The Surf Is Up and So Is the Pizza Dough!

    Over the last couple weeks things have been quite acceptable here in Kona.  The weather has remained cool (a dramatic change from last year) and it is raining a bit on most nights.  The plants in the garden at Casa Ono are loving it.  And for most of that time, we enjoyed some acceptably mild surf conditions and some good snorkeling.

The Stealth Octopus  Kahalu'u 2016

During the mild surf conditions, I had a nice outing to Kahalu'u where I spent fifteen intimate minutes  with a
small octopus.  So brave was this young cephalopod, that he allowed me to approach within a couple feet without swimming away.  From the photographic point of view, however, this encounter was a bust.  Though I held the camera right up next to the octopus, I did not get a single really good picture.  My current position is that vis a vis my camera, the day octopus employs stealth technology.  Assuming that one's goal in life is to take a brilliant picture of a day octopus, this may constitute the ultimate bummer. 

  A few minutes before I saw my brave little octopus, I had another exciting encounter, this time with a furtive fourline wrasse, Ps. tetrataenia.  He was hiding in a pocilipora coral.  By being persistent I was able to see his striped flank, his iridescent chin stripe and his red eye.  Not all three field marks at any single moment, mind you, but there was no doubt about who was hiding in the interstices of that cauliflower coral.  From a (failed) photographic standpoint, the closest I came was a picture of the coral itself.  This was not for trying, however.  I spent several minutes clinging to rocks and chunks of dead coral hoping this fish would pop out for a quick pic. To my credit, I was able to bring Sandra back the following day, find the same coral and show her the fish.  She seems to have got a better look than I did, as she observed the entire small fish as it took a quick excursion into open water.

The Furtive Fourline Wrasse (sadly not my picture)

     As you may recall, this follows hard upon my sighting of the eightstripe wrasse, the other member of the genus Pseudocheilinus that occurs at snorkeling depth in Hawaii.  Like the eightstripe, I had not seen this species for several years, although there was a time when it was pretty dependable at Kahalu'u.  The coral patch on the far side of Surfer's Rock, where we had this species staked out, is now reduced to dead rubble. Suffice it to say, I'm really pleased to have both these small wrasses on my 2016 list.

    One more Pseudocheilinus is found in the Hawaii field guides, but Jack Randall tells us that it is found below 40 feet. The Disappearing Wrasse is only 3 inches in length, a bland brick red and the name suggests that it is easily overlooked in the best of circumstances.

   By the following day the surf was picking up.  Sandra dropped me off at the pier, which in these conditions is the last refuge of a snorkeling scoundrel. (With apologies to Samuel Johnson, who claimed that it was
politics...and you didn't even know that Samuel Johnson was a snorkeler) While she went shopping I

 pretended to snorkel in the milky water. Over by the pier I found yet another cushion starfish.  That's four cushion starfish in only a couple months.  What had been a rare find is now heading rapidly toward the mundane.  On the other hand, I finally had something to photograph.  And one can say this for a starfish:  he really knows how to hold still to have his picture taken. 

   As I was standing by the cubbies, after my shower, I was passed by a mother, her teenage daughter who was brandishing a bright pink inner tube, and boy of about four or five who was trussed up in a life vest.  On second look, I noticed that mom was holding a snorkel mask!  Here, at last, was a true photo op.

    The three of them got in the water and mom and sis took turns fixing the mask on the boys face and sending him off for short snorkeling excursions.  The only thing I could think of was that this must have been his birthday wish, to become the next Jack Randall.

Never mind the sour looks.  You're not getting one of my orchids.

    As the day wore on, it became apparent that relatively high surf was here to stay for the foreseeable future.  I had just about talked Sandra into a trip to Mahukona, that little bay just south of Hawi, where the sea rushes by the entry ladder.  Now, however, we were looking for a land based activity.  That morning I had received an email from a couple who raise Cymbidium orchids outside Waimea.  They were hosting a sale and workshop.  It sounded like just  the thing.

    On Saturday morning we hopped in the car and made the drive to Waimea, arriving about 9:30.  Around 11 we made the short drive out to the orchid farm.  Bob and Jennifer are about the same age as your humble correspondent and have enjoyed some of the same life experiences, like finding a way to avoid serving in the Vietnam War.

    Bob gave us a lesson in repotting  Cymbidium orchids.  At the risk of overstating the obvious, they need to be repotted when they outgrow their container. I was surprised to find that these orchids, perhaps all

What a lovely cup of tea.

orchids, have bulbs which when handled properly grow roots and shoots.  Hence, they have a certain similarity to the dahlias that we raised back in northern Washington.  As Bob pointed out, however, the orchid bulb lives above ground surrounded by a bit of bark, while the dahlia bulb resides three inches deep in the dirt.  That is where the similarity breaks down.  But they are both bulbs and when separated and placed in a bag, they send out roots and shoots.

    Bob took apart a raggedy looking orchid, cleaned off the bulb and but it in a ziplock plastic bag with some bark.  For him, plastic works better than paper.  This reminds me of the question posed by a young Dustin Hoffman to Mrs. Robinson at about the same time that Bob and I were finding ways to avoid an expense paid vacation to the very spot where one might find Cymbidium orchids.  Wood / wire, paper / plastic, iceberg / Goldberg and nasty little men in black pajamas carrying Kalashnikovs.

   Both of our hosts held forth at length on the native range of  Cymbidiums and for a very good reason.  They are found in the wild from the foothills of the Himalayas to the lowlands of Indochina.  This is important because here in Hawaii, as  elsewhere, one needs to select an orchid that thrives in the temperature provided

Formidable!

by his home or garden.  Obviously, if you live at the beach, you want one native to Bangkok.  If you live in Waimea, you have a larger selection from which to choose.  I was surprised to hear that it gets down into the 40s in Waimea.  Bob suggested that it may dip into the 50s at Casa Ono.  Not only that, but one can purchase (for a reasonable price) a thermometer from Amazon.com that will retain the low and high temperatures for a given period, like week, which can be pretty important information for an orchid fancier.  Especially if he wants to keep orchiectomies to a minimum.  (If that isn't enough to make you cross your legs, you can look up orchiectomy when you get home.)

    After watching Bob dismantle the ratty looking orchid, I asked his lovely wife if she would sell me one of the bulbs that had started to sprout and that they had carefully placed in a pot.  We went around a couple times on this one.  No matter how I rephrased the question, the answer was the same: by the time that sprouting orchid bulb had been placed in the three inch pot with just the right amount of bark and love, the work had been done and the risk of a failed bulb (only 20% in Bob's skilled hands) had been overcome.  Despite the fact that she had a large table full of these three inch pots, she was not going to sell one of those growing bulbs.  They were her babies.

Waimea Town Market.  Fun for Everybody

    What she did offer was the opportunity to return at a later date and select a ratty looking orchid in a gallon container from the $10 display out back.  In a moment of weakness, she said that she would permit us to use the building where Bob had conducted his seminar, yell at us when necessary, and bid us adieu clutching one or two plastic bags of orchid bulbs with a bit of bark.  Now I ask you, where else on this tourist infested isle can you have that much fun for $10?   Jennifer may live to regret this offer.  Or maybe, in the spirit of Captain Renault and Mr.Rick, it will be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.  Possibly somewhere in between.

     As we leave the Orchidpeople Farm, I am obligated to impart this last critical piece of knowledge.  There are many genera of orchids and Cymbidia mostly come in yellows and whites.  So if you are purchasing a purple orchid on Husky game day, it ain't no Cymbidium.  

    As you may recall (if you are not already asleep) we left the narrative trail somewhere before 10 AM as Sandra and I entered Waimea.  Before heading to the orchid workshop, we had left time to visit the Waimea Town Farmers Market.  There are several farmers markets on Saturday in Waimea.  This one, on the campus of the Parker School, is reputed to have the best food.

European Bison.  I think I'll just sneak in and get a little milk.  Or not.

   We stayed for a little more than an hour, enjoying the relatively small number of booths selling merchandise and an equal number of eateries. Among the food offerings was a tempting Mexican stand.  We had just about decided to split a breakfast burrito when Sandra discovered the crepe lady.  This magician chefs the Magic Pan Restaurant in Hilo, but comes to Waimea on Saturday morning to make the most toothsome crepes al fresco this side of Honolulu. We had the Alaska, which in addition to mozzarella and creme fraiche contains large chunks of yummy salmon.  Oooh la la.  As we were watching the chef de crepe prepare our snack, a girl came up and ordered the chocolate crepe.  Huge scoops of chocolate and berry filling, topped with whipped creme and powder sugar.  Gotta go back.  Soon.

    While we ate, a couple strolled by carrying their bulldog in a baby pack.  for a minute there I thought I was at the Country Fair outside Eugene, Oregon.  All we needed was some naked people and a little pot.  Its sobering to think that marijuana is now completely legal in Eugene.  Do you think this has taken some of the  thrill out of living there?

River Buffalo On the farm in India

    We saw the Japanese lady selling orchids that grow in cunning little wire baskets.  There is no bark involved and their roots wave gaily in the breeze.  And we met the pretty girl with her glass teapots  who actually grows tea somewhere near Hilo.  But the show stopper was the nice couple who raise goats on the slopes of Mauna Kea and sell a variety of home made goat cheese at the farmers market.  

    The cheese was very good, we especially loved the crottin, firm, nutty and full of goat.  But the conversation was even better.  Somehow it turned to Mozzarella and the genus Bos.   I had studied Bos a few years back when I became interested in the derivation of rodeo bulls.  The cattle in India are are a distinct sub-species,  Bos taurus indicus.  They are interbred with our European cattle to make Santa Gertrudis and other rodeo stock.  This is possible because they are conspecific, both descended from the aurochs, which though wide spread thousands of years ago, is long extinct.

   Being involved in the manufacture of cheese, Erin knew quite a bit more about mozzeralla than I did.  Although she didn't want to present a full blown lecture, she let slip that mozzarella was produced from the milk of river buffalo.  What follows here is a light hearted (at times) review, mostly from that ultimate resource of the 21st Century, Wikipedia.  The very nature of this source is that depending on how you search, it is possible to find references with differing facts.  Hmmm.  With that disclaimer, here we go.  

The Italian Water Buffalo

    As you probably know, a great deal of what now passes for mozzarella is now made from cows milk.  For hundreds of years, though,  mozzarella was made only from buffalo milk.  I had foolishly  assumed that this was the European buffalo, which is actually a bison. These are wild animals, very similar to the American bison, and both belong to the genus Bison.  Shocking! If you know anything about Buffalo Bill and the Wild West, you won't be surprised to find out that the European bison was never truly domesticated or milked.  And like the American bison it was hunted to near extinction.  The last truly wild herd was killed off by the Nazis as they retreated across Poland. Following the war, only a few specimens remained in private collections.  These animals were brought together to breed and their offspring have been released into parks throughout Eastern Europe and Germany.  There they live in forests, as opposed to the prairies favored by their American cousins.  These large herds are descended from only a couple dozen animals.  This species came as close to extinction as the California condor!

   You will recall that the phrase that Erin uttered, if you will pardon the pun, was "river buffalo".  This is a species that originated in India. Curiously, the river buffalo, Babalus babalus, was domesticated about the same time that Hinduism came into being.  Indians have been coexisting with their domestic cattle for over 4,000 years.  How the river buffalo came to Europe is a bit hazy, but it was probably introduced into Italy around 600 AD in trade with nomadic tribes from central Asia who had migrated west and were living near the Danube.  River buffalo have thus been exposed to animal husbandry as practiced by the Italians for 1400

Mama Mia!  That's a tasty pie!

years. From the Ostragoths to Bertolli.  As a result, the animal that produces milk for mozzarella is somewhat different than the domestic water buffalo of India; it is commonly called the Italian water buffalo.  But make no mistake, they are conspecific and are able to interbreed.

   The first mozzarella was probably produced around 1200.  As Marco Polo returned to Venice with pasta in 1293,  it is just possible that the later crusaders had a chance to sample a slice of  lasagne on their way back from to the Holy Lands. Perhaps they traded those bronze horses that grace the facade of St Mark's (which they pilfered from the Byzantium)  for a plate of spaghetti con formaggio.

    The bottom line is that these sacred cows are of the genus Bubalus, not the genus Bos.  More people consume food products associated with this species than any other mammal.  While about 200,000 tons of milk is harvested annually in Italy, 56 million tons of river buffalo milk is harvested each year in India.  Holy cow, indeed.  Just think, if the Indians turned all that milk into mozzarella they could have 7 million tons of tasty cheese.  And that, my friends, is a lot of pizza.

jeff

Many thanks to Orchidpeople of Hawaii  Jennifer Snyder and Bob Harris and Dick and Erin Threlfall of the Hawaii Island Goat Dairy.

 

Greetings from the Hawaii Island Goat Dairy