A burst of joy landed at the Gumbo homestead earlier in the week. Spring is not far away, and that means it is time for seed catalogs. Huzzah!
A seed catalog may not match Victoria's Secret for le sexy stuff, but nonetheless I was thrilled to find the latest Burpee's homage to All Things Growable sitting in my mailbox. It came at just the right time. The cover was graced with a brilliant full-color photo of a zinnia, resplendent in eye-popping yellow spattered with red. Neither of those two colors is my favorite but the combination filled me with a bit o' the happies.
I was feeling a bit melancholy. The gorgeous flower was a nice hit of pretty and a reminder that spring is coming. I didn't have the energy or time to plant a garden last year, and I don't know if I will this year. I do know that I like flowers, and the idea of the seed.
Humble little packets of mystery that produce things of beauty, things of savor. A feast for the eyes, nose and mouth. Sometimes all three if you plant the right stuff. I would most like to have is a kitchen garden, full of good growing things that I can see, smell, touch and taste. This is a quiet dream of mine.
I opened the mailbox, with a heart weighed down by care, and a piece of the sun fell into my hands. Spring is on the way, dear readers. Choose your seeds, plant with care and let the green things revive us.
26 February 2012
25 February 2012
Shangri-La Beneath The Winter Moon
February 24th, 9:19 PM. The wind howls outside my window. The cold moves in, but I am safe and warm.
Led Zeppelin played on the stereo of my mind. The lake drained from the valley, allowing the demon to be exposed and killed. It was easy, once I poured the boiling broth into the pan and set it into the oven. It swirled around the rice in its faint golden glory. Soon, I would eat, and the demon of hunger banished from my belly.
Perhaps it wasn't as dramatic as all that, but dinner made for some interesting reading later in the evening. I encountered the minor vexation of running out of saffron. The last little pinch in my small supply became a key part of my culinary adventures. The sight of the now-empty jar induced a sigh and a wish. Soon, perhaps, I'll procure some more. It is, after all, good, tasty, and beautiful.
The saffron I like come from Kashmir, the region shared by India, Pakistan and China. To gild this lily, it is called "Mogra Cream", which certainly sounds luxurious. The price, unfortunately, would seem to confirm that notion. Because of the price, I tend to not buy it very often, although this particular batch was a gift to me from someone I hold very dear. I suppose that is what contributed to my wistfulness to see it go.
So what does this have to do with valleys, lakes and demons? Oh, and for good measure, Led Zeppelin? Very often when I cook, part of my mind roams the aether. It freewheels through many things. I was thinking of the song "Kashmir" by Led Zeppelin, it looped over and over in my head while I prepared dinner. As I dished up the food (a saffron rice pilaf with salmon and onions and celery) I also mused on the geographic area of Kashmir. I wanted to know exactly where it was and what it meant.
So I did a little research to refresh my memory and compile some new ones. It was then that I learned some of the basic myths behind the name. Legend has it the Kashmir valley was once a lake, and that lake was inhabited by a demon. A nasty bugger who tortured and devoured the locals. Along came a chap named Kashyap, who was a brahmin (and the equivalent of a saint, if I understand things correctly) and through penance managed to get the blessing of Lord Vishnu, who caused the lake to be drained. This exposed the demon and it was killed. The valley was named Kashmir in Kashyap's honor.
I didn't know any of that when I sat down to eat. Demons and saints weren't my dinner companions but I'm pretty sure I had my own version of Shangri-La right there in the bowl. All it took was Led Zeppelin and a pinch of saffron to set me on the road to Kashmir.
Led Zeppelin played on the stereo of my mind. The lake drained from the valley, allowing the demon to be exposed and killed. It was easy, once I poured the boiling broth into the pan and set it into the oven. It swirled around the rice in its faint golden glory. Soon, I would eat, and the demon of hunger banished from my belly.
Perhaps it wasn't as dramatic as all that, but dinner made for some interesting reading later in the evening. I encountered the minor vexation of running out of saffron. The last little pinch in my small supply became a key part of my culinary adventures. The sight of the now-empty jar induced a sigh and a wish. Soon, perhaps, I'll procure some more. It is, after all, good, tasty, and beautiful.
The saffron I like come from Kashmir, the region shared by India, Pakistan and China. To gild this lily, it is called "Mogra Cream", which certainly sounds luxurious. The price, unfortunately, would seem to confirm that notion. Because of the price, I tend to not buy it very often, although this particular batch was a gift to me from someone I hold very dear. I suppose that is what contributed to my wistfulness to see it go.
So what does this have to do with valleys, lakes and demons? Oh, and for good measure, Led Zeppelin? Very often when I cook, part of my mind roams the aether. It freewheels through many things. I was thinking of the song "Kashmir" by Led Zeppelin, it looped over and over in my head while I prepared dinner. As I dished up the food (a saffron rice pilaf with salmon and onions and celery) I also mused on the geographic area of Kashmir. I wanted to know exactly where it was and what it meant.
So I did a little research to refresh my memory and compile some new ones. It was then that I learned some of the basic myths behind the name. Legend has it the Kashmir valley was once a lake, and that lake was inhabited by a demon. A nasty bugger who tortured and devoured the locals. Along came a chap named Kashyap, who was a brahmin (and the equivalent of a saint, if I understand things correctly) and through penance managed to get the blessing of Lord Vishnu, who caused the lake to be drained. This exposed the demon and it was killed. The valley was named Kashmir in Kashyap's honor.
I didn't know any of that when I sat down to eat. Demons and saints weren't my dinner companions but I'm pretty sure I had my own version of Shangri-La right there in the bowl. All it took was Led Zeppelin and a pinch of saffron to set me on the road to Kashmir.
24 February 2012
Fan Chao In The Gumbo Kitchen
Thursday, February 23rd, 9:03 PM. Spring-like winter night, windows open. It is good.
Fan chao, in so far as I can trust a free translation application, is the phonetic English for the Chinese phrase for 'stir fry'. I sought this out because I wanted to know what it was in Chinese. Alas, I cannot read Chinese script (not yet, anyway), so phonetic will have to suffice. It pains me slightly that I do not know the dialect, so I will take it on faith that it is correct to say 'fan chow'.
I like how it sounds. Especially with emphasis. Fan chao! It's like shouting "Rock on!" in English.
Not that I was shouting tonight. No need or desire. What I wanted, went looking for, was a little peace of mind. Lately, there has been a lot of stormy weather on the ocean in my head. Too many thoughts, too many perturbations and stresses. I sought that peace in the solace of cooking, as I often do.
The exception to that has been recent history. I haven't cooked as often as I used to, nor have I cooked truly good meals on a regular basis. A lot of grab-and-go type behavior, and tonight I made myself stop. I stopped, took a deep breath of the cool air lazily coming in my windows, and decided that tonight I would stir fry something.
That I don't possess a wok, or even a basic range of typical Chinese pantry items beyond the ubiquitous bottle of soy sauce I keep in the fridge, was of little consequence. Fan chao had seized my wearied imagination, ergo fan chao it must be.
I was in luck, to some extent. I had a chicken breast, a bunch of celery, three green Hungarian wax peppers, an onion and some fresh garlic. Along with some aleppo pepper and soy sauce, they would constitute the feast. I retrieved my trusty cast iron Dutch oven from the cabinet, and set to.
The chicken was sliced thin and marinated in soy sauce and rice vinegar with a touch of garlic and cornstarch. The vegetables sliced thin, celery on the bias, and garlic chopped fine with aleppo. Small amount of oil in the pot, heated to shimmering.
Slice. Chop. Heat. Scatter. Stir. Fill the kitchen air with fragrance, as the mind drains of tension. The moment of truth, as the chicken and vegetables tilt into the bowl, on their way to the waiting mouth. It is good.
Sit. Breathe. Eat. Sip tea. For the space of an hour, that is all I was or needed to be: a hungry human, eating. That was peace.
Fan chao, in so far as I can trust a free translation application, is the phonetic English for the Chinese phrase for 'stir fry'. I sought this out because I wanted to know what it was in Chinese. Alas, I cannot read Chinese script (not yet, anyway), so phonetic will have to suffice. It pains me slightly that I do not know the dialect, so I will take it on faith that it is correct to say 'fan chow'.
I like how it sounds. Especially with emphasis. Fan chao! It's like shouting "Rock on!" in English.
Not that I was shouting tonight. No need or desire. What I wanted, went looking for, was a little peace of mind. Lately, there has been a lot of stormy weather on the ocean in my head. Too many thoughts, too many perturbations and stresses. I sought that peace in the solace of cooking, as I often do.
The exception to that has been recent history. I haven't cooked as often as I used to, nor have I cooked truly good meals on a regular basis. A lot of grab-and-go type behavior, and tonight I made myself stop. I stopped, took a deep breath of the cool air lazily coming in my windows, and decided that tonight I would stir fry something.
That I don't possess a wok, or even a basic range of typical Chinese pantry items beyond the ubiquitous bottle of soy sauce I keep in the fridge, was of little consequence. Fan chao had seized my wearied imagination, ergo fan chao it must be.
I was in luck, to some extent. I had a chicken breast, a bunch of celery, three green Hungarian wax peppers, an onion and some fresh garlic. Along with some aleppo pepper and soy sauce, they would constitute the feast. I retrieved my trusty cast iron Dutch oven from the cabinet, and set to.
The chicken was sliced thin and marinated in soy sauce and rice vinegar with a touch of garlic and cornstarch. The vegetables sliced thin, celery on the bias, and garlic chopped fine with aleppo. Small amount of oil in the pot, heated to shimmering.
Slice. Chop. Heat. Scatter. Stir. Fill the kitchen air with fragrance, as the mind drains of tension. The moment of truth, as the chicken and vegetables tilt into the bowl, on their way to the waiting mouth. It is good.
Sit. Breathe. Eat. Sip tea. For the space of an hour, that is all I was or needed to be: a hungry human, eating. That was peace.
19 February 2012
Sunday Meditation #16: Patapsco Whorl
The shell was a thing of beauty, held in the hand of my beautiful daughter. She found it at the base of a tree, after stopping next to this big sycamore and insisting I take her picture in the silver-white light of a mild winter Saturday afternoon. The shell surprised and delighted us, as it made up for the lack of river glass and freshwater clam shells we had set out to collect.
The sandbar I had hoped to mine for glass bits and clam shells was no longer to be found. The river was running a little higher than the day I had first seen it. Perhaps the recent storms had even washed it completely away. My daughter was disappointed. In the morning, she had been talking about collecting river glass after breakfast and through lunch. So we trekked on, looking for other natural delights.
Then there was the shell in the picture. She 'oohed' and 'ahhed' over her discovery. I took joy in seeing hers. She bubbled with excitement as she brought the shell over to share. I had never seen such a thing on all my walks along the river. This was something new and fascinating. It helped make a good walk better. She happily wanted to carry it in her pocket, beaming as she told me she couldn't wait to show it to her mother.
On the return leg of our walk, we stopped at one of the small tunnels under the railroad tracks, through which rushed a brisk, cold stream. It makes it way through the tunnel and spills out into a little pool before running into the river. There were stones and moss. Her whim dictated that we spend some time lobbing small rocks into the water, listening to the splashes and plunks. She seemed particularly amused by the wet plop of stones into the thick beds of underwater moss or algae.
She found a rock she wanted to keep. It sparkled. I mentioned it probably contained mica. She wanted to know what mica meant. This led to a discussion of rocks and minerals, and the difference between a geologist and a mycologist. It was she who gravely informed me that the latter was someone who studies mushrooms and fungi. I was amused and proud that she even knew what the word meant.
We walked back to the car, in that way peculiar to kids which combines an amble and an eddy. She wrote her name in the dirt with the rock. I contemplated the beauty of my legacy, and the shell in her dainty hand. The sun, the river, my lovely daughter enchanted me. In a nacreous whorl the size of a cherry, I saw my place in this universe: to breathe, to be content, to know love.
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