Preparation: Procurement to Plate, the Joy of Partaking II

photo credit:  Lalu Danzker

So, you have hauled home a treasure trove of good eats from vendors with whom you have hopefully had a jolly time.  You are excited.  You are hopeful.  You are vibrating from relationship; relationship with your curious self, exquisite gifts from nature and beast, and a nourishing engagement with those who love and appreciate what they grow.  This is a happiness.  Now, in this gratitude, we consider how best to prepare these gifts.

How do we do this?  What are the influences?

The conditions vary.  We might have shopped with an idea of a meal in mind, being directive in our approach.  We might have shopped wearing our instinct, our intuition, open to what is freshest at the market.  Regardless, we have these fine resources.  I take them out and admire them once again.  I resensitize myself to their vibration, their hardiness or delicacy, their beauty.  I consider their relationship and possible combinations to each other.  I notice their "voice".  The seasoning they call for, even the way they'd liked to be cut, chopped and treated.  In my regard for them, these gifts I and others are about to receive, there is a hope to honor them and those that provided them.  But this is not a heavy honor, if anything it is a playful one.  I want to find ease, and relaxation, again my curiosity and most of all I want to have some fun.  Braise, broil, steam, bake, poach, reduce, wine or no whine?  The possibilities.  How to know what actions and in actions are needed.

Because you shopped locally and picked things with glory and vibration-- you probably picked seasonal.  And the season calls you to respond.  Spring is light and lightly aromatic.  Summer calls for bare-naked naturalness, a coolness even rawness.  Fall is deep, earthy, heavier more sustaining.  Winter is warm, daringly aromatic, rooted.

Tamar Adler's An Everlasting Meal: Cooking with Economy and Grace has been a life changing book for me.  Life changing in the way I consider food and cooking.  One of her premises I work with all the time is the connection one meal has to the next.  The thick residue from the bottom of the pot of beans one cooked is the beginning of tomorrow's soup.  The "ends" of vegetables not used in preparation for dinner, are again, the beginning of tomorrow's soup stock.  Everything is connected, useful.  I've taken that one step further in asking myself, how are my components related?  How do I bring a thread of what is part of one component to the next, relate them, bring an overall harmony to the entirety of a meal.  The slice of lemon in water served at a meal might be echoed in a sliver or two of it's rind perched almost

imperceptibly on a piece of herb and wine-poached fish.  The basil in the herbed fish might be suggested in the spearmint (same family--Lamiaceae-- as basil) that is lightly confettied over the fresh fruit for dessert.  A lamb stew with fresh sprigs of rosemary has an almost subliminal echo in the water boiled for the accompanying rice or potatoes which you threw the stripped branches of rosemary into (to remove at the end of the cooking).  It's a hint, a light almost subconscious impression of the relationship from one component to the next. There is an endless way to carry the thread in a meal.  Staying close to curiosity and "the player" in oneself is helpful in determining the manifestation's gesture.

Another consideration is suggested by Ayurveda, an (eastern) Indian health approach.  Our tongue and palate is comprised of sensory taste receptors: sweet, salty, sour, savory (umami) and bitter.  Ayurveda cooking looks to satisfy all of these taste receptors in a meal.  So, when I cook, I try to consider that the entire meal has a balance of these five taste sensations.  Balance not being 20% of each flavor making 100% of the meal, but balance being in relation to the whole.  Hence, the development of one's culinary "palate" is inevitable.  This opens my field quite a bit.  Sweetness doesn't always have to be in dessert, but perhaps a condiment to go with the protein.  Perhaps dessert is the protein; a combination of nut-based crust and dairy filling, preceded by a thin soup and light salad; a sublimely hearty end of a meal .  Experimenting with turning the predictable on its head is, dare I say, a heady notion.

Culinary pleasure and digestion begins in our senses, especially the visual.  Hence, why care in presentation is necessary.  The gustatory sense is stopped if food is presented wrapped in greasy paper or unspecific boxes.  Considerations with the visual in mind are color, shape, size and texture.  In the plant world there are arguably 7 colors as far as palette goes (that arbitrary number is challenged as there are at least 5 variations of green alone in the edible plant world).  I try to have at least 5 colors in a meal, (for nutritional composition and visual compliment) but I always aim for 7.  I consider the "heart" of my meal and move from there.

The heart is often the protein.  My rebel self often balks at this seeming undeniable culinary truth.  I play with this notion.  And sometimes I lose.  But at least I play and I always learn.  I resist the cultural habit that meat be at every meal, be at one meal a day, one meal a week (depending on your cultural influences).  I play with the notion that meat can be treated more like a condiment, an aside, a small potent presence to the mighty diverse selection of the incredible vegetable or homey complex carb.  Sometimes it works just so and other times the heart of a meal just can't be the vegetable combination you've put together.  It's live and learn.  A very complex and hearty slaw with roasted nuts or seeds can be very central and sustaining, especially if a chewy/crusty bread and cheese accompany.  Try and succeed, try and fail, it's all great because your interest, intention and attention are active.  There are no bad meals if that is engaged during the preparation.

photo credit: Lalu Danzker

The consideration of shape, size and texture is important, but often enough not considered.  I was looking forward to trying Ethiopian food out on the town with some friends, but found that each of us were served varying flavored legume purees.  The flavors couldn't trump the solitary texture, and the bread served, although somewhat interesting (made from an ancient African grain) was not in good relationship to the pureed food, being kind of stretchy and gray.  Purees can be used to wonderful effect; they can compliment in color and texture. A light green pea puree under a delicate white fish has contrasting textures and complimentary colors.  A white parsnip puree or bright orange carrot puree is a delightful foil for a rich, darkly glazed beef or lamb.  To have something straightforward and simple accompanied by something complex in flavor is a marriage of balance.  A group of minimally touched green beans is a whole component that supports a garlic/potato mash and multi-colored/complicated stew.  Everything about it grounds the meal:  the deep green color, its untouched wholeness, its promise of lightness and simplicity, even its possible reference to a season just ended or about to begin.  It might not be the "hero" on the plate, but it makes the hero look good by its otherness.

Procurement to Plate: the Joy of Partaking (part I)

I’m inspired by several conversations I’ve had over the last few weeks.  The conversations haven’t been about one area of life or another.  The vibrating thread through all of them has been the attitude and the relatedness we are willing to bring to the journey, any journey.

The very fact we would look at anything (such as a medical/health treatment, our upcoming meal, a room’s renovation, a child’s education) as a journey is already an attitude adjustment.  A journey, an adventure, assumes a process, an interest in the aspects of the process, possibly an excitement and a curiosity.  Once we are aware of a process being present in our life, we begin to ask questions, identify the beginning, middle, end and inbetweens of the adventure.  Already, there is a palpable life around the process.  A sense of vitality around the questions of what do I/we value, what is a priority, how am I related to other, the process and myself.  Life!  Interest!  Attention!  The Chi/Prana is flowing; I feel more of my life inside and outside of myself.  I begin to recognize by this activation the life all around me.

When I consider the nourishment (and healing) of my body I think and consider the journey of procurement to plate; that is how and where I buy the raw ingredients for a meal, how I consider them (and myself) in their preparation, how I plate, how I serve, how I imbibe what has been prepared and even go as far as to think about how I store leftovers.  Each of these steps on the adventure of feeding myself and others (body and soul) can be layered and complex.  The adventure is solidly centered in:  how can I optimize my health, my received impressions, my well being and pleasure in the engagement with nature, other and myself.

Market Madness.

One of the things that has helped me at the beginning of any procurement journey is to make sure my curiosity is up and running.  There is no place for the automatic, knee-jerk self when I am trying to resonate and sensitize myself to the important job of opening (especially to food and people). 

Because of food sustainability, a reality in USA food sourcing, curiosity is almost required.  Health, sustainability and wellbeing are dependent on diversity; diversity of food sources and the willingness to engage with the unfamiliar.  Market shopping, in this light, becomes an adventure.  I try consistently to purchase one unfamiliar thing from each food group I am buying.  This could be a vegetable, fruit, protein source (ie: an up to now, unknown type of fish), or grain/complex carbohydrate (ie: amaranth, millet).  I try to buy local.  I try to buy seasonal, organic when possible.  I try to be present to what is available; to sense the vibration and aliveness of the food, to have the food come to me, for me to be attracted to its freshness/life (it’s so beautiful!  do not resist!).  I often opt to pick up “bugaboo” foods I hated as a child to see if I have a different experience of them now (ie: brussel sprouts, lima beans, peas). I notice what foods have not traveled well, or were not treated well farm to market.  I notice what was harvested too early and too late.  

Already the relationship has begun.  

If something jumps out at me, makes me smile and be excited, I pick it up, even if I don’t know what it is or what to do with it. To enjoy the curiosity more, I inquisit with the grocer, start a conversation with the other hovering shoppers about this curious food product.  In addition, via the internet, I can find out anything; what is it, nutrition content and what to do with it.  I’ve discovered very interesting, nutritious foods; foods that add color, texture and add an interesting variety to a meal (tomatillos, prickly pear, dragon fruit, unfamiliar melons or squash, several Asian greens I now recognize, but still don’t know their names—can’t read Chinese).  This is important:  Important for diversity of nutrition and source sustainability.  Important for keeping my culinary field open.  Boredom and repetition leads to disinteresting dining, ruts and a lack of diet diversity.  I am feeding my body, spirit and soul.  I want to care and be excited about my engagement with food.

photo credit:  Lalu Danzker

Switching up where you shop, trying new places encourages the curiosity factor.  Try not going to a supermarket for a month; shop only farmer’s markets, farm stands, food coops, non-industrialized food sources.  Yes, it is inconvenient sometimes.  Yes it is a different experience that sometimes is not easy (the selections may be limited, prices pricier).  But again, one’s culinary field is opened, more receptive.  Mindful eating is hardly ever about convenience or what is comfortable.  It’s about interest, joy and pleasure.

In this endeavor I have found relationship.  Relationship with farmers, small market purveyors, local artisan cheese makers and bakers. I ask questions, they ask me questions. They know me, I know them.  We have a mutual appreciation.  This is soul warming. It does my heart good (as it probably does them).  It is more fun, more interesting.  I feel more connected to my food, because I am.  I know the source.  I know where the fish came from.  I know how the fish was treated because I know the guy who trucked it.  This impacts my well being.  This infiltrates my preparation (I think of them as I chop and cook); their efforts are closer to me.  I feel a fuller connection, I feel a Oneness.  I have a sense of obligation to them, the food and myself to cook well what has been provided. 

photo credit: Lalu Danzker

I have only had remarkable outcomes and experiences doing this.  Buying a chicken from a small poultry farmer, getting to know her in the process, how she treats the chickens, what she thinks and feels about her chickens have given me a transformative culinary experience. I glean her excitement and love of her work, her relationship with her birds.  When I eat her chicken, it is like eating a miracle.  I taste its domestic wildness in the fiber of the flesh, the deep, earthy flavor. I feel its realness; I feel the farmer’s love and investment in the flesh.  The chicken’s good life is transmitted to me.  It is an experience.  This is a joy. It almost feels like receiving a sacrament, a total privilege to partake.  Also, a small portion goes a long way, leaving me fully satisfied and satiated.  Most ordinary chickens (even the organic ones) I am left with wanting more, because I am missing its essence, lost in its poor treatment in life and death.

In following posts, I will continue with the related processes of Partaking:

Preparation, Plating, Service, Leftovers; how does more engagement in these ordinary efforts feed more of me, enhance my wellbeing, and support joy in living.