Homemade and very tasty. Sometimes ours has raisins. And sometimes dried cherries. Dried pears were a special occasion.
Tag: Food
BRUISED DESERT
Three hundred sunny days a year in a fertile land may seem like Paradise.
But it’s surrounded by desert.
~*~
Desert turns everything to bone. That, or to stone. Even the scattered tufts of cheat grass and the isolated clusters of flowers turn into straw skeletons. Social conventions, too, dry away. In pursuing clarity, which parched spreads possess abundantly, I also enter an order of madness. Paradoxically, to preserve my sanity in dealing with people, it becomes periodically necessary for me to revisit this incomprehensible delirium. Settle back on this my bedrock, readjust to my own frame. Here, then, I return afresh to spaces within and without. Wait. Listen. In this place, wind is a clearing, spiraling on itself. Then, when this twisting reverses, screwing into bony alkaline soil, we give praise. At times, I even see my own heart clearly. As I come to know my way around more securely, I lift a cup of clear spring water and pour it on bleached parchment at my feet. Selah. The next day a bouquet of tiny flowers rises like fingers bent by wind. Always somewhere, wind.
~*~
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STEP BY STEP WELCOME
These days, the Greek Orthodox community has much more substance – and influence – in Dover than do the Friends, even though Quakers once formed a third of the population.
Our plumber, our wine retailer, our favorite meat store, the downtown seafood restaurant … the list goes on. Add a daughter’s boyfriend, one-half of his genetic pool. The local congregation’s participation in the ecumenical Thanksgiving service. Or its annual Labor Day weekend festival and traditional food and dancing.
Even so, it’s a largely invisible presence … and quite a legacy, as I’ve been discovering, step by step. Let me add, a very tolerant circle, too, as they’ve welcomed me to the line in dancing. Oh, my, have they!
WESTERN HARVEST
With its cloudless skies, it could be an ideal agricultural cornucopia. If you had water.
~*~
In other climates, you commonly overlook the element of space, unless looking into the heavens on a brittle night. You observe objects, and space becomes the measure of distance between an object and you, or else some arrangement of objects. In contrast, desert appears more as a vacuum — a juxtaposition of surfaces, of sky and earth extending outward not to some imaged convergence (such as the perspective point where the twin rails of a train track become one) but rather away from any focus, and thus outward around both of the observer’s ears. Here, space itself becomes obvious, as if turned upright, like a wall in your face. So often in life, what should be most obvious is the hardest to see. The spider is on the window; the spider is on this page.
~*~
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JUST WHERE DID I DEVELOP THAT TASTE?
Ever look back and wonder when you first encountered an item that’s now one of your go-to menu items?
Oh, I can remember when pizzas first invaded our neighborhood – the smell of oregano easily triggers that preschool memory!
But the Greek wrap called a gyro – and pronounced HE-ro – remains a mystery. I may have discovered it, along with souvlaki, in the late ’70s in the University District of Seattle, back when we’d visit from the interior desert. Or it may have come from a takeout place we ordered from at the newspaper, a decade-and-a-half later.
I do remember a heavenly example from a wood-fired stove at the Common Ground Fair in Unity, Maine, back in 2002 – along with a wait in a very long line.
More recently, it’s been the highlight of dinner before our weekly choir rehearsals in Watertown, Massachusetts.
Just remember, no onions on mine, please.
OH, MY, THAT HONEY!
In the early ’80s, when I lived in the Rust Belt, we chanced upon a small Greek bakery in the middle of a residential area – just five or six blocks from our house, actually.
What an incredible discovery! Along with the realization it made no sense to try to keep anything over an additional day – that honey soaks through the flaky phyllo dough too quickly! But, oh my, before it does!
IRRIGATED BLOSSOMS
Making the orchards bloom was a labor of irrigation. No matter how fertile the volcanic soil of the valley, water was the missing element man worked to provide.
~*~
There’s good reason the rattlesnake-infested, corrugated humps encircling the orchard valley are pale brown: they receive none of the snowmelt impounded from late March into July in the high mountains. Agencies release and distribute that water through blazing summer into October. Green agriculture parallels the river and irrigation canals, defying the tough, roasted inclines above, where sagebrush and bunchgrass stroke tawny eternity. In this compass, wind rarely precedes rain. Beyond lucrative strips of orchards, the principal agriculture involves herds or hay; because of irrigation and unfettered sunlight, five mowings a year are common; bales are trucked to dairy cows and pleasure horses on the rainy side of the tall mountains. Desert has few chickens — and no pigs to speak of. Somewhere out there, Basque shepherds elude the heat. Forests begin at the top of high ridges observed fifty miles distant.
~*~
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A SIGNATURE FLOURISH
They’ve become a kind of signature for our place every summer, even though it’s been a number of years since we’ve planted any. The neighbors tell us how much they enjoy the sunflowers. They’ve become self-seeded, no doubt enhanced by our bird feeders.
As for all of the goldfinches, now that’s another matter! Just look at that bright yellow on bright yellow …
MORE THAN THE BAKLAVA
When I moved to Baltimore, I was surprised to find all of the local pizza parlors were owned by Greeks. Not Italians?
Well, it took time before I discovered the alternatives, beginning in the city’s Little Italy.
But that occurred about the same time I was told most diners were owned by Greeks, too. And I’ve come to love diners, even though I’d been introduced to the real thing way back right after college. They just weren’t fashionable then.
Well, somewhere in-between there had been the Dairy Queen owned by a Greek-American who, though a big error by the Bank of France, wound up instantly nearly seven-figures rich – and took flight to his homeland before the error was discovered. It was a big news story where I was for the next month, before he repented and returned.
So more recently, I ordered a pizza from a local parlor. Wanted to support a young friend who works there. When I picked up the box, there was no gaudy image of a fat smiling chef on the top of the steaming box – a good sign, in my book. And then I noticed the design was mostly white with blue trim, adhering to the national Greek colors. Along with a border of … the signature Greek key pattern. OK, I thought. I get it. Even before I noticed the words gyros and pizza in a little house, side by side.
That does it. I’m definitely going back for a gyro.
And, for the record, the box is distributed from our favorite Italian grocery in Portland, Maine. Has me wondering about the rest of the story.
CANYONS OF DESIRE
Follow the rivers, then. Some lead into the mountains and form the “passes” to the high breaks in the crest line. Others lead out the other way.
You can also follow the currents of your passions.
~*~
Having come to the desert, we now know the fuller value of water. Something simple, essential. No one can live without it. The list of necessities is a short one; the possibilities of embellishment, endless.
There are rivers on every map you rely on. Sometimes when I walk out into the expanse, I encounter one. Sometimes, one deep enough to block my way. And then I turn to the page for a bridge.
Or, better yet, call out for my buddy, Kokopelli.
~*~
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Jnana's Red Barn 