Olive Oil Controversy

Apparently olive oil fraud is not exactly a new phenomenon.  Here's what Mark Twain says in Life on the Mississippi (1883):

Speaking of manufactures reminds me of a talk upon that topic which I heard—which I overheard—on board the Cincinnati boat. I awoke out of a fretted sleep, with a dull confusion of voices in my ears. I listened—two men were talking; subject, apparently, the great inundation. I looked out through the open transom. The two men were eating a late breakfast; sitting opposite each other; nobody else around. They closed up the inundation with a few words—having used it, evidently, as a mere ice-breaker and acquaintanceship-breeder—then they dropped into business. It soon transpired that they were drummers—one belonging in Cincinnati, the other in New Orleans. Brisk men, energetic of movement and speech; the dollar their god, how to get it their religion. 

'Now as to this article,' said Cincinnati, slashing into the ostensible butter and holding forward a slab of it on his knife-blade, 'it's from our house; look at it—smell of it—taste it. Put any test on it you want to. Take your own time—no hurry—make it thorough. There now—what do you say? butter, ain't it. Not by a thundering sight—it's oleomargarine! Yes, sir, that's what it is—oleomargarine. You can't tell it from butter; by George, an expert can't. It's from our house. ... Why, we are turning out oleomargarine now by the thousands of tons. And we can sell it so dirt-cheap that the whole country has got to take it—can't get around it you see. Butter don't stand any show—there ain't any chance for competition. Butter's had its day—and from this out, butter goes to the wall. There's more money in oleomargarine than—why, you can't imagine the business we do. I've stopped in every town from Cincinnati to Natchez; and I've sent home big orders from every one of them.' 

And so-forth and so-on, for ten minutes longer, in the same fervid strain. Then New Orleans piped up and said— 

'Yes, it's a first-rate imitation, that's a certainty; but it ain't the only one around that's first-rate. For instance, they make olive-oil out of cotton-seed oil, nowadays, so that you can't tell them apart.' 

'Yes, that's so,' responded Cincinnati, 'and it was a tip-top business for a while. They sent it over and brought it back from France and Italy, with the United States custom-house mark on it to indorse it for genuine, and there was no end of cash in it; but France and Italy broke up the game—of course they naturally would. Cracked on such a rattling impost that cotton-seed olive-oil couldn't stand the raise; had to hang up and quit.' 

'Oh, it did, did it? You wait here a minute.' 

Goes to his state-room, brings back a couple of long bottles, and takes out the corks—says: 

'There now, smell them, taste them, examine the bottles, inspect the labels. One of 'm's from Europe, the other's never been out of this country. One's European olive-oil, the other's American cotton-seed olive-oil. Tell 'm apart? 'Course you can't. Nobody can. People that want to, can go to the expense and trouble of shipping their oils to Europe and back—it's their privilege; but our firm knows a trick worth six of that. We turn out the whole thing—clean from the word go—in our factory in New Orleans: labels, bottles, oil, everything. Well, no, not labels: been buying them abroad—get them dirt-cheap there. You see, there's just one little wee speck, essence, or whatever it is, in a gallon of cotton-seed oil, that give it a smell, or a flavor, or something—get that out, and you're all right—perfectly easy then to turn the oil into any kind of oil you want to, and there ain't anybody that can detect the true from the false. Well, we know how to get that one little particle out—and we're the only firm that does. And we turn out an olive-oil that is just simply perfect—undetectable! We are doing a ripping trade, too—as I could easily show you by my order-book for this trip. Maybe you'll butter everybody's bread pretty soon, but we'll cotton-seed his salad for him from the Gulf to Canada, and that's a dead-certain thing.' 

Cincinnati glowed and flashed with admiration. The two scoundrels exchanged business-cards, and rose. As they left the table, Cincinnati said— 

'But you have to have custom-house marks, don't you? How do you manage that?' 

I did not catch the answer.

Life on the Mississippi, ch. 39.

Post-Peak Bluebell Wood

I wanted to make sure I didn't miss the Bluebell Wood entirely this year, since it is a magical place when in bloom.  And I figured I could combine it with a bit of work on my current Tolkien paper, and an excuse to rack up a few more steps for my Fitbit One to measure.  Entering the garden from Eastern Parkway, one encounters

a semi-formal garden where the art of Italianate landscaping comes to life. With ten wisteria-draped pergolas framing an emerald lawn, a [boulder] wall with large plantings of varied colored and textured plants, several stone features, and benches, the garden is a soothing oasis in the midst of the city. In spring, daffodils, pansies, and tulips bloom, followed by crab apples and cherries, which gradually give way to azaleas, rhododendrons, wisterias and dogwood. 

http://www.bbg.org/discover/gardens/osborne_garden

Osborne Garden

Wisteria on the Pergola

There was a bright red flower behind the wisteria, which I tried to capture in the same frame...

...somewhat better shown here, perhaps.

My favorite flower!

Cherry Esplanade

The bluebells were still in bloom, but well past their peak, so the color was not as intense as it was a week ago.  It's still lovely, an undulating carpet ethereal, dappled with light and shadow.  The trees and contours of the land are essential to the effect, as is the wide, curved path through the middle.  I tried and tried to capture the magic with my own camera (results shown here), but eventually bought a postcard to compensate for my failures.

The stump and stone do something very special here, as well. 

Once I got some pictures of the Bluebell Wood, I spent a few hours sitting on a bench on the Cherry Esplanade, reading passages from The Return of the King for a paper I agreed to present at an upcoming Tolkien conference.  I had my very large, bright and obvious noise-canceling headphones on, with my nose in a book, and I was making careful notes on what I was reading, but a surprising number of people wanted to share my bench.  One woman had gotten slightly separated from her group (they were on the next bench over), and clearly wanted to start up a conversation.  I responded to her inquiries politely enough (according to me), but didn't really "bite" at any of the conversational gambits, so she eventually rallied and rejoined them.  They seemed to be family members, including a husband and son, so I hope and trust they enjoyed the rest of their day together.

Of course, I eventually went back for more pictures as the afternoon wore on and the light changed.

I am thinking of these as hellebores, not sure if that's correct

Alas, the lilacs are nearly gone!  Only a few remained, a particular late-blooming type.

The last of the lilacs...!

This was my second time in the native flora garden.

Flaming Azaleas

Black cherry, much rotted away

Toxicodendron Radicans

On my way out of the garden, I managed to get my camera in sports action mode in time to capture a series of shots of a squirrel racing like a greyhound or a thoroughbred horse.  I usually think of them as just scampering any old way, but it looks like they use the standard quadruped technique when they're in a hurry.

Prospect Park: The Perimeter