TUNING IN TO LIFE
WITH EXPLORATIONS OF RHUBARB, ASPARAGUS, AND OTHER PLEASURES
Even as the trees slowly come to green life and the tulips stand tall, we’re still having a chilly withheld kind of spring. Most days are too cold for bees, and my lilies of the valley are still many days from perfuming the garden, though the crabapple tree out front is in full white bloom.
cherry blossom close-up; more jazzy than the delicate crabapple blossoms
I’ve written here recently about feeling flattened and at a low ebb. The shift in my universe with the loss of Tashi has made the whole world feel unreliable. I’ve been sticking fairly close to home, not traveling far afield physically or emotionally, not feeling confident.
The unthinking trust in ourselves that many of us learn as children, if we’re lucky, can vanish when we’re shocked by trauma or overtaken by grief. There’s a kind of shutting-down of reflexes, a narrowing of the horizon, a weighty focus inward rather than outward. You may have experienced versions of this state.
I’m still learning about all this. And now I’m seeing it partly in retrospect, for things are starting to shift.
cherry petal “snow” beneath the trees; a glimpse of other visitors
Early last week, I went on a walk with friends in High Park to see the cherry blossoms on a very grey and overcast day. In the flat light the trees radiated a glowing energy, a kind of steady brilliance. They looked more startling and beautiful than I’d ever seen them. There was an unreality to their loveliness, their shining glowing whiteness, that stopped me in my tracks. It felt other-worldly, a touch of grace. Perhaps that respite on Tuesday is what gave me the confidence and energy to drive myself out of town on Friday.
on our way to the cherry trees we walked past the pond, with its ducks and merganzers, its bulrushes and beautiful light
On Saturday there was an all-day Sacred Harp singing event scheduled at the Dettweiler Meeting House, more than an hour’s drive west of Toronto. I had thought I’d get a ride out that morning in someone else’s car. And then a more muscled ambitious me started to imagine a different option. What if I drove myself out of town the day before to stay with my friends Karen and Nick? It would give me a chance to see them and to have an easy drive to the Saturday singing on small roads.
This stirring of fresh confidence was exciting. And so was my excursion. It was like a reawakening. My friends have a complex of bird feeders behind their house and have become avid bird-watchers. In the early morning I sat on their back step for well over an hour watching the birds and listening to them: effortless liquidy sounds, throat-clearing squawks, breathy whistles… and lots more. It was entrancing. I could see the silhouettes of the birds as they moved around farther away, flitting, darting up tree trunks, looping through the air. Those that came to the bird feeders were easy to admire in detail, the woodpeckers, showy cardinals, elegant red-breasted grosbeak, big-bodied blue jays, and more….
My drive to Dettweiler through farmland and small towns went smoothly. And the singing was, as always, a deep pleasure. Occasionally I found myself in tears, stirred the emotion of singing with others. I returned home invigorated, joyful, and full of energy.
What had made my little excursion special? First there was the arrival of enough imagination and confidence, so that I could picture myself doing the trip. But after that? I think it was watching the birds attentively, with no thought other than noticing and appreciating each moment.
delicate willow blossoms
Is this like tree-washing? Was it Mother Nature refreshing my eyes and spirits? I don’t think it was exactly that. It was instead an experience that actively pulled me into the life in front of me, in all its beautiful movement and sound. This kind of transport can happen with art or music, or with animals or children, or with plants in a garden.
ferns unfurling beside High Park
The important elements, I think, the necessary conditions, include an unrushed length of time and an open or receptive mind that is thirsting to be transported. In my dulled state I’d been unaware of my thirst, so this re-awakening is a wonderful surprise.
KITCHEN EXPLORATIONS – rhubarb tkhemali sauce; endive-mushroom lusciousness; asparagus!
Rhubarb is now in season. My small clump out back is nearly ready for a first pick, and there’s lots available at the farmers markets in Toronto. Rhubarb is an excellent substitute for other tart fruits, for example in the dazzling Georgian savory sauce called tkhemali, which is usually made with tart plums. (There’s a tkhemali recipe in my Taste of Persia cookbook.)
Last week we had a couple of guests for supper. I’d chopped up some rhubarb and simmered it with a little water until it was tender. I’d added only a little sugar to take the extreme edge off its sourness. We had lamb chops to grill, a green salad, and rice. I added minced garlic to the cooked rhubarb, along with a little salt, some blue fenugreek powder (now available at Kalustyan’s in NYC and by mail order), ground coriander seed, and some powdered dried red chile. The combination of spices and herbs instantly transformed the rhubarb into tkhemali, like magic. It was perfect with the lamb.
the radishes at the markets are dazzling at this time of year; Sosnicki’s stand at Wychwood Market
On Sunday a bunch of us gathered around a table for food and wine and conversation. Among the dishes (contributed by various people, and made with locally grown meat and produce) were a muhammara made with hazelnuts instead of walnuts (see Sami Tamimi’s recipe here on Substack); charcoal-grilled marinated lamb chops, sliced; seared duck breasts, sliced; a huge green salad; a pile of asparagus spears, both white and green, with a gribiche sauce alongside; and a beige-looking dish of endives, mushrooms, and rice. It was all delicious and fun.
Perhaps surprisingly, several people told me that they’d loved the plain-jane-looking casserole most of all. What’s it called? someone asked. “Monique’s casserole” was all I could tell them. Maybe you’ve run into a version of it somewhere? Please let me know.
It’s a simple enough dish to make, with casual proportions. A Swiss friend named Monique showed it to me long ago. You need plenty of Belgian endives, separated into whole leaves; coarsely chopped mushrooms; and some raw rice; as well as butter, salt, pepper, and some good cream. The idea is to use a heavy pot and fill it with layers of the ingredients until it’s packed full. Then the lid goes on tightly and it bakes in a 300F to 350 F oven for about an hour, or until the rice is cooked through and the endives are collapsed and soft. At that point you stir in a generous amount of cream before serving it hot.
More specifically, once you have laid down a first layer of endive leaves and sprinkled on a handful of chopped mushrooms and a generous sprinkling of rice, you add dots of butter and a little pepper and salt. Then you repeat the layers, as many as you have room for, ending with a top layer of endive. I tend to sprinkle on a little water for luck, but usually the rice cooks simply in the water given up by the endive leaves. (If you want to use brown rice as we did last night, then you need to soak it for a couple of hours ahead and also add a generous half cup or so of water to the pot.)
grilled asparagus; and simply blanched asparagus, with lake trout, leeks, and smashed spuds
Speaking of simple, is there anything better than fresh local asparagus? I add it to a skillet of boiling salted water and lift it out when barely tender. It continues to cook for a few minutes after, as I dress it with good olive oil and generous squeezes of lemon, plus a sprinkle of salt. Perfection. Another option is to oil it lightly, sprinkle on a little fish sauce or salt, and then grill it over medium heat. You’ll need tongs. During this asparagus season I expect I’ll be eating it almost every day. With gusto!
And a note: I’m fed up with the whole idea of Mothers Day. Let’s abolish it. Every day is mother’s day, really. The sentimentality and tokenism (plus the commercial cashing-in) that hang around the day are aggravating. Plus the words “Mothers Day” are a painful reminder for anyone who has lost a mother, or for any mother who has lost a child. I’m for full abolition.
the lovely bare bones of early spring landscapes soon vanish under new growth; this is beside High Park