and often goes to Dibruno’s around the corner for lunch. “But that’s getting really expensive, so now I pack leftovers from dinner the night before,” she says. It’ll be quinoa (if she has the energy to cook after her pool day) or a Lean Cuisine from the freezer for lunch on Monday.

Sara works at Nutrisystem in Fort Washington. She packs her lunch; Monday she’ll likely have a kale salad with chicken, dressed with olive oil and lemon juice. She eats lunch at noon at her desk and takes a break for a walk at 1:00.

She used to go out to lunch at Good Dog Bar. “They have a really good veggie burger,” she says. “All the burgers are really good though.”

Daneen recommends Continental. “If I want to go big, it’s the crispy calamari salad,” she says. It’s a pile of chopped greens topped with sprouts, carrots, tomatoes, crispy calamari and sesame-soy vinaigrette.

The two friends finished their sandwiches quickly, ready to get back to the pool. They would not be waiting the recommended 20 minutes for digestion. “It’s only a four-foot deep pool,” Sara laughed. 

In matching red baseball caps and towels hiked up around their waists, they headed back to the gate to wait in line. In fewer than 10 minutes, they were hopping back in the cool water.

The Ridgway Pool is open for one more week - until August 16th

Pizza and Pickled Dahlias

On a stormy Wednesday morning I potted dahlias in the greenhouse with Owen, the manager at the Roughwood Seed Collection. Rainwater streamed through a freshly punctured hole in the plastic roof onto the back of my neck as I bent over a bag of soil. I was volunteering in a small garden in Devon, PA, where heirloom varieties of plants you’ve never heard of get their start.

The Roughwood Seed Collection comprises 4,000 varieties of heirloom seeds, preserving varieties that might otherwise be extinct. They collect seeds from our region (Tuscarora Flour Corn, for example) and from distant countries (like the Cypriot Skouroupathes Leek) to grow, regenerate - in some cases cross-pollinate - and save.

Retreating from the unexpected heavy winds and showers outside, we worked in the greenhouse sorting and re-potting dahlia bulbs that had been harvested last year and stored through the winter. “We’re essentially cloning the dahlias by separating the tubers,” Owen told me. He hadn’t been too keen on the flowers until he found out that the tubers are edible. “They were originally bred by the Aztecs for eating,” Owen said, “But then Europeans bred them for pretty.”

We’ve since ignored the nourishing part of the flower, which is supposedly delicious. “The texture’s like a water chestnut, and the taste is somewhere between celeriac and carrot, but with a hint of ginger,” Owen said. Roughwood develops varieties that are meant to be eaten, like the Old Velvet dahlia, who’s purple flesh is especially good for pickling.

Owen sorted through paper bags, pulled out clusters of tiny sweet potato-like tubers and divided them into smaller pieces, which he passed to me. I nestled them into pots from the teetering stacks assembled against the back wall, while two other volunteers – Nova and Beth – wrote out new labels. Mary Ellen; Fiesta; Old Velvet; Roughwood grows more than 100 varieties of the flower and correct cataloguing is crucial.

As empty trays filled with newly labeled pots, our conversation turned to lunch; Owen planned to pick up a couple pizzas from Whole Foods – two for $22. A topping deliberation began, and finally, without any clear decision, Owen placed the order.

“Can I have one mushroom and shallot please?” he said into the phone.

“And there was this one with chicken I got once… I can’t remember exactly what was on it,” he paused.

“No, it wasn’t that…”

Another pause.

“Buffalo?” he looked up to get our attention.

“Guys? Buffalo sound good?” We nodded.

“Um… with cheese?” We nodded again.

An hour later we gathered in the kitchen of the 210-year-old farmhouse that belongs to William Woys Weaver, the food historian and author who founded Roughwood Seed Collection after finding his grandpa’s 40-year-old seeds in his grandmother’s deep freeze.

Will leaned against the island’s wooden countertop fingering an antique comb used to collect chamomile blossoms. “It’s from Bulgaria,” he says, “Can you believe I got it on Ebay for next to nothing?” His cat Satch perched on a stool, facing two giant pies.

When there are volunteers around and pizza gets ordered for lunch, Will can’t resist. “When I’m by myself it’s a salad from the garden,” he says, folding his arms across his pale green polo. He adds pickled vegetables and a little pickle juice for dressing. “Of, if I get fancy I’ll use on of my herb vinegars,” he says. He pointed out a jar on the windowsill: his first batch of honey vinegar from a Polish recipe he found in an 1821 farm manual. He mixed one cup of honey (harvested from on-site hives), one quart spring water, and a heavy splash of apple cider vinegar to get it going. The glass jar was loosely covered and exposed to air; “It’s developing mother,” he says. (The mother develops on fermenting alcoholic liquids and converts alcohol to acetic acid, producing vinegar.) He makes it himself because honey vinegar is expensive, “It’s sold in perfume bottles for around $30,” he says.

Will rarely makes it into Philadelphia for lunch, but he knows a few good spots. “If I had my druthers I’d got to Brick and Mortar, Kensington Quarters, or Buckminister’s [now closed],” he says, “I happen to know the chefs and they happen to use ingredients from here.”

Brick and Mortar held a benefit dinner for Roughwood last spring and featured ingredients from the garden in their menu. They made hummus with Roughwood’s heirloom beans and used their Landis Winter Lettuce and Red Rice Cow Peas in the third course. Will even gave them a jar of homemade pickled Old Velvet dahlia tubers to use, which were a hit atop the salad.