Carrot Revelation

In a small Spanish village two hours north of Barcelona, a small theater decided to take on the big economic crisis in its own small way. They called it the "carrot rebellion".

In rebuke of the government's new tax increase for theater tickets (amongst the many tax increases) which raised the tax from 8% to 21%, this theater decided to sell carrots in lieu of tickets. Carrots, considered a staple item, are only taxed at 4%.

Imagine a sight of people, each holding a carrot, lined up to see the show, casting a hopeful light on the future economy? Now, it's true I have an affinity for carrots. They symbolize rooted values. They add raw color and shape. They give you good eyesight. What better ticket to see the world with? Some critics of the movement called it tax evasion. I call it clever and resourceful. Quim Marce, owner of the theater in Bescano, Spain, calls it a "way to survive". Bescano's theater's new motto is For the Health of Our Culture. The shows must go on!

Tickets can be purchased for 15 euros (17 USD) at the door.

And as another "carrot" aside, our friend and farmer, Frank, says, in response to all of the local town's new construction of farmlands, "They're sure as hell not growing carrots and beets"!

We need carrots, my friends. Purchase yours now!

:)Bess

Kale and Chocolate

We have kale the size of elephant ears, of a hundred elephants! The more kale we pick, the more grows back in its place. We have kale growing out of our ears now.


A friend recently gave me a wonderful recipe book titled The Book of Kale by Sharon Hanna and it has eighty recipes using kale.  Before the book, I was excited about the Massage Kale Salad with Mango and Avocado recipe I found online...but after making it every other day in the summer, it was losing its appeal, even if we did jazz it up with pineapples and strawberries too. Before that recipe, we were only eating it sauteed in a little olive oil and salt. Now, at last, we have some more variety and yeah...still more kale!


Kale is a superfood.  It scores 1,000 out of 1,000 in the Aggregate Nutrient Density Index scoring system..  It is rich in Vitamins A, C, and K. It is also a source of calcium, iron, and potassium, and provides significant amounts of phytonutrients as well. It is a nutritional powerhouse. There are several varieties of kale to grow. We like the Red Russian and the Red Winter kale best. Its broad, thin leaf is milder in taste than the Dwarf Blue Curled that's readily found in the supermarket.

 It has been great fun to learn various ways to enjoy this superfood. Meg and I had a weekend of cooking with kale last week. We started off with the Simple Kale Frittata for breakfast, and had Savory Kale Scones with Pumpkin and Cheese with our Winter Squash Soup for lunch, and then we tried the Kale and Cranberry Crisps with a delicious Ginger and Curry Chutney from the Concord Wine and Cheese Shop for a late afternoon snack the next day, and a Kale and White Bean Salad with dinner. Everybody has enjoyed all of these kale delights, except for Owen who liked the Massaged Kale Salad until I overdid it, and then he grew tired of it and anything else heralding kale. Who can blame a thirteen year old for that?


Tonight, we had Kale and Chourico Soup, but a craving for chocolate prompted a rummage through the cupboards. Hershey's Special Dark Cocoa was the most chocolatey thing I could find and luckily we had the ingredients to make its signature chocolate cake with chocolate frosting recipe. It reminded me of something my mother would have made growing up because I can still see the cocoa powder tin in her cupboard. It's exactly in the same place I have mine. Its one of those items I think I have permanently embedded there, along with molasses, baking powder, and cinnamon. Its not something I ever think of buying, but always think will be there when I need it...kind of like the kale:)

As Michael and I indulge in our old-fashioned chocolate cake and a glass of milk, we know we will wake up to a super healthy Kale and Avocado smoothie. Try it, you'll like it!

Plant some kale seeds....its not too late!

xo Bess

Amateurs Have Way More Fun!

I feel like a forever amateur in many areas: blogging, gardening, surfing, writing...however I kinda like it that way. There is something about the excitement of always having something to learn, and the anticipation of the unexpected. When one is a novice, there are fewer expectations, and so more often than not, I am thoroughly pleased and excited about the outcomes.

Lets take surfing for example. Michael signed me up for a surfing competition/fundraiser a few weeks ago. My initial reaction was panic, followed by a reluctant smile and brave face. I couldn't wear the cool t-shirt if I didn't participate. He assured me it was casual and fun.  I wasn't convinced. I have never surfed with many people at once, competing for a wave. I could only imagine the surfing videos I've seen and I couldn't imagine myself in it. The day came, and the forecast was in my favor...no waves! Instead we would paddle out to a buoy and back...that I could do confidently. Many heats were before mine, and as the winds picked up, so did my chances of having to catch a wave..uugghh, except that I was starting to get into the enthusiasm of the event. I also had to be a positive role model for Meg...she was watching and envisioning herself on that board next year. I would have gladly given her my spot, but she wasn't ready yet. The atmosphere was casual and fun as Michael promised. The vintage boards were cool to see, we were sitting amongst the awesome dunes of Cahoon Hollow, and the water was warm.

It was time for my heat, and it was certain that I would now have a chance to catch a wave alongside fifteen other women. My nerves now calmed by the sea and man I love, I ran into the water carrying the twelve foot vintage board, and paddled...this was fun. Around the buoy, and ahead of the others, I was feeling confident...now I just had to catch a wave...and catch one I did...yay! Then I landed on my rump of which the Cape Cod Times caught a perfect picture of and put it on the front page of the next day's paper. I wish I was the cool girl with the panoramic picture heading the paper, but, well, that's for the experts.

The garden is another area which gives me great amateur pleasure. My Carrot Friends poem says "A carrot is hard to grow/" All summer we have been watching and waiting for ours to grow. Last summer we grew them with minimal success...most of them looked like full-figured minature doll legs. This year we had higher hopes. We had pulled a few finger-width and length-sized ones, but they weren't quite ready. Today, we dug with our fingers around the circumference of our largest carrot to date...it .was a real-sized carrot, almost two inches in diameter. We were ecstatic.  "Should we? Pull it?" Yes, it couldn't possibly get much bigger. We gathered all its ferny stems for a firm hold, gave it a little apprehensive yank to loosen the soil, and pulled. Out it came, with a swift release, because it only had one inch to reveal. It was actually shorter in height than it was in diameter. It was a stubby stump of a carrot with two straggly roots. We had been duped..The wider a carrot yields no greater a carrot. Our theory to wait until a carrot grows round to an impressive size before picking it fell literally, and figuratively short.

 Our grape arbor last year provided me material for another poem, told in prose form, about our encounter with Black Rot. This year, we have been watching dutifully, hoping not to make the same mistakes. Two of the four vines have grown to reach the two Owen-lengths height with healthy leaves stretching across the driftwood ,but no jade marbles or any sign of grapes appeared. However, on the two lesser-achieved vines, merely a foot and a half tall with dry, curled leaves, we found the smallest cluster of purple shaded berries, one on each vine.  There was barely enough fruit to feed a babe, less than twenty itty-bitty purple pearls perched on stems, but still fruit, and oh, how sweet on the tongue they were. One was Pinot Noir, and the other Merlot.  What a delight to have no expectations, and to be seduced by a mere sip.

Have no expectations, and you shall find treasure. Have a great day! Bess

Clamming at Nauset Inlet

A knick of a rubbery tip,

the stretched neck six inches deep,

the burrowed body praying for rain.

I carve at the grain, careful

not to crack my existence. Must keep

the shell safe in my grip...

I have loved clamming since my first introduction. There is something about the vista of sand, water and grass, the scraping sound in quest of the gritty sea, and the stillness, particularly the stillness that mesmerizes me. It is a meditation. I find infinite holes. When we had several high school students stay with us as part of an educational experience, one remarked, upon seeing all the holes, that "there should be no such thing as world hunger." As I focus on the careful excavation, crouched aside the grasses, and find the burrowed treasure, my heart expands. I am one with the sea. My hands are tattooed with the brindled grain. I cradle the shell, careful not to crack it.  Cracking it means it would not make it home with us, and could lessen its chance of survival remaining in the sand. That would be a waste. I have some mixed feelings with regard to the humanity of digging for clams;are they any less than us, and why do we have a right to eat them? I'm sure the fishermen and hunters have asked themselves the same question. It is the vegetarian spirit of my college days speaking. Yet, I have come to believe we feed from each other in the cycle of life and if we eat thoughtfully, respectfully, and mindfully. it is a healthy and balanced way. I always say a prayer of thanks.

We call the inlet our garden of the sea. We harvest from the inlet as we do our vegetables and flowers from our gardens around the house.. We discovered sea beans this year during one of our walks back from clamming. We had just recently heard of sea beans visiting our French chef friend Phillipe. He was chopping them up in his restaurant PB Boulangerie's kitchen. Shortly after, we spotted them along the edges of the inlet. They are an excellent source of minerals and a nice garnish to any meal. In the late summer, the sea lavender shows its blooms amongst the beans.We add them to our half-bucket haul of clams, just enough.

We dine only with what we have gathered with our hands on these evenings: clams, kale, tomatoes ,summer squash, and sea beans. Sea lavender and zinnias color the table. We are perfectly full.

And then there are days I don't...

...feel like a writer, because after that luxurious spell of time I wrote of two weeks ago, I have barely lifted the pen. Sure I've jotted down a few thoughts, a few images, a few recordings of our days spent, but I miss those precious writer-filled days.  It seems so long ago. I was hoping that I was forming the habit, that all writers who want to be taken seriously, must get into.  Write everyday.  Of course, I realize that having 6 hour days of writing is unrealistic when it is still just a fancy.  I have a practice, and a family that I must attend to, yet I miss it when I do not put thought to pen to paper.  How will I ever get anyone to take me serious if I do not "show up" as Mary Oliver states. It is an art that takes discipline. I know that.  I also know that the time will come when more of "those writing days" prevail. I believe timing is everything. Often, a book will sit on my shelf for years waiting for the day I peruse it and wonder how it sat for so long.  I tell Megan, my budding fifteen year old daughter when she questions of why's and how's and when's, that such questions never end.

There is a poetry reading in Provincetown tonight.  We've been talking of taking the time to go, and yet I find myself happy to stay right here in our studio.  I'm reclaiming our space.  After five days of company, and our studio being used as a bedroom, I am just now settling back in. But shouldn't I take advantage of an opportunity to listen to an accomplished poet? Wouldn't it help my craft? Our day started off with a swim and short run, and then our favorite breakfast of oatmeal stuffed with fruit and yogurt, papers and books found at a local yard sale, and the summer hours slipped by. The gardens needed attention, admiration at the least, and before you know it we have to decide what to do...leave this comfy space or drive to the Fine Works Center and listen to an acclaimed poet.  Not a bad choice really. I'm lucky to have such a choice, but even the best of two worlds can create a cognitive dissonance.

I begin writing this post so I can feel I have accomplished something. While I accomplish an update on this blog as I write, I also begin to listen to my inner writer's voice: what I crave is to stay here, to extend the hours that I have to write. Though this blog has few followers ( most,well actually all, being friends and family), it does discipline me to touch base and write for writing's sake. It helped me today to understand the nagging questions that cast doubt. It helped me realize I am a writer at heart.

Happy writing!

I Feel Like a Writer

 I feel like a writer. This summer has given us hours to spend in our studio, with Michael painting and me writing.  My last post included some segments on an essay I'm working on Why We Write.  I wish to send it in to Poets&Writers magazine so I requested a sooner-than-usual meeting with my mentor. We skyped, and she, being the archeologist she is, has me dig deeper. I love her ability to find the one line that works, even when it means that I must rewrite my entire essay.  Gigi, picked one line out of fifty-six and suggested to work off that. Of course I'm up for the challenge.  I can't go back to my original when she gives me a radical idea to try. Several hours more into this writing piece and I am still rewriting.  This is what writers must do to work their craft.  I've spent close to a year or more revising some of my poetry.  Some writing flows, some trickles, and some pours.

Days spent solely in our studio has meant we've missed a local concert or that movie we wanted to see, we forget to eat, or make phone calls, or paint the trim we keep putting off, but it reminds me of something the poet Mary Oliver once wrote.  She spoke of missing appointments and luncheons and asked not to be upset with her but to be happy that she must have been in a blissful state of being, of writing.

I stretch, and change positions, compose, and compose again. I am thankful for these summer days in our studio, with Michael by my side, and Ella playing on our phonograph. I can't imagine a happier way to live.

Happy writing!
~Bess

Why I Write

My assignment for today's writing was an unexpected one.  I sat down in one of our 1950s Knoll manufactured orange tweed one-armed chairs that we bought at auction because we loved it, despite its only arm being worn and frayed.  Its partner is in slightly better shape.  Together they make an imperfectly perfect pair like Michael and me. In front of me on our yard sale-found Eames designed coffee table water-marked with glass rings from gatherings gone by, is an old olive oil bottle holding a thrush of full-bloomed red and yellow blended Mikado roses and a copy of Poets & Writers. The roses are beautiful and they urge me to write about them, to relish in their lush layers. Instead I pick up the magazine and browse for any submission ideas. Submissions are the only overwhelming aspect of writing for me.  I love writing and rewriting, but finding a magazine or online literary journal that might accept one of my poems is daunting. I happened upon an essay under a segment titled Why We Write. At the end, there was an open invitation to share essays of our own experiences and stories about why we write. There was my prompt.

I took my Moleskine notebook stuffed with poems in progress and filled with crooked, sideways, and messy writing and began a new page. I lost track of time but spent a good portion of it trying to identify the type of roses that were on the coffee table. In the end, I wrote a mini autobiography of how I came to write. it was a bit cathartic. Here are two larger excerpts of my essay:

I did not get a degree in Liberal Arts, instead I opted for the more practical science degree of Physical Therapy. I studied art throughout high school and received several local and national art awards, but I didn’t have the courage or the confidence to pursue it as a career choice.  I could be guaranteed a career in Physical Therapy. I did not touch a brush again for twenty years.

Not satisfied with the strict allopathic methods of treatment, I leaned more towards the holistic approach of manual therapy. Ten years into my career, I pursued a certificate in Massage Therapy to complement the conservative methods. With the license to use my hands holistically, helping others, I felt like an artist again.  I was able to encourage healing in a manner different that I could within my physical therapy profession. I established a private practice and it became an early success. Working for myself gave me the freedom to feel whole and in control of my destiny, at least career- wise, at least for the present moment.  I did not know that I was on a trail that would bring me back to art and to love.

I believe that during a massage therapy session, when there is a trusting relationship, energy channels open and inspiration and healing flows.  It may be the last line of a poem, an answer to a problem, or oxygen to a tight muscle.  Our breath becomes fuller and with each breath is an opportunity to relax, expand, heal and grow. We take an average of one thousand breaths a day.  That’s one thousand opportunities. How eye-opening is that?

I was probably only paying attention to one tenth of those thousand breaths but it was enough to listen to love and truth when they presented themselves, unannounced. Almost ten years later, I was trying to once again balance my conservative and alternative selves. With a successful practice to acknowledge, I was encouraged to take another leap of faith.  I divorced from a neutral marriage and let my heart feel its pulse.

Paying attention to another tenth of the one thousand breaths, and with the book Love Poems from God given by my best friend, and a mini CVS steno pad, I began to write. It wasn’t a brush (although I have since completed two water-color portraits of my children), but it was my hand and my spirit moving creatively again, and it was liberating. Soon, the lined paper and the size of the steno pad was too constricting, and I opted for the blank pages of the Moleskine notebooks...

Three years, nine hand-held and six-and-a-half 8 x11 sized Moleskine notebooks later, I am still writing. My love and now husband, is a painter and we have collaborated on several exhibits featuring his paintings and my poetry. They are collections of shared love and joy we find in the everyday.  I’ve read such classic writer’s literature books as Western Wind and Writing Down the Bones and I found an outstanding mentor with whom I meet biweekly to challenge and encourage me when I have no idea why I am spending the hours of a part-time job fooling with words. I subscribe to Poets & Writers, Ploughshares, New England Review and several other literary gems.  I do not have a published book of poetry and all of my submissions to date have been rejected, except for one.  Does it count if my husband is a professor at the university whose literary magazine is the only one that did accept my poems? It’s okay. I’m still an emerging poet. Aren’t we all emerging somehow? I hope so.

I spent eight hours writing today, sitting in our studio with Michael painting a few feet away.  We swam and worked in the gardens that are heralding new wildflowers, squash, and purple string beans. Today, I feel like a real writer. Its a wonderful way to live..."vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore"

Thank you carrot friends who take the time to read.

~Bess