Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Blackberry Melon Yogurt Compote

Fruit is the ideal ending to a meal. The sweetness refreshes the tongue. The colors and natural textures remind us whence nourishment and even life itself come.
 
Preparing lunch with Tony yesterday I started with bits of ideas what to serve. I knew I had melon in the fridge but opening the fridge door to take it out I saw the container of blackberry. Purple and orange: one of my favorite color combinations. In an unopened container, nonfat Greek yogurt, and honey in a squeeze bottle from the cupboard and we had dessert.
 
As much as possible I try to prepare things ahead of time. I drizzled the honey on the yogurt and stored the compotes in the refrigerator. By the time I took them out, the honey had disappeared into the yogurt. Next time, do the honey at the last minute!
 
Greek yogurt is a treat. Even nonfat it is thick and rich, almost like cheese. With honey, it is heaven.

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William Blake: Auguries of Innocence


For someone who spent much of his childhood indoors, nature and the outdoors are now vital to my health and productivity. After doing my morning routines, I go outside for a piece of sky and fresh air. Whether the sky is dropping rain or sunshine, just being outdoors completes my waking up. Midday, sated with work indoors I step outside, walk among the flowers, look up at trees, inspect the bugs and worms at their labors, and I am refreshed.

This was not always so. It was the first thing I did after I moved into a condominium twenty years ago. People move to a condominium to free themselves of mowing the grass and maintaining the shrubberies and trees. I dug up sod and planted a garden. I was fortunate to have the assistance of my friend, Don Choy, who had worked extensively in greenhouses in Chicagoland. He pointed to a shrub and informed me of its scientific and common names. Naming is how items from both Heaven and Earth become presences in our life. Remember Elohim in the Hebrew book of Genesis?

Donald told me the natural histories of each species he named, what it required to flourish, what color flowers it was known to bear, and how it was propagated. As we dug up rocks and stones from what had been a gravel pit, I listened to biographies of plants I had given short shrift to before. We threw in bags of composted manure and top soil, stuck starts and sowed seeds, and wonder in me growing, I had my first vegetal babies. Every spring thereafter, and in the fall, too, I added new plantings and dug up more sod. The garden grew until I decided to end warfare with the condo association and let the landscape crew henceforth widen my borders as they wished as they did their spring maintenance. 

Plant life, I found out, was like human and animal life. Plants may not move about as much or as widely as we do; they may not express their preferences as quickly; they may not speak or growl or purr or quack but like us they are alive and to be alive is to change with unfolding circumstance. I learned about myself from watching plants grow, wither, flourish, procreate, die.

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

The Poet of Righteous Fury was right. In Auguries of Innocence he linked nature outside us with nature inside. Both spoke in the same tenor, really of the same life or source of life.

A Robin Redbreast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage...

A Dog starv'd at his Master's Gate
Predicts the ruin of the State...

And for me, most touching:

Each outcry of the hunted Hare
A fiber from the Brain does tear.

Blake's hallucinatory images are as gripping today as they were in 1803. These lines may exculpate us of responsibility if we read them while asleep:

Man was made for Joy and Woe;
And when this we rightly know
Thro' the World we safely go.

To know that life inherently brings joy or sorrow is to try to name  what joys we can propagate, what sorrows exterminate. Inside and outside, the same drama of loss and gain, of rejection and attraction, of hatred and love. I walk in the garden then come back in to compose my thoughts. Man is made for joy and woe....

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Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Cress-Topped Brown Rice with Steamed and Roasted Vegetables


I invited Tony for lunch today. I hate having to rush preparing lunch and he only has 40 minutes or so. He works nearby but has to rush back. I remember lunchtime when I worked at the clinic. Somehow one never quite gets off the work mode. We gulp down our food, without savoring the subtleties of the cuisine. Cooking for a guest does have the advantage of what architect Renzo Piano called "the pure force of necessity." Cooking for myself is like theorizing, cooking with a guest becomes the "real thing." No longer rehearsing, it's show time!

Indiana has exploded into its summer bounty. The herbs and vegetables on the deck are starting to make their appearance on the table. Before Tony arrived, I snipped some cress and Italian parsley from the deck herb garden and apple mint tips from the downstairs garden. I might buy my produce from Wal-Mart but the addition of freshly cut herbs makes a difference. Maybe it's in the eye of the beholder, the mind of the perceiver, but a trick I've learned through the years from preparing previously cooked food is to add something fresh to it to liven it up again. Food is energy and we partake of the energy even before we start the meal. The anticipation of eating is sometimes as good as the eating itself. The sight and aroma of the food in front of us are already energy transmitted if not to our stomachs, to the mind that is the reason we eat anyway. The body is simply vehicle for the soul, or the animating energy that is our life's source. We can't separate body from mind so maybe the division is foolish. The mind experiences what is outside itself through the body. Experience, of course, is the fundamental operation of energy in us; it is what makes each of us unique.

I heated roast chicken breast from yesterday and put together a mélange that met the challenge of the occasion. My fridge is always full of food, uncooked and cooked. I joke that I have a restaurant's refrigerator. A little of this, a little of that, can make a huge difference in a dish. The blanched snow peas and cauliflower and seasoned them with roast drippings. I pan-roasted slices of tomato and zucchini. I cooked brown rice with kombu knots, serving mounds of the rich, Japanese short-grain rice topped with the kelp and fresh herb cuttings. The result: something to make my mother proud!

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Buddhism in the Philippines, Education Then and Now


I am not Buddhist but Buddhism has impacted me perhaps more than anything else in my life. It's an Asian religion that more than any other factor has affected the greatest area and the most number of people in the region. It's imbedded in many of the dominant cultures of Asia, although not so much in the Philippines where I grew up.

My introduction to Buddhism was hardly momentous. My uncle taught History of the Far East in high school. I remember the room where the class was held but I am not sure what year in high school I was then. Sophomore year maybe? I went to school at the La Paz branch of what was then called Iloilo City Colleges. The school was among the holdings of the wealthy, powerful Lopez family in Iloilo. Both my father and uncle worked for the Lopezes, my father as principal of the main high school downtown and his younger brother as principal of the satellite high school in La Paz, the district of the city where I grew up. In fact, the school was a ten-minute walk from our house on Burgos Street. The campus was pastoral. Set quite far in the back of the property that ran the width of the city block, the school buildings were in a U shape, opening towards Burgos Street. The high school shared the campus with the College of Engineering. In the back, the campus communicated with Jereos Street, the part of that long street that had a reputation for being rough.

Tatay Apin (short for Serafin) taught us the basics of Far Eastern history in the one classroom at the end of the library building, on the right when you faced the school from Burgos Street. I remember the building as unpainted wood with very wide steps leading up from the concrete path that also formed an open U. Most of the building was occupied by the school library ruled over by Miss Palacios. The library was my favorite part of the campus, after the huge acacia tree near the Burgos Street gate in whose branches I and my best friend, Francisco, would unselfconsciously play, oblivious of the other students passing under the tree. The memories are coming back but they'll have to wait for later.

Much of the education I received in the Philippines was a kind of spoon-feeding. I learned by memorizing what the teacher taught as the essential facts of whatever subject we were studying. Buddhism in Far Eastern History was reduced to memorizing the Four Noble Truths and the Eightfold Path. I remember my uncle writing these on the blackboard as we copied what he wrote into our notebooks. I don't recall discussing the subject in class and the information barely  seeped into my awareness. Studying was studying to pass the tests and back then multiple-type examinations were becoming popular. They were easier to correct and grade, and I suppose, easier to statistically analyze the results of the students' regurgitation performance. I doubt ICC teachers analyzed the data. 

I was an unusually docile child and teenager. I did as I was told. I don't remember exercising any intellectual curiosity except when I went to the library. The books I chose to read I chose on my own. I wonder today how those choices were made. Neither my parents nor my teachers talked to us to encourage curiosity. The emphasis of both parents and teachers was on making high marks. Maybe I am being unfair, memory being as unreliable as I've grown to see.

In the absence of general initiative and curiosity, I didn't learn much outside the classroom (outside my private reading, which is another matter altogether). As in many other parts of the Philippines, most of the stores downtown were operated by Chinese merchants. Some of these had assimilated themselves into Philippine culture but many, as I found out in more recent trips, maintained their Chinese identity. I could have learned about Buddhism from some of these. Of course, a child would hardly be expected to show that level of interest outside what the adults expected him to learn in school. If I knew then what I know now! If I only took a fraction of the unruly curiosity that I now try to keep under control, I could have learned so much more—about Buddhism, about Chinese culture, about everything! But that was not the case. Like all the people I knew then (and, not surprisingly, most people I know today), we are generally focused on the practical elementsearning a living and raising a family. We are born, we work, we grow old and die.

The Philippines is predominantly Christian and I was raised in that faith tradition. Christian rituals and traditions were the highlight of my growing up years. I lived for the glorious music and pageantry of quaresma (Lent) and of Christmas. That early imprinting retains potency for me even today. On top of this, after high school, I went to two Catholic universities and took theology classes for eight years. Christian doctrine remains at the heart of how I experience life. By my late teens I had started to question the basic teachings of Christianity and for the following two decades I drifted in the waters, not knowing which way was Rome or Jerusalem. Drifting had a great advantage. I began to study other religious systems and philosophies. I began to see religions as mythologies all of them, although adherents of Christianity or Islam or even Buddhism would not, could not see their religion so objectively. Religion for many people is the eyes through which they see the whole, uncomplicated world. For many years I reveled in the variety of religious ideas and practices I was discovering and exploring. Buddhism was the one tradition that penetrated beyond the intellect into a practice. 

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Rosemary Roast Chicken Platter

In November my friend, Kevin, suggested I cut out sugar and salt from my diet to spare my pancreas. I was having my friend, Linda, over for her birthday and decided we would have roast chicken. This recipe was the result. I cleaned and washed the whole chicken, rubbed the inside and outside with lemon and lime slices, crushed garlic,and black pepper (in this order), marinated it for two hours at room temperature in a covered pan just large enough to hold the chicken and the juices, and roasted it at 350°F, 20 minutes for every pound. The chicken roasts more evenly when stuck upright in the broiling pan, using metal supports attached to the grill.
 
Yesterday's roast was the moistest breast of chicken I've had! It goes well with brown rice boiled with dried kelp bundles to tenderize it, and fresh-sliced ripe tomatoes with Dijon mustard and curly parsley were perfect accompaniments.

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Monday, June 1, 2009

Paccheri with Cauliflower and Tomato

Paccheri are two-inch-wide regional Italian pasta. The DeCecco package had a simple recipe for cooking it. I modified the recipe by adding oregano and increased the amount of cauliflower. For a vegetarian main dish, this can't be beat and it is simplicity itself to make. The sauce takes just five ingredients, most of these except for the hot chilli pepper, you already have in your cupboard. Canelloni might be easier found and will substitute nicely.
 
In this platter, I added charcoal-roasted zucchini chunks and lettuce, tomatoes and green onions dry-roasted in a non-stick pan sprayed with extra virgin olive oil.

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The Scent of Green Papaya


Some fifteen years ago I fell in love with a movie, The Scent of Green Papaya (Mùi du du xan), by  Vietnamese-French director, Anh Hung Tran. I saw it at an old neighborhood theatre, the Emerson on East 10th Street. The theater was built as the Eastland Theatre in 1928 in the Art Moderne style and today still sports multicolored tiles on its façade. Now a music concert venue, back then it was showing foreign and art films and a friend and I trekked down to see this wonderful film about the scents, sounds and traditional arts of Asia. 

Much of the movie was filmed in a house that reminded me of houses in my childhood—ground-floor spaces that looked out  on tropical shrubs and trees, the ambient sound of rain, of bullfrogs after the rain, of the gecko's nighttime calls, of buzzing flies in the afternoon and early morning bird calls. Long, narrows corridors led to living spaces graced by tall, big, unscreened windows, tall palms in Chinese pots, and, of course, a piano. The movie was set in Saigon in the 1950s and 1960s, roughly the same period I lived in the Philippines. How far do we travel from our origins only to realize at the end, after the indirection and fumbling, we've recreated the past. Not the past as it was but as it has grown to become, an idealized landscape, a statement of our life's themes.

Some Americans are bicoastal; I am bi-continental. I have feet in Asia and in the West. It's not always been an easy stance. I didn't discover my fondness for the cultures of Southeast Asia until after I had immersed myself in American and European culture. Sprung from a middle-class family (yes, that small percentage of mostly city-dwellers in a largely agrarian society), my world as a child nonetheless felt cramped and limiting. I didn't fit. Life on the farm would have felt even more cramped despite the vast skies and vast spaces. My inner life was dissonant with the life I lived, with the life I saw everyone else live. What flickered on the screen of my mind didn't resemble what they spoke about. Their dreams didn't encompass what inchoate dreams I had. I lived in two streams: the outer where I was fake, acting as others expected me to, and the inner for which then I had no words.

The irony is that now, after living perhaps the major and dominant part of my life, that limiting, limited world of the 1950s and 1960s has expanded into a world of smells, images, and sounds that accompanies me as I drive the concrete streets of America like counterpoint to a melody. Except that now the lost, old world feels more vital and more seductive; it lies like an overlay on what I see today. I still travel in two worlds, a little less clumsily perhaps, juggling the two. Straddling has become second nature.

I had my former neighbor, Linda, and her family over for lunch yesterday. I acquired a Brinkmann charcoal grill two years ago and used it only once. After refraining from eating beef for years I suddenly had a yen for a simple hamburger. In the past I would mix all kinds of other ingredients into the beef. I'd added breadcrumbs, beaten egg, pickle relish, chopped onions, minced garlic, bits of sausage, a hard-boiled egg, even capers and artichoke bits. This time I wanted the beef to star. Ground sirloin makes the best hamburger. It has the right amount of fat and fat is essential to a quickly seared, rare beef patty of a hamburger. I only seasoned the ground beef with freshly ground black pepper but while broiling it sprayed olive oil and drizzled worcestershire sauce on the surface. I also broiled thick Vidalia onion slices and chunks of zucchini, both again sprayed lightly with olive oil. Bobby Flay recommended topping the hamburger with onion and ripe tomato slices, a piece of Romaine lettuce and a horse-radish-mustard dressing.

But I'm diverging from yesterday's most redolent imagery. The sun was shining but the air remained cool through the afternoon. I turned off the air-conditioner, opened the windows, and indoors and outdoors flowed together, just like they used to in my childhood. This is also why I love to walk around the neighborhood for hours. In the car, the passing scene feels like a TV show. Walking, I feel connected to the air outside, to trees and human structures, to bird and squirrel sounds, the breeze, the bite of sunshine, the sweetness of being alive. Straddling is not a problem when you can walk.

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