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.

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

With a Little Help From Our Spider Friend

It never ceases to amaze me how nature finds a way to balance itself ...and us.

Michael and I were enjoying an early morning breakfast on the deck with our niece Paige who was visiting. We made her our favorite homemade oatmeal mixed with yogurt, granola, and berries, alongside juice and fresh coffee from our latest travels to North Carolina.  Paige was filling us in on her freshmen year experiences at University of Vermont and she was happy.  It is energizing to talk to a young adult who is  happy with where they're at and where they're going. Paige has decided to switch majors from NeuroScience to Biomedical Anthroplogy...who even knew that was an option?  Sounds exciting!  Spring is in full bloom and the feel of summer was felt in the warm breeze coming across the table. We remarked how glorious of a morning it was...what joy...we're all smiles. The breeze gets breezier and brings pine needles down upon us...pine needles and something else pelleting our skin, like seeds of some sort.  We are curious to what is blowing in the wind and it takes a delayed second to realize that what is falling down on us is moving...teeny, tiny white worms, all curled in fetal position, landing on our arms, in our hair, in our oatmeal and juice...literally, there were hundreds of them...think Hitchcock here.

Okay, so gross.  A delightful morning turned horror film.  We scurried indoors, picked off any of the curly critters we could find, and searched for them on Google.  Bagworms or Winter Moths...both like Birch trees and Pine trees, both of which have boughs hanging high above our deck.  We have since found out that they are Winter Moths and after they chomp on all the leaves they can find, these Eric Carle caterpillars will burrow in the ground and hibernate until Fall. Ugghh!

We have now found them, bigger and plumper, foraging away at our beloved roses.  Winter Moths also love rose bushes. This is not good.  The Birch and Pine trees are bad enough but the delicate rose bushes have us worried. We pick them off and squish them by hand...much easier to stay calm around these Hitchcockian creatures when they are not in hordes. Daily, we find at least a dozen...but yesterday we noticed a most intricate silk thread design between the lattice fence and a rose leaf...a spider friend has come to save the day.  This is how nature figures it out.  Worms eat rose bushes, spiders eat worms, and the beauty of nature prevails. Can it be this simple?  I think often times it can.  It may not be as perfect as a red, red rose,but we too, can figure it out. We do have the insecticide with the picture of the worm handy, but our friend Charlotte taught us nature's greatest lesson...patience.

This leads to one of our other trials of gardening...our first year wildflower garden...trying to recreate a wildflower field reminiscent of the field we pick from, that Michael picked from on the morning of our wedding. We sowed seeds from several packets eight weeks ago and believed all we had were weeds.  I know many of you feel that a weed is a wildflower looking for a home, and that can be true...but these were not flowering weeds, and, well, we wanted a colorful wildflower garden.  The spiky Candida Thistle were not yielding to be picked for an airy bouquet. Not all weeds are created equal (but that's writing for another day). Here comes the patience part....we discovered a poppy in our field...it was rolled into a little orange conical hat, and there were several of them.  Today they opened to the sun.

"Adopt the pace of Nature.  Her secret is patience."- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Have patience carrot friends!

Thin Places

I'm writing from the 15th floor of a chic boutique hotel in the fabulous city of Chicago. Michael and I have been traveling a bit these past two weeks, three states in ten days. Much more than we usually travel, but what a wonderful way to explore and experience life. It does take some mental strength for me to see beyond the hectic schedule- rearranging and allow myself to transition quicker than I like to.  As with running or swimming, I do best when I have a chance to warm up before finding my pace.  I also face a twinge of mother-guilt when we're not home to share dinner and stories.  Fortunately, Meg and Owen have learned how to transition well, between activities, between two homes, and texting has come in handy for staying in  touch with their generation.  They were able to join us on our trip to San Diego which made all this traveling easier and added a level of value to it because it allowed them to see how and what we do when we travel.  Basically, we find a body of water to swim in, we run to become familiar with our surroundings, we eat foods specially known to the region ( fish tacos in San Diego, grits in North Carolina, deep-dish pizza in Chicago), we visit the art museums, look for retro/vintage shops, and whatever else comes our way. Tonight, we have tickets to the Second City Comedy Club which is where many of the Saturday Night Live and other famous comedians have made their debut, John Belushi, Tina Fey, Steve Carrell to name a few.

With all the traveling we do, and we have been to some remarkable and memorable places like Paris, London, Barcelona, and Beijing, but none have given me the sense of a "thin place" quite like the places closest to me. What is a thin place?  I only recently heard of it, in an article I read from the travel section in The New York Times. A thin place is described as a place where “we become our more essential selves.”  It is often sacred, but need not be.  Its location, population, or its cultural reverence, does not matter.  What matters is that it both invigorates and calms the senses, a place you feel alive and safe.  You cannot plan a trip to a thin place.  There can be no expectations.  I suspect, only a veil separates you between heaven and earth, where I imagine, the veil feels like skin.

For me, the garden is a thin place.  So is Nauset beach and Skaket beach, and Herridge’s Bookstore, and Michael’s skin.  These are places where I can breathe, feel air.  I can let thoughts in my head get wet, rinse, spin out. The colors, the smells, the textures burst.

The garden is earth and heaven.  Dirt under the fingernails makes it real.  Sprinkled seeds in a quarter-inch row open to sky. Thick, dark soil, full of possibility, smudges my jeans. The smell of roots, rock, and left-over kale mixes with sun and rain. Always a weed to pull.

To swim at Skaket beach is to ride across land and sea where the pink vista hypnotizes, waves sing me a lullaby, and sand flats cast a spell. It teeters two visions: the verduous depths of the sea and blue with a sun.

Nauset beach has its own magical way of carrying my bare feet along the firm sand. I love how it exposes itself like a Polaroid picture when the tide ebbs. I connect the rocks, casted like stars, with my sandy toes.  Michael runs zig-zag in softer sand beside me and we stride to the furthest point, free of beachgoers, and free for a quick skinny-dip.  The head of a seal, like a periscope, is our only witness.

Drive towards Wellfleet Harbor at dusk and you will see the light on in a little house, piled with books.  Herridge’s Bookstore smells of dust and cedar. I never make it past the first few feet on my left.  Here,the poetry books sit on disheveled shelves.  Michael finds his place a few feet to the right in the art corner.  Two feet behind me are the young adult books, a genre I’ve never outgrown.  The owner, with his easy smile, chats on the telephone to his neighbor.  In this space, nine feet by twelve, I have all the time in the world. 

 

Under well-worn cotton sheets, where my form traces his, I find the space I long for most.  Smells of linseed oil, chlorine( in the winter when we cannot swim open water) and sweat intertwine, and the hum of night seeps in from the window above our heads, a Christmas candle light still taped to the sill.  My essential self sleeps.

I loved the description of a "thin place." It made me think of mine, and realize you don't have to go far to find it.

"It’s a helluva start, being able to recognize what makes you happy.” – Lucille Ball

Thank you carrot friends for allowing the space to speak of  matters important to me, and for sharing what I find beauty and truth in, and hopefully inspire you to do too. What are your thin places?

xo bess

The Company Kept

A canvas rests on the leg of a bench.
He bends to add another layer of landscape at dusk
to the one started months ago.
No need to rush,
it's the company kept.
Aside an artist, dear and kin
to art and love, unspoken
affinity to be amongst
still clouds, marsh silence,
the settled sea.
                       (thoughts for a poem I'm thinking of..)

I met with my mentor today. She is wonderful!  I have been meeting with her for two years now and she has helped me grow tremendously as a writer and an emerging poet, but more than that she keeps me smiling all day. She is one of those people in my life that I want to be around, that I get such a creative and energetic surge when I am.  She makes me think, and laugh. I am grateful to have a few of these people in my life.

The above thoughts are from a scene when Michael and a dear friend of ours were painting "plein air" in Truro, MA.  My daughter Megan and I were writing nearby. We were all absorbed in the stillness and serenity of the marsh. I was surrounded by three of my favorite people and immersed in the present moment with no distractions, except for listening to a paintbrush fall below the wooden dock.  Was it Michael's or Nancy's?

To have moments such as these is a gift. To have people in our lives such as these is an even greater gift.
I call them "my people".  The ones I feel no walls between or the need to build them. The ones I can be vulnerable with and the ones to trust when I cannot hear my own voice.  They are the greatest company kept.


In an increasingly distracting and distorted world, I find it a necessity to spend my energy wisely, to keep it centered and simple.  Michael and I often "turn off"  the never-ending information systems that overload. How and who we spend our time with is vital to our growth.  We keep rooted with each other and our carrot friends.

Which, by the way, we planted multicolored carrots. I  can't wait to see them sprout. And our peas that we planted in March our doing great!

Keep rooted!

Reserves for a Lifetime

"Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts" -Rachel Carson

  

Rachel Carson, scientist and author of several books, her most influential being Silent Spring,  wished for all to sense the wonder of nature.  She wrote of our basic need to notice, appreciate, and respect our natural world.  There is no easier time to do this than Spring. And we are lucky here in New England to be getting an early taste.

With an unusually mild winter, followed by record-setting high temperatures one fabulous week in March, many of us chose to start an early crop.  The soil was warm, and buds were opening, it only seemed right. As my sister pointed out, for the cost of a packet of seeds, there is nothing to lose, but everything to gain. The joy in watching sprouts appear is perpetual. 

We got one of our gardens going. So far, we have pea sprouts, lettuce, and kale that have appeared. Also,the rhubarb has returned on its own merit.  With the turn to colder weather, we followed a tip that our friends in Florida have done, and that is to pour warm water over them.  I'll let you know how we make out.

We saw that our friend Farmer Frank had his blue Ford tractor parked in front of the barn, the sure sign he is getting ready for the season. Check out my poem Rotondo Farm on Rt. 62. Before we got to know Frank, his farm stand inspired this poem.

Other wonders that have us skipping are, what I call, the purple stars of Spring.  They are the Glory of the Snow, the Wood Hyacinths, the Grape Hyacinths, the Crocuses, and the blue-bell shaped blooms of the Siberian Squill.  They, along with the Jonquils, are all playing Ring-a-Round the Rosie with the poised-to-open Magnolia tree.

The Daffodils and fountains of Forsythias are gushing Spring....

and one other sure sign...the Herring are running!

For those that are unfamiliar with a Herring Run, check out the Stony Brook Herring Run in Brewster, MA.