New Food Blog

I discovered a new food blog today and i think she is totally fabulous- Leela, at shesimmers.com. I've set myself the goal of learning how to make fabulous Thom Kha Gai and I think I have found my teacher. Another website woman who I absolutely looooooove (read eloise) is the pastry princess, Fanny. She is very young and wants nothing more than to be a pastry chef and is already an artist, check her out at likeastrawberrymilk.com. Now, I am going to cook something with coconut milk and then bake a chocolate flourless cake. Thanks for the inspiration, ladies.

towards a style of cooking

From the Gourmet tv series Foodies on China:

In the song dynasty the second emperor asked one of his officials

 "what is the finest food in the world" 

and the official replied, "there is no answer.

Good food is not only what is served to an emperor, it can be made in the poorest of homes. If it tastes delicious and gives you joy, then it is good food." 

chinese food historian and writer Jiang Liyang

the food critic and historian who told this story went on to say that there are particular features of chinese cuisine:

color, fragrance, flavor, shape, texture, sound (either of cooking or biting), the matching of serving vessel and table ware and the name of the dish and cuisine.

Chefs have their own style when it comes to food, that they are known by. I would have to say that I have not cooked enough to know what my style is, but what I like to eat right now is smoked, rich tasting, spicy bold things with layers of flavor. But this is not everyone's taste and most certainly is not the taste of most Germans. Because for hundreds of years they have eaten pork and sauerkraut and bread and cream and cheese and muesli. Not that those are bad things, but espresso, for example, and winter squash are relatively new things on the scene here in Germany. Like, in our generation. So, I think that the food I cook at the restaurant needs to be more safe and comforty and, um, boring. Because I keep hearing that things are too spicy, or strong, or something. Although, I think they are good. But anyway, I think I should keep the experimenting to my own kitchen. Instead, I need to dig out the faves from where I used to cook and go through the cycle again, adapting to German palettes. Learning about the features of German cuisine and adapting them to my own way of cooking.

Apropos*, I am having friends over on thursday night and I am going to make Chickpea patties with beetroot tzatziki, sesame roasted potatoes, avocado and grapefruit salad, and some fabulous dessert- either flourless chocolate cake (chocolate, sugar and eggs. period), or hazelnut chocolate cookies (200g chocolate for 9 large cookies), or  something else equally devastating. I promise to include all recipes.

And at work, I will make things like chicken with lemon and thyme, which is also really good, and pizzas, and carrot soup, and potato gratin. But not Ethiopian spiced lentils or curries or chickpea patties with beetroot tzatziki (thank you Nigel). Because I can't help myself when it comes to chiles.

Now I am off to start the apple branch basket...I promise to include a picture of whatever it turns out to be, no matter how weird I think it looks.

* On the merriamwebster free online dictionary they have a list of words rhyming with the one you have looked up. I couldn't remember the correct spelling of apropos (forgot the s) and then saw this list, which I include for your enjoyment. acid snow, afterglow, aikido, alpenglow, art deco, art nouveau, audio, Baguio, Bamako, barrio, bay window,Bergamo, bibelot, Bilbao... 
Whatever is a  bilbao, you ask? That will have to wait for another post...

some new beginnings

So, I am preparing to sign up for my first Herbal Medicine course, which begins on March 2 at Learningherbs.com . They seem a little home grown, a little kitschy, a little granola wholesome, but I like their approach to medicine making and herbs and they have great resources and knowledgeable people. And, they have a great newsletter and lots of classes that I can take through the internet at a distance course. Then, I have decided to study "The ABCs of Herbalism" with Susun Weed. She is really well known in the herbal world and I would guess highly controversial, but she works through intuition as well as botany, and she is a bit witchy and wild, which I like, although her website is a bit over-the-top.

I have to say, though, that I am feeling more and more committed to "kitchen table ordinariness", or whatever it can be called- nothing fancy or outwardly aligned with a particular dogma or organization, and not something i have to carry around as a burden. I think being invisibly, ordinarily present with life as it passes in, through, and out of a kitchen, for example, is what I am interested in doing- not just preparing food, eating and cleaning up after, though that is a large part of it. Last week, I taught meditation to a woman in a kitchen, which was just about the perfect place to do it. I often meet with folks and listen to them in a kitchen. I use my kitchen as a work space- herbal medicine making, spreading out things to make marmalade, dye wool (when I start doing that), spin wool, and paint. I find the kitchen to be a room that can be used for many things both solitary or intimate, as well as festive and large. Kitchens are good places for meetings and dinner parties. A kitchen seems to be a nourishing place full of possibility and where one can make a cup of tea.

Also, I am going to take a basket weaving class here from a coworker of nic's who is really an incredible object and installation artist using wild and found materials and the techniques of basket weaving. Go here. The class is March 23, I think.


Both of these things- basket making and herbal medicine making are things I have been wanting to learn and practice since I was a girl. And now I am going to do them.

roses

Like anything that we domesticate, roses need our care to grow and stay healthy. Farm animals, for example, are  our creation and are therefore under our care. A sheep or chicken could not really survive anymore in the wild; just as we need their flesh, or fur, or feathers, they need our barns, food, and, in the cases of roses, pruning. Pruning is not my favorite garden activity. I would really rather not cut anything off of anything else. I am more of the let it grow wild and free kind of gardener. But I recognize that in some cases this is not actually practical or favorable. So, I try to take the view of pruning as the opportunity to come into a relationship with a being that will allow that being to shine forth its potential.

A friend of mine talks about the "song" of each being as their destiny, when united with their own soul, gifts or potential and in the case of humans whatever it is we call the divine or the holy. I say "in the case of humans" because I think we are the only species capable of forgetting that we are in fact not separate from this divinity or holiness and for that matter we are the only species capable of being so disconnected from our souls that we can engage in mass genocide, for example, of other humans and other beings. We are also the only species that can demonstrate for a fair government. But I digress, when a being brings forth the song of their heart, my friend says, and aligns it with their heads and the thoughts they are thinking, then they are in harmony or in rhythm with their lives and seamless within the fabric of all that is. What in Jewish mysticism is referred to as humbleness- being in our true place, manifesting our own life beautifully and filling the space that only we can fill, rather than trying to be something or someone we are not.

Is it possible to have a relationship with a cultivated rose that needs care that actually gives as much to us in beauty and the bringing forth of our own nature as it does with finding, for example, the energy and form of growth in this particular rose?  I think it is probably a good metaphor for our own growth , or intention as humans to discover and sing our own unique song in the chorus of the universe, to try to see and aid a rose into her most harmonious manifestation possible. And can the care and pruning of a rose also help that rose to come into its own glorious manifestation and not just fit into some idea we have about it?

With regards to the rose I was with today, I have noticed several things. Firstly, someone has done an awful job of pruning, or false cutting as the german term translates. Every single main branch has been cut, so that that particular branch cannot grow in one direction, but grows a spiral of branches radiating out from the cut. Her form looks and feels totally chaotic- branches crossing and crisscrossing one another, like a great confused mess. She has suckers all over the base of the main trunk and is covered in small branches that rose gardeners talk about as being  "less than the thickness of a pencil". All of these should apparently go.  And she is sick- her leaves full of a dappled whitish mildewy looking sickness. I would be too if I had been pruned that way. So, I first took off all of the leaves so that the sickness does not overwinter. Then I made a few cuts that were clearly necessary. Then, I stopped and simply spent awhile looking at her, talking with her, asking her to show me her true form. But mostly looking and observing what grows where and how? How was she trying to grow before one of the main canes was cut? In which direction is she trying to reach? Where is the sun? Where is she caught in her own branches? Then I went inside and made soup.

Nic and I have been reading books aloud to each other since we got together. Most often they are of the fantasy/magic realm- Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials series (which, if you haven't read, you must. really.). And we always engage with them as symbols or archetypal journeys for our own lives. I was thinking, while plucking every single leaf off of the rose bush, that most of the books we read seem magical and lovely but are actually infused with a level of control and masculine domination, or at least the books are peopled often with many more men than women, and I find it interesting that we read them so avidly being the leftist lesbians that we are. Part of it, of course, is that these books take place in a different time and because both of us feel rather disconnected to this technological age, there is some affinity for visiting another era. But I was thinking about how magic and the rise of patriarchal influences and the making of a huge struggle between the light and the dark- out of which two only one can become the winner-seems to be a rather stark, polar version of reality.

The dark is our birth place, it is where our soul sleeps and lives and dreams, it is where our hurts are healed, where babies are grown into human forms, where our creativity, fertility, imagination, and potential all live. It is, of course, also what we associate with the unknown, the void, emptiness, non-self; all very scary terms. And the dark is also where the monsters live, the unconscious, the uncontrollable, and wild and some say, the feminine. I could see with this rose exactly the cultivation of the wild- that which is incredibly beautiful and has thorns-the claiming of the dark by the light and the turning of what is fecund into what is knowable and often bland and even boring, although safe.

The cultivation and creation of plants, such as this rose I am entering into a relationship with, very often take only the creators wishes and whims into account. Or their laziness. Often plants are pruned or cut down simply because we have deemed that they are "in the way". My neighbor says, for example, "you can cut away as much as you like of that plant, it always grows in front of our door." Or we don't like them, or we want them to be different- a different plant, a different shape, a different something that will be under our control and therefore to our liking (much like ourselves). I wonder how often we are not even aware of these undercurrents moving through us. We think consciously that something is right in a certain way, but actually, it is only that we WANT it that way.

A relationship means to also take action, to be involved, to care and be cared for. A relationship with something created, like a cultivated rose, is required because we belong to what we have created. When we make something with our hands and our minds and our hearts, we belong to the thing we have created. Think of  a baby for example, once a person has created a child, they are responsible for responding to the child's every need and often every whim. A plant is not so different, only they require less of our time, though no less a quality of relationship. So what does it mean to participate in the life of another? To take shears in our hands and cut off parts of a being's body while listening not to what we want, or would prefer only, but to include the spirit of the being. To remember that a rose, as all living beings do, has a song and that this specific rose I am charged with caring for has her unique beautiful song that only she can sing, here in this courtyard. How can I help her voice to be heard? How can I help her to thrive and find her unique expression of "roseness"? How can I do that for myself? How can I care for my own soul so that it awakens and blossoms to its own expression of beauty?

today's lunch

Was tomato, red leaf lettuce and winterpostulein (a german salad green) salad, with sour cream, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and tons of salt and pepper. and then a spelt pretzel with butter, mustard, and schinken (thinly sliced, smoked, cured pork).

picture forthcoming

And breakfast was a pear with slices of goat brie and then fennel and blood orange slices with olive oil and salt.

We have rainbows all over our house from the crystals hanging in every window and the SUN that is shining! all morning through our windows. Hooray! Oh, and my little cilantro seeds have sprouted. But the dill is still sleeping.

picture forthcoming

It seems as if this has been a really hard week for some folks- two couples I know have contacted me and told me they were either divorced or separating, one of my bosses is having not only real financial trouble, but one of my coworkers quite this morning. And the other boss is having to work way too much because one of my coworkers in that store is having such mental challenges that she cannot be flexible about much of anything at the moment. She needs stability somewhere in her life as she is not living the life that she wants to be living and is filled with anxiety and fear and depression and is easily overwhelmed. I have been very happy the last days and I have been thinking about how all of this works.

Part of it is that looking around I see how blessed I am, how lucky I am. And I am filled with such gratitude and joy and thankfulness and compassion and ok-ness. It is this funny thing that somehow makes me feel humbler rather than superior to the folks around me and keeps me really rooted in trusting the universe. And it motivates me to offer what I can within my resources of time and energy and money. I feel inspired and creative and filled with the joy of ordinariness. And this wants to overflow and connect with other hearts. I am not interested in "helping people" or, as some have said, "being a good Bodhisattva". I think I am rather the opposite of all the dogma I learned for so many years. I have finally freed myself from some Buddhist idea of how i am supposed to act and behave that was based on my self hatred and fear and clutching at something to show me how to make up for whatever badness I felt filled with. Now, I have a genuine love for myself and for life and I want only to connect, heart to heart with beings, and share love and togetherness, even through difficulty.

I am practicing with Nic, for example, how to turn towards each other when things are stressful and difficult. So often and so easily, we actually turn away form each other in these moments and get angry or sarcastic or cold or whatever with each other, when it is really grief and sadness and frustration and fear about a situation. Instead we could stand next to each other and look at the problem together and then act. It i slow going to change such an ingrained habit.

Cooking helps, as it always has, to bring up the stuff and transform it. And serving customers in the shop helps. But what helps most is gratitude to All for this life and remembering the holy. Like when I unpack the lettuce at the shop and am so moved by the beauty of the life of the plant I hold in my hands that I bring it home and eat it for lunch, eat that beauty and life into my belly. And then I can go out into the world and give it to others, not because it is a good idea to do so, but because I am so nourished by beauty that I simply have it within me to give.

the patchwork heart

A friend told me a story once about the patchwork heart. It goes something like this...

Once upon a time, there was a village whose people would walk about the plaza each sunday afternoon. They would see old friends, and make new ones, share stories, breathe the fresh air, and generally hear the gossip of the town during the week. And sometimes, sometimes someone would speak to the people from their heart. One such Sunday, when the autumn leaves were burnished bronze and the red flame of the year was growing ever dimmer towards winter, a young girl stood at the well in the middle of the Plaza and spoke. She said, look, please, look at me. Do I not have the most beautiful, the most fresh, young, succulent and gorgeous heart you have ever seen? And the people gathered around her to look and decide whether she indeed had the most beautiful heart they had ever seen. This was not unusual in this town, mind you, the people had seen things like this before. Often the townspeople would debate over the merits of one person or another, or would show themselves to be the most generous or humble and would ask the people if this was so. So the people came around her to look and see and listen. And they took awhile. and the girl waited. And finally, the people sighed and stepped back, and in the silence, one old, old woman spoke. Yes, she said, you have a beautiful fresh heart. It is indeed pure and sweet. I do not think, however, that it is the most beautiful heart I have ever seen. I think my heart is the more beautiful. My heart is patched and scarred and old. Everyone I have loved I have given a piece of my heart to. I have made a hole there, in my heart, and this hole was not always filled with a piece of another's heart in return. So, I have had to sew up my heart in places where the damage was too great. Or, I have let the hole be there, and heal over, or I have later been given a piece of someone's heart that didn't quite fit the hole and I have had to stitch it in place. My heart is patched, and scarred and pock-marked. But I think it is the more beautiful for having lived and having given itself in love. And again the towns people look, and listened and saw. And the girl, awed and touched by the beauty of this old woman's heart said to her, yes, grandmother, truly you have the more beautiful heart. And the village was glad, and went about their business of visiting and chattering and gossiping. And the girl and the old woman spent some time together at the well, just sitting together and listening to the sound of their hearts.

Die Flickenkoenigin

the patchwork queen

the broken heart / much-scarred already / goes to the patchwork queen / it weeps heart-rendingly / imploring: your grace / see how ugly Ive become / the queen takes / the heart in her arm / caresses its scars, speaking the while:

ill take from the spider / its silk as thread / and patch up your wounds with cross-stitch / then he / that is enclosed in your heart / will forever be in thrall to you / and as he peruses your scars / he 'll find there a flower/ not coldstone

one of those days

where i fell into the computer and lost 3 or 4 hours. Searching for flights to the States, emailing friends, researching how to card wool (because I have wool carders now!). and suddenly it was so late in the day. But I managed to sit at the spinning wheel and practice for an hour and I found out something. Unaided, my foot is hopelessly lost in a jerky start and stop motion, never quite finding the rhythm of the wheel. (rather like my mind was in meditation, actually.) But when I sing, then my whole body lines up and I can keep the wheel going and going. I sang a song that a friend wrote to Prajna Paramita, the mother of wisdom and the Buddhas. When I sing, that generally happens, I line up and things flow, I can find the rhythm of what it is I am doing. Or better, I can find the rhythm of my being. Always has been that way, but increasingly more in the last years, I find that singing is more an act of an energy moving through me not from me. And whether my voice is the vehicle or the product, the sign or the gift and release, it really doesn't matter. As a woman says here, singing is a life-elixir. I think I need to be doing it more often. I was so happy sitting there for an hour, singing the same song over and over, running the treadle with my foot and at the end, actually spinning a bit of wool with my hands at the same time. So, the value of a song to be sung while working and the value of the singing itself.

Then I made a soup of leftovers and an apple quince crumble for dessert. I have to admit something. even with no refrigerator and not much food in the house, I have still managed to let things rot- a package of precious, rare , and expensive cilantro because my sweetie and I each bought a package on the same day and I only needed one. Half of a cauliflower beginning to brown, a quarter of a rutabaga already used in two meals, half an onion in a tupperware getting all spread out and dry, the quinces, which have been sitting since the beginning of january turning more and more brown by the day. I have a problem with vegetables and fruits- I fall in love with them and buy too many and then they sit around and wait patiently for me to cook them and I do, but only three quarters of them. Then I get seduced by the next leggy carrot or busty squash and its all over. The sight a week or even two later, of greens turning to yellows, of brown blotches on on the skin of a fruit, things sliding into rot and decay inside of my refrigerator makes me actually sick to my stomach. But I am a compulsive sort of food buyer. It is all so beautiful and I can't help myself.

So I made a soup tonight of those above things as well as some meatballs I brought home from work because I couldn't stand to throw them away. I put in spicy tomatoey sort of seasoning and we'll see how it turns out. I think the crumble was a stroke of genius.

But I want so much to treat the vegetables and fruits I bring home with more respect. Maybe I need to not go shopping until I have an empty fridge. Or only buy what I need for a specific meal and plan things in advance. Or, somehow figure out how not to buy all the beautiful things I see, which would save money anyway. Or invite more people over for dinner so I can use the whole of something rather than a portion.

Wednesday night we went to see the fabulous Ulrike Haage from Berlin play her Piano amazingness. She does things with the computer and she plays the piano all over- as a drum, on the strings, with little hammers and mallets and wires and of course, on the keys. This is one of her more well known songs, check it out:



She used to be part of the Rainburds, with Katharina Franck: