Relishings

IN MY BIG BACKYARD : : What to do with that extra day?

That one extra elusive day for which we often search has arrived. To paraphrase Mary Oliver, tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious day? 

Well, you could support our Kickstarter campaign...

Power to the Freight Shed Kickstarter click here

Winter Farmer's Market Sweet and Spicy Root Casserole

• 5 carrots, peeled
• 6 parsnips
• 3 sweet potatoes or one butternut squash peeled and chopped
• 1 small yellow onion, sliced into wedges
• 1/4 cup raisins
• 1/2 cup unsweetened dried cherries
• 2-inch piece fresh ginger, peeled and julienned
• 1 cup orange juice
• 1/4 cup maple syrup
• 1/4 cup lime juice
• 2 tablespoons (or to taste) sriracha or thai chili sauce
• 1 teaspoon arrowroot powder
• 1/8 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
• Zest of 1 lemon, coarsely chopped
• Sea salt
• 1/4 cup roasted sliced almonds
• chopped cilantro 

Preheat oven to 375 F.

Chop sweet potatoes or squash, parsnips and carrots into 1-inch chunks and place in 9 x 13-inch casserole dish. Add onion, raisins, cherries and ginger and toss to evenly distribute ingredients. In separate bowl, combine orange juice, maple syrup, chili sauce, lime juice, arrowroot, nutmeg, lemon zest and salt. Whisk to combine ingredients and pour evenly over vegetables. Cover with foil and bake 45 minutes. Remove from oven, remove foil and baste. Return uncovered casserole to oven and bake another 15 minutes. Remove from oven, toss vegetables again to re-coat with sauce and serve sprinkled with chopped almonds and cilantro.

Serves 8 (who could also support the Bath Freight Shed - pass it forward!)

 

IN MY KITCHEN : : The lightness of being

There's a shift going on. In the world, in our woods, inside me. 

Last week where there was ice, solid ground, there is now moving oozing water. All seems exposed and green. A Pileated Woodpecker signals it is time to tap the trees. 

The winter that wasn't seems to be moving on as well. Wind and rain in February. What a strange year it has been. 

And I know all to well it will surely change again. 

It is the time of year my health feels the most vulnerable and unsteady. The dampness goes deep. I feel a need to eat light foods. Foods from warm places. Tropical foods. And so with compassion and caring I am giving up dairy, meat, and sugar for Lent. Mostly. It doesn't feel like hardship. It feels like kindness. 

Grapefruit Carrot Ginger Juice

Beet Mint Apple Juice

Green Morning Sunshine

Rainbow Salad

 Squash Soup with Roasted Kale

Steamed Broccoli and Squash with Tahini Sauce

Dried Fruit and Nut Bites 

Lightness like a new sun, springing like a thawing brook, blooming as my heart. 

IN MY BIG BACKYARD : : NYC

 

six well loved family reunions

too much wine

the hustle the bustle but not the stars

a brilliant day on the Intrepid with warm sunshine and WW ll recollections by those who were there and my own cellular memories

 

 

lunch in the village with my sis

bulbs coming up in her courtyard apartment

a pilgrimage to Purl

too too too many shoppers in soho

a run for safety

nothing that cupcakes can't cure

 

A Sunday at the Met 

cheery cherry blossoms

the new american wing

calming monochromatic egypt because we always do

sad goodbyes

 

 

a half a days drive but a a full world away

feeling about two meals ahead of myself

history layered with memories

space

home

love

IN MY HEART : : Now I become myself

Now I Become Myself

Now I become myself. It's taken 
Time, many years and places;
I have been dissolved and shaken,
Worn other people's faces,
Run madly, as if Time were there,
Terribly old, crying a warning,
"Hurry, you will be dead before--"
(What? Before you reach the morning?
Or the end of the poem is clear?
Or love safe in the walled city?)
Now to stand still, to be here,
Feel my own weight and density!
The black shadow on the paper
Is my hand; the shadow of a word
As thought shapes the shaper
Falls heavy on the page, is heard.
All fuses now, falls into place
From wish to action, word to silence,
My work, my love, my time, my face
Gathered into one intense
Gesture of growing like a plant.
As slowly as the ripening fruit
Fertile, detached, and always spent,
Falls but does not exhaust the root,
So all the poem is, can give,
Grows in me to become the song,
Made so and rooted by love.
Now there is time and Time is young.
O, in this single hour I live
All of myself and do not move.
I, the pursued, who madly ran,
Stand still, stand still, and stop the sun!

    May Sarton

 

IN MY BIG BACKYARD : : Calling all thermal engineers

This time of year with no fruit flies to worry about, not a lot of house guests, and a diet espousing Michael Pollans' recommendations: “Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.”; we just keep our compost in a big bowl on the kitchen counter dumping it every couple of days. 

Yesterday on my way out to add said bowl to the bigger backyard compost pile I noticed the bowl was warm, really warm. And I got to thinking, what if you could create radiant heat under your floorboards without oil or wood or propane. What if you could heat your house with compost? 

So all you engineers out there, what are you waiting for? Time to get the heck on it. We haven't a second to loose. 

And then I read this and I got to thinking...It would be such a happy house! 

IN MY HEART : : If not for you

for Walter...

 

IN MY KITCHEN : : Mercury boing boing

My number one rule of outdoor winter activity, learned early in life, is don't get cold. So with Thursday's forecast calling for low temps and high winds I came to the Nordic ski race prepared: my warmest hat, heaviest coat, dorkiest boots. I was ready. 

But with warm sunshine, my hat wasn't necessary, my coat was optional, and my boots remained just plain dorky. It was a beautiful day punctuated by cow bells, courageous skiers, big smiles and perhaps even a few more freckles. If the race had been hours later they'd have been skiing on grass.  

The warmth didn't last long; by Sunday the temps had plummeted and the bitter had returned to winter. My body reacted to the wonky temperature dive with that coming down with something white flag; signaling a quiet weekend and some healing soup.

And I listened. 

 

Vegetarian Split Pea soup with Curried Ghee

Ingredients

• 1 onion, chopped
• 2 Tablespoon Ghee (or butter)
• 2 cloves garlic, chopped
• 1 inch ginger peeled and diced
• 1/2 tsp red pepper flakes
• 5 1/2 cups water
• 1 1/2 cups green split peas or green lentils
• 2 Tablespoons ghee (or butter)
• 1 tbsp curry powder
• 1 bunch fresh cilantro, minced
• 1/4 cup large flake unsweetened coconut
• 1/4 cup sliced roasted almonds

Directions

1. In a large pot melt 2 Tbs of ghee and add the onion, garlic, ginger and red pepper flakes. Cook for a couple of minutes, stirring once or twice.
2. Pick any pebbles from the green split peas, rinse well and add to pot with the water.
3. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Cover and turn down the heat when simmering and let simmer for about 45 min or until the split peas are tender. 
4. In the meantime melt the ghee, let it turn just brown and add the curry for 30 sec. Set aside.
5. The soup is done when the split peas are tender. Blend with handheld blender until chunky or smooth. Your choice.
6. Drizzle with a bit of the curried butter and top with cilantro, coconut, and almonds. 

The dorky boots are back. 

IN MY HEART : : L - O - V - E (and new music from Josh Ritter)

Supermarket Cashier : I hate Valentine's Day

Me : Can you hate an entire day devoted to love ? 

SC : Yes, because I have no one to love. 

Me : Not your grandmother, or your cat, or the library, good chocolate, yourself ? 

SC: *Long pause* Ok, you win.

I am relentless. 

 

[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]

BY E. E. CUMMINGS

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

                                                      i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

 

 

Happy Weekend all! They are predicting a two dog night on Saturday (unfortunately I only have one and he's small!). Love, W

IN MY KITCHEN : : Birthday Shrimp

Shortly after Walter and I met almost thirty years ago we snuck away from New York City for a little trip. Heading up the New England coast we ended up spending a secret week on an island in Maine. We sailed and hiked and read. And we found ourselves picking blackberries, many many blackberries, so many blackberries we made blackberry jam. New Yorkers making blackberry jam in the early 80s. I think of those blackberries as a talisman for what would come. A year later, without a moment's hesitation, we loaded up our stuff and found ourselves planting blackberry bushes in Maine. 

Last weekend was Walter's birthday. It has been a tradition for years to make a gumbo for a birthday gift. This year I deviated a bit, winding off the beaten track to fetch a growler at Oxbow Brewery. Loud beer from a quiet place. Oxbow Brewery is a place to talk beer (a lot of talking), a place to sample beer (a lot of sampling), and then...a place to do it all over again. (Full of guys, I call it Oxbro Brewery). Delicious brew indeed, but a spot that might pre-empt a long afternoon of chopping and cooking; a place more in step with a nice long afternoon nap. So we went with an edited New Orleans feast:

Fresh Winter Point Oysters with mignonette sauce, Barbecued Maine Shrimp, chopped fresh local Goranson's carrots, a baguette from Treats and of pint of the finest farmhouse beer around. 

 

Barbecued Maine Shrimp Inspired by Paul Prodhomme

• 1 1/2 pounds Maine Shrimp cleaned
• Seasoning mix:
• 1 teaspoon cayenne pepper
• 1 teaspoon black pepper
• 1/2 teaspoon salt 
• 1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
• 1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
• 1/2 teaspoon rosemary leaves, crushed
• 1/8 teaspoon oregano
• 1/2 stick butter
• 1 to 2 teaspoons minced garlic
• 1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
• 1/2 cup seafood stock or vegetable stock
• 1/4 cup beer at room temperature

 1) In a small bowl, combine seasoning mix ingredients.

2) Combine the butter, the garlic, Worcestershire sauce and seasoning mix in a large skillet over high heat. When the butter is melted, add the shrimp.

3) Cook for 2 minutes, shaking the pan (do not stir), in a back and forth motion. Add the stock, cook and shake pan for 2 more minutes. Add the beer and cook and shake the pan 1 minute longer. Remove from heat. Serve with bread to dunk. 

Serves three

And some raspberries...

IN MY HEART : : Shoveling Snow with Buddha

Shoveling Snow With Buddha In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok  you would never see him doing such a thing,  tossing the dry snow over a mountain  of his bare, round shoulder,  his hair tied in a knot,  a model of concentration.  Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word  for what he does, or does not do.  Even the season is wrong for him.  In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?  Is this not implied by his serene expression,  that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?  But here we are, working our way down the driveway,  one shovelful at a time.  We toss the light powder into the clear air.  We feel the cold mist on our faces.  And with every heave we disappear  and become lost to each other  in these sudden clouds of our own making,  these fountain-bursts of snow.  This is so much better than a sermon in church,  I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.  This is the true religion, the religion of snow,  and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,  I say, but he is too busy to hear me.  He has thrown himself into shoveling snow  as if it were the purpose of existence,  as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway  you could back the car down easily  and drive off into the vanities of the world  with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.  All morning long we work side by side,  me with my commentary  and he inside his generous pocket of silence,  until the hour is nearly noon  and the snow is piled high all around us;  then, I hear him speak.  After this, he asks,  can we go inside and play cards?  Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk  and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table  while you shuffle the deck.  and our boots stand dripping by the door.  Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes  and leaning for a moment on his shovel  before he drives the thin blade again  deep into the glittering white snow. Billy Collins

 

Happy weekend all! We will be celebrating a birthday, basking in the glow of a great Nordic Ski race, rooting for the Pats, and (with great mindfulness) surely shoveling some snow.