Tag: Inspiration

OH! WOW!

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 1 Comment

Gourmet is one of those words I’ve come to detest, in large part because it’s lost any genuine meaning. Well, these days it’s usually an excuse to charge more for an assembly-line product, but that’s about it. As an adjective to suggest quality, it rarely reflects excellence. As for its other definition, as a noun, we have glutton or pig.

So here I am thinking once more of the “wow factor” on our tongue and palate. It’s the surprise that accompanies an amazing first morsel or sip, when our reaction is “Oh! Wow!” in discovering the treasure before us. Often, it’s uttered before we’re fully conscious of doing so.

I know those who take the over-the-top approach here, adding and adding to a dish until it’s simply overwhelming. Or taking a drink to near-lethal alcohol levels for its whammy.

For us, the “wow factor” is more simply direct. It honors the ingredients and makes them shine. It knows there’s no substitute for freshness, and its techniques aim at enhancing that.

If you want to read more of this philosophy, Angelo Pellegrini’s writings, as my wife attests, lay it out delightfully. A generation before Julia Child, he began instructing fellow Americans on the ways of applying homegrown herbs and spices and appreciating the pleasures that follow. His lovely essays are about gardening as much as cooking, along with a few diversions like making your own wine or the joys of being a granddad.

I come back to this each year as our own garden kicks into gear. Forget any argument that gardening is cheaper – it’s not, even before you consider your own labor. It’s the taste that accompanies freshness – sometimes while the strawberry’s still warm from the sun or the lettuce was crisped earlier in the afternoon. Real tomatoes in contrast to the impostors at the grocery are another matter altogether. I’ll go ten months without the latter, if necessary.

We managed an overnight getaway to the Cape recently and decided to try the bakery-bistro combination across the highway. There are good reasons the line’s out the door in the morning. As for the evening, when we decided to stop for drinks and appetizers, we figured we could walk home rather than drive.

As I was saying about Wow? From start to finish. Let me warn you, it wasn’t cheap, not even by today’s average. But it was worth every penny – something I won’t say for any of the chains where I’ve eaten in the past few years. And what they’ve done to the former clam shack in the past six years is amazing – you’d never guess something this charming could come out of something that had been so decrepit.

I’ll try not to go into a restaurant review, but let me say I never imagined corn (fresh, local) could be pureed with (forget the cooking-school terms) the sweat from a baked salmon to produce a cold soup this heavenly. As for the oysters on the half-shell, the presentation was breath-taking – generous in the ice, accompanied by the in-house sauces – but the oysters themselves were fat and succulent, the way they are in November or December, fattened up for winter, rather than this time of year. Responding to that observation when chef/owner Philippe Rispoli stopped by our seats at the bar counter, we heard his pride in working with Richard Blakeley and paying top dollar for the best. I know this was Wellfleet, but I’ve had Maine oysters that have surpassed what I’ve had in other establishments in town – until now. As for their variant on Oysters Rockefeller, we go back to Wow.

We ordered wine by the glass – and our sauvignon blanc was priced reasonably, and the portions were generous. Perfect.

My wife, always a critic when it comes to food, declared her pate to be everything she’d hoped for, even before she got to the accompaniments and salad. The vinaigrette, as she noted, was amazing – whatever measurements he’d worked out, there’d be no changing this recipe.

Curiosity taking priority over any appearance of sophistication, we also ordered a side of pommes frites – or French fries, to most of us. They arrived in a glorious presentation with a red-and-white checkered napkin – and one bite once again went Wow. The chef asked how we liked them, grinned in response, told us he made them himself.

I should explain that we’ve decided fries are often a reliable test of a restaurant’s ability. Are they straight from a supplier’s frozen batch – or made from scratch, like these? Are the outsides hot and crusty and well seasoned, like these? Or limp and flavorless? Are the insides creamy and yummy, like these, or merely whatever?

The test also extends to a restaurant’s attention to its frying oil and batters – fried onion rings are another big litmus test here. Light and fresh? Old and heavy? As we say, “They do cooking oil well.”

OK, if you’re planning a trip to Cape Cod (I first typed that Cape Cook, make of it what you will), I won’t keep the place secret. Just click here.

NATIVE INSPIRATION

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

Dwelling at the edge of a large Indian reservation, I found it impossible to ignore a vibration in the earth itself of their spirit.

Had I remained there a few more years, I no doubt would have collected turquoise-and-silver jewelry, the work of many Native masters.

Sometimes I still see their inspiration in the stars, though. Especially on a clear night. A very clear night, at that.

~*~

Mountain 1To see how it’s inspired my collection of poems, click here.

LESSONS IN PICKING BERRIES

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 2 Comments

“You’re a gardener?” I’m occasionally asked, only to reply, “Not really. My wife is. I’m the compost master – and I like to eat.”

Well, I also do a lot of the harvest. The planning, vision, and execution, though, are entirely hers. Along with the shoebox of seed packets.

Each summer, though, one lesson keeps coming back to me when it comes time to pick ripe berries. Well, sugar snap peas, too. It’s a reminder of patience and human imperfection. I like to think of myself as observant, but what I keep noticing is that no matter how thoroughly you think you’ve harvested a particular bit – say a square foot or two – once you move over a step, you’ll see you’ve missed some. Often, more than a few. Someone can come along behind you and find you’ve missed almost as many as you collected. Seriously. Don’t be offended, it’s simply a fact of reality. Call it a lesson in humility. And a lesson in the importance of assuming multiple perspectives — something that definitely applies to the revisions of poetry and fiction or the reading of a good text, even Scripture.

Picking blueberries this morning, I sat in a lawn chair much of the time – one knee has been especially painful if I kneel just so. The chair had nothing to do with laziness. Rather, it allowed me to get under the foliage. To lift each branch and see the ripe berries hiding underneath the thickness of leaves. So another lesson has to do with getting a view from ground level, or as close to it as you can. Too often we like to look at life from the top down, not that it doesn’t help. Rather, it’s only one of several approaches — and in harvesting here, you’ll need a handful.

Another lesson, seen most recently in our raspberries, is an admission you can have them all. Some are in places you just can’t reach, especially when they’re surrounded by prickly stalks. So those we’ll share with the wildlife, once the netting’s off. There’s no need to get greedy. Persistent and careful are another matter.

Which brings up a lesson in defense. You have to remain vigilant. No matter how well you think you’ve secured the netting, a few birds or squirrels (especially) will find a way through. Or just sit on top and glean what’s in reach.

That part has me remembering a detail I never included in my Hippie Trails novels. The farm in front of ours had a commercial blueberry operation with some of the bushes not more than a hundred feet or so away from my bedroom window. Once the berries started to ripen, its water cannon would start booming every few minutes. The sound was supposed to frighten the birds away. I can’t remember if the noise continued 24/7 or ceased for the night, but it did take some getting used to. As for the tranquil countryside? Oh, you city folk, you’re in for a rude awakening there. Unlike our little city farm (huh, should that be our little little-city farm?) that’s delightfully quiet on this Saturday morning. Apart from the joyous birds’ singing.

Oh, yes, there’s the lesson of generosity and sharing. I’m tightfisted by nature, so this always needs practice. But eating them with others rather than alone is essentially far more pleasurable. Or taking the bowl you just collected and handing it to a cook who, after a moment of happy admiration, transforms them into fresh scones and tarts before the whole household has stirred?

Don’t overlook the lesson of discomfort, either. If it’s not mosquitoes, it’s blazing sun or a drizzle. It’s rarely perfect. So be tolerant and grateful. Oh, yes, and when it’s perfect? Appreciate the glorious moment. The King of France never had it so good.

 

OUT OF THE FLATLANDS AND ONTO THE SEA

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 1 Comment

Another blast from my past:

I spoke in Meeting about being a flatlander from a landlocked place and my ongoing fascination with the tides and moods of the ocean, leading into my first experience on a sailboat which was also my first experience out on the Atlantic and my first time of seeing a whale, which popped up in front of us.

I then mentioned another trip when my boss asked me to take the till and my surprise at feeling the wind pull the sailboat in one direction while the current tried to turn it in the opposite and how I was trying to steer to a compass point in-between – me, who would rather avoid conflict. On top of it all, it was a day when we could not see our destination, the Isle of Shoals, but had to trust our maps and calculations. Then, too, Peter’s girlfriend laughed, realizing my fear of having the boat be blown over. “Don’t worry,” she said. “If the boat tips that far, the sails will deflate and we’ll right again.” She paused before adding, “Besides, if there’s really a big gust, there’s nothing you can do about it. That’s how I lost my boat.”

As I spoke, I admitted the associations of wind to spirit (inspiration) and, as I’d now add, intellect, and of water to emotions and the unseen, while we are here in our own little vessels steering in the hope of an unseen destination.

Afterward, one Friend told me of the importance of finding that point of critical tension in our lives, where things can be accomplished. I now see this in contrast to the Tao, path of least resistance or way of falling water.

A second round of memories involves an ability to choose the right sail or combination of sails to fit the wind, as well as the lulls. The emerging harmony, too, between the winds and the waves, the lift and fall along the way.

OFF ON THE PACIFIC CREST TRAIL

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 1 Comment

Have to admit to some envy for a young acquaintance who’s off to hike the Pacific Crest Trail.

It’s a strenuous trek, backpacking the 2,663 miles through Washington, Oregon, and California – the Western counterpart to the older, iconic Appalachian Trail.

And it’s bound to be a totally different experience than he had on the AT.

I became acquainted with Samson as one of our lifeguards at Dover’s indoor swimming pool. And now he’s away for the summer, starting just a few miles from the Canadian border and heading south.

He’s promised to update us on his blog, Samson PCT. (PCT is the in-name for the trail. FYI.)

Here’s an invitation for you to follow his progress, too.

Not bad for a kid from a little north of New York City. My, oh my!

LIBERATING IN THE END

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 1 Comment

A central question facing compositional artists of all stripes (in contrast to performing artists like actors, dancers, and musicians) is the matter of determining when a work’s finished.

How do you know?

Is just out-and-out satisfaction a measure? A trusty one? Hmm.

Let me suggest some others.

Sometimes it’s a sense that you just can’t go any further with it. And if it’s in a state beyond notes and fragments, maybe that’s it. You’ve hit a wall, a property line, or just the shore or riverbank. So you stop. Period.

There are times, admittedly, when you think something’s finished and put it aside only to find, on returning, it needs more – revision, for starters, and maybe additions and major restructuring. (A friend spoke the other evening of drafting a memoir in the third-person and then redoing it in the first-person, the kind of change I’ve done in some of my fiction. And Brahms had an early symphony that became a piano concerto, if I recall right.)

Working under a deadline can simplify matters. Time’s up! Next!

Nice, if you happen to have an advance or pipeline of delivery or the concert’s coming up.

Novelists might even find doneness appears as the time they find their focus obsessing with the book under the one they’ve been tackling.

Some poets will say that once it’s published, they can let go of it. Finito!

~*~

In the bigger picture, the “finished” question isn’t just about having a manuscript ready. For a writer, it’s ultimately about landing the work in a reader’s hands. A place where a dialogue can begin. And getting that manuscript from a polished draft into circulation can be a huge, energy-depleting limbo, especially if your life is filled with competing claims on your time.

In short, you can either focus on seeing that one work through to publication – or you can create the next one, while the inspiration’s still hot. For me, as I tried to balance my writing life with a journalism career, personal relationships, spiritual practice, and so on, I wound up with a huge backlog of finished material. At least I’d wisely not put off the writing for retirement, as had a number of colleagues I’d known – none of them ever managed to fulfill that dream.

What I did find, though, was that the unpublished work became a burden of its own. Its emotional weight inhibited new work. Why bother? It even had a way of twisting my sense of identity – who was I then and who am I now? Think, too, of the relationships that fed into one work – and the people I’m with today. As in lover or spouse.

So the experience of having my book-length works finally being published brings the “finished” consideration across yet another threshold – the matter of being liberated. I can let go of trying to hold that memory, treasuring that epiphany, honoring that friendship.

Should I have just trashed them long ago and moved on into other, non-literary endeavors? Just think of the hours that could have been directed instead to overtime pay, which would make my retirement more secure. Or travel or …

Maybe it’s just a case of hoping for acknowledgement. Hey, here I am!

Still, it’s what I’ve done.

What I have is a feeling of being true to a responsibility carried to its completion at last. What happens from here is, well, liberating any way it goes.

ON THE ROAD AGAIN

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 3 Comments

We’ve entered vacation season (not that we Friends don’t travel widely throughout the year). While it also means that our attendance is likely to be down through the summer, it also means we’re likely to have visitors from, well, just about everywhere – people I expect we’ll welcome warmly.

It also means we’ll have the opportunity in our own travels to attend other Meetings, something I strongly encourage. For the truly adventurous, worshiping with Friends in the “other” streams can be stimulating and thought-provoking. A pastor? A choir? Hymnals? I always learn something. Last time, it was silent singing. Another time, that the Evangelical Friends can have just as much of a cat-herding condition as we do. Memories of a humorous exchange with the baritone sitting next to me in the choir.

There’s also a curiosity about us, too. “Why did you choose us?” – that, in the pastoral meeting style, rather than the unprogrammed worship a dozen miles away. I could have given any of a dozen reasons, but eventually got down to the part, “Besides, I have the book” – meaning a collection of historic essays and oral histories made before the village was flooded by a Corps of Engineers dam, and the new meetinghouse built out along the highway. And then, in the give-and-take of quick conversation, receiving that priceless look and gentle reply, “It’s all fiction.” As a writer, I had to laugh, knowing all too well how difficult it is to get any story right. The quick exchange followed by some suggestions of sites to poke about afterward, if I had time.

I come home with a renewed appreciation for every visitor who ventures through our doorway. With a little more flexibility in our own open worship. With my own additional chapter to a well-used book on the shelf behind me. And with an expanded awareness of our body as a Society of Friends.

YET ANOTHER PILE OF OBSOLESCENCE

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 7 Comments

Years ago my father gave me a small metal cabinet with 18 one-inch-deep plastic drawers, each 2.5-by-6 inches. It was intended to hold screws, nuts and bolts, and other small items for the household repair shop – but mine wound up in my studio, where it holds small items of the writer’s trade. An artist’s pencil sharpener, push pins, souvenir fossils and flakes of mica, fountain pen cartridges, staples (for the stapler), a measuring tape, clothespins, business cards, foreign coins, colorful paperclips in both small and large sizes.

The last item – three of the drawers, in fact – recently stopped me cold.

Not so long ago, or so it seemed, I started collecting them at the office as we went through the mail. My literary work at home included a hefty dose of correspondence – not just submissions, either – and the bright-color clips seemed a much brighter option than the usual shiny steel in circulation.

As I gazed on them this time, though, I started to wonder what I’ll really be doing with them. Submissions are all done online these days, as is most correspondence, even of the personal streak. Maybe I’ll clip materials together when offering a workshop here or there, but I’ll never go through my stash.

Add to that the manila envelopes and cardboard backing, the loud bursts of colorful folders and binders, even the three bottles of typewriter correction fluid.

Not too long ago I wanted more filing cabinets, but as elder daughter informs me, folks can’t even give those away these days. Besides, I stopped printing out manuscripts long ago. Talk about downsizing?

Makes me wonder what’s next to go. Not that I’m really comfortable with any of these changes.