I hosted book club last night on the patio with social distancing...
Eight chairs. I managed to scrounge up 8 small tables, although a few had to be dragged outside from the house — those have to go back inside at some point, preferably today, but at the moment I am stiff and my back is still a bit too sore to carry them up the stairs. Never mind. They can always reside in the garage a day or two if necessary.
This morning I am in no rush, instead settled into that contentedly contemplative zone, the morning-after-a-party zone, reflecting back on conversations and community. Every good party deserves a follow-up morning of happy repose. The furniture must be put back in place, the dishwashers emptied, the linens washed, but there is really no reason to rush. The morning after a party is almost as important as the party itself.
Not unusually, my back is a bit sore. Too much standing in the kitchen I suppose, plus carrying tables outside. Would I do anything differently? No. Not really. Cooking, even the simple preparation of salads, is both labor-intensive and meditative. And I seem to have needed this time to be reminded that the important things in life are not the fast things, not the busy things, but the slow and connected things, like sitting and talking for a few hours with friends, discussing a book, but also discussing the world and our lives and then coming back around to the book, the way reading is a conversation, and a conversation about reading also sparks other conversations, about the complicated web of human interaction.
Not a lot of dinner came from my garden. The fava beans that are in the rice salad. I pulled out the fava beans this week as the temperatures had gotten too hot and the plants were dying. Admittedly, I knew I had planted them a bit too late, but was happy to have about 2 cups of shelled and de-skinned beans, enough to share in a group of 8 only as part of a salad. Also an opportunity for contemplative anticipation as the beans were shelled, par-boiled, iced, skins removed, and only then allowed to finish cooking. This labor-intensive part of food preparation is something our ancestors knew as part of the inescapable rhythmic of life, not even that long ago even. I don’t expect the world to change, or anyone to agree with me even. But I wonder what we have lost and what we have sacrificed for convenience.
The herbs and micro greens were also from my garden. Chervil, oregano, parsley, cilantro, beet thinnings, fenugreek thinnings, mint. Well the mint was actually from a neighbor’s garden, but I dug some up to plant here as well. I’ve been using a lot of chervil this summer and wonder now how I lived without it. And the herb garden isn’t what I want it to be yet. The thyme is still too small; so too the sage. I haven’t even planted lovage yet: I intended to go to an herb nursery and buy plants, but I should have just bought seeds. Celery leaf would be good. So much potential. So much gratification to be found in pulling dinner out of the earth.
The fava beans were not the only plants pulled out of the garden this week. The sugar snaps as well. Hidden peas were harvested. I think I picked 2 cups or so of peas every day for 2 - 3 weeks, but I found another 6 or 8 cups of peas hiding in the vines, a few a little larger than ideal but still better than anything in any store. Peas were steamed and frozen. A dinner of stir-fried shrimp and peas materialized when I realized I had forgotten to pick bok choy before dark and was too tired to go back out in the garden.
The last peas became a salad with chervil, bok choy blossoms, and fennel pollen, shared with friends. You can see the yellow bok choy blossoms at the back of the photo of the herb and salad garden above. The scattered leaves of the bok choy are still edible, but those too will have to be pulled soon. In the meantime the sense of discovery remains. Before this year I never even thought about bok choy blossoms.
This morning I have been out in the garden watering. Three zones on the sprinkler system are not working so I must water by hand, which is not such a bad thing. I saw the first of the Costuloto Genovese tomatoes on the vine, a photo I also shared to Instagram. I admired the tuscan kale, which I have been eating two or three times a week for over a month now, and which looks almost like some kind of pre-historic artifact. It is all that remains in the bed that contained peas and faves, and will next hold cucumbers, bitter melon, and my first ever crop of belgian endive. I am wondering if I can plant endive beneath its tall structures, or if I should perhaps plant some other smaller, cutting green between its leaves. As usual there are no answers, only questions and opportunities for conversations and growth. This is as true with each other as it is with the earth. Life is an ongoing experiment its seems, here in the garden, with friends, in our societies and interactions. And there is no doubt that mine is a fortunate life, something not to be taken for granted.
