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Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world . . .
And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.
~ Jesus ~
Matthew 6:29
Matthew 6:29
Ode to Quinoa
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quinoa seeds
I really don't understand how one civilization knows something important for 6,000 years, and I just heard about it a few months ago. Now, if I'm browsing online for recipes (while my beautiful cookbooks lie, unopened in the cupboard), especially healthy ones, it's hard to miss it.
These are quinoa seeds. Quinoa isn't a grain, it's not in the grass family. It's a leafy vegetable, related to spinach, kale and beets, of the Chenopodium species. Quinoa was the second most important food source for the Incans, after the potato, but more important than maize. It's Inca's gold, sacred, the mother grain. They could grow it in the Andes at 13,000 feet (but not maize).
This excellent 1999 article on the history and exciting prospects of quinoa becoming a sustainable major source of food for the world, explains:
By the beginning of this century, quinoa had lost its status as the Mother Grain. Foreign crops, such as barley, had been introduced and surpassed quinoa in importance. Further decline occurred in Peru in the 1940s when the government began to import large amounts of wheat. Between 1941 and 1974, quinoa cultivation plummeted from 111,000 acres to 32,000 acres. Compounded with the growing acculturation of indigenous populations and the stigma of indigenous identification attached to its consumption, quinoa lost its grandeur and became just another subsistence crop for poorer rural families.
Thankfully, with the exploding demand for quinoa from people like me way up here in Michigan, exports from countries like Bolivia are increasing, and quinoa is also being eaten by the masses in the Andes again.
You can see Thomas Jefferson's handsome profile there on the nickel, appropriately resting his head on pillows of quinoa seeds. Among the many geniuses of Thomas Jefferson, one was a passion for experimenting with fruits and vegetables, hundreds of varieties in his 1,000-foot garden at Monticello. He ate mostly vegetables and considered meat a "condiment." (Read here about his favorite vegetables.) I don't know if he knew of, tasted, or experimented with quinoa, but it wouldn't surprise me if he did. An interesting bit of history is how Jefferson smuggled rice from Italy in his pockets, risking punishment by death, to develop a new breed mixed with Carolina rice, so that the French would import it, which you can read here.
I visited Monticello at age 13 with my parents and Virginian aunt and uncles;
the top sketch is Jefferson's first of the house he designed;
his inventions, architecture and design sense really captured
my aesthetic imagination.
Mulberry Row, Vegetable Garden Terrace, & South Orchard
(Photos borrowed from monticello.org)
his inventions, architecture and design sense really captured
my aesthetic imagination.
(Photos borrowed from monticello.org)
I was intimidated by what I didn't know about quinoa, not the least of which was pronouncing it (KEEN-WAH). At last, after my niece potlucked a quinoa dish at the family reunion, we cooked some for a perfect summer Sunday meal. Here is the simplest method for cooking quinoa that I've found. Be sure to rinse it before cooking, although apparently most quinoa at the market now has been rinsed already to remove the bitter outer coating called saponin.
Do you want to know why you might want to eat it? It's delicious - mild and nutty, and the texture is nice, like rice. It's super easy to cook in 15 minutes (don't overcook it). You can even pop it like popcorn apparently. It's high in protein (a half cup serving has 11 grams!) and contains all the amino acids to make it a complete protein to boot. It's gluten-free. It has fighto-chemicals that phyt against cancer and prevent cholestrol from clogging your arteries. It's loaded with potassium, magnesium and manganese. I mean seriously, was this secret buried in stone at Macchu Picchu? Sometimes I really think we "civilized" peoples have unlearned almost every useful bit of wisdom readily available to mankind.
Perfect Summer Sunday Lunch
Black Bean & Tomato Quinoa
Pesto & Crostini
Fried Green Tomatoes
Black Bean and Tomato Quinoa
(we added crushed garlic, cucumbers, chopped spinach,
zucchini, and green peppers to this recipe)
I love the little curlies.
zucchini, and green peppers to this recipe)
I love the little curlies.
Pesto and Crostini
I use the pesto recipe from The Silver Spoon.(I do pull The Silver Spoon down off the shelf, often.)
Blend in a food processor:
25 fresh basil leaves
scant 1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil
1/3 cup pine nuts
1 cup Parmesan cheese, freshly grated
1/3 cup romano cheese, freshly grated
salt
& I add 1-2 cloves crushed garlic
Fried Green Tomatoes
(Don's specialty)
The garlic and basil flavor-bursting pesto
with the milder quinoa and fried green tomatoes
made a nice balancing act.
Accompany with iced tea, lemonade or Pinot Grigio.
Accompany with iced tea, lemonade or Pinot Grigio.
Bon appetit!
It was Chilean poet Pablo Neruda's birthday Monday, July 12 (1904, d. September 23, 1973). He was famous for his odes to simple ordinary things, like an artichoke, socks, maize, a lemon. Neruda's sensuality and mindfulness of the universe in every small thing is inimitable, but the inspiration he keeps shining from Chile is a prompt for this Ode to Quinoa anyway. I think quinoa is a good candidate for a Nerudian ode, since it was spurned by Spanish conquistadors as merely food for Indians.
Listen to a podcast of this poem here.Ode to Quinoa
My fingertips
roll the beads,
miracles of asymmetry,
tiny as toad eyes,
hard as coriander,
the color of my skin.
A bed of it
would be like thick
sand, my knees
and elbows,
hips, my toes
would not be able
to find the bottom.
Happy
airy mattress.
An ocean
or a cup,
softened in a pan,
a spoonful
of autumn sun,
a pillow of
downy earth.
Useless teeth,
a tongue, a mouth,
the wet pads
of my cheeks
massage it into life,
down through the funnel
of my craving,
and into the well
of my stomach’s
open empty hand.
~ Ruth M.
My ode is part of One Stop Poetry's One Shot Wednesday poetry gathering, where all poets are welcome to share, and readers will find delights. Leslie (Moondustwriter) is this week's host.
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Wheat
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I am sixteen, and I am driving the once luxe 1966 Country Squire station wagon passed down to my parents when Grandpa Reuben died. It's black, with faux wood siding, power tinted windows, air conditioning and power seats of red vinyl. On this day in 1973, the beast is a rusted out heavy metal piece of beautiful junk, my wheels. My brother Bennett has trained me to drive country roads whenever possible, avoiding highways. Michigan's back roads feel wild and rustic, even when the fields are cultivated, with islands and peninsulas of maples and oaks resembling silhouettes of vintage roller coasters on the horizon. I am sailing along in my boat on a hot summer day, heading God-only-knows where, listening to Smoke on the Water, windows down, the regular beat of the wind through the windows keeping time with Deep Purple. AC off, my long amber hair shimmying above my shoulders like riotous ribbons of smoke. Farm fields are radiating all around me. Endlessly. I am a teenage loner, so maybe I am just sailing for solitude. And listening to rock and roll as loud as I please. Then, in my speed and abandon, I hear a whisper. I ease my foot off the gas. Click the radio knob off. There. Again. The whisper. Slow, slow down, girl. 60 . . . 50 . . . 40 . . . 30 . . . 20 . . . 10 miles per hour. Stop. Dead still. Not on the road's shoulder. Not in someone's drive. But in the middle of the two lane road, the tanker is stopped. Parked. Anchored. Not another ship in sight, fore, and aft. I quiet my hair behind my ears, to better hear the breathing air.
"W - h - e - a - t . . . w - h - h - h - e - e - a - t . . . w - w - h - h - h - e - e - a - t - t - t . . . " Ocean waves of wheat on both sides of me rasp, swell, surge and oscillate. Swishing, flashing, pushing, rushing, splashing, shifting, shining, swaying, shivering, hushing. Languishing. Perishing. Replenishing. The strands of my hair peacefully float and fishtail, while the wind braids them into grains of wheat.
Listen to me read Wheat, here.
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-House of Straw
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Almost six years since moving to the farm in November 2003 we had driven by an RV sitting on a pretty plot of land on Meridian Road that had a sign reading "Green & White Acres." (This would be a reference to the TV show "Green Acres," which entertained my father-in-law to no end.) We passed it every day - winter, spring, summer and fall - going to work "in town" - about a 30-minute ride. I could see that people lived in the RV, and I admired their houselessness in some ambiguous environmentally conscious part of my brain. They had a little rectangular garden bed of tomatoes next to the road, and even a clothesline near the RV. Suddenly last summer a house started going up on that land, and then there were straw bales piled up for the insulation. How exciting!
The first little pig built his house out of straw because it was the easiest thing to do.
While chicory appeared like blue stars along the green firmament of farm fields, the straw house grew. The owners must be building it themselves. It doesn't look easy to me, and it certainly isn't quick. That "Green & White Acres" sign makes me think the owners work at my university or are alums, because MSUs colors are green and white. Our school tries to be green in more than just school spirit, with a good recycling program, and energy conserving incentives, but a lot could still be improved. Sadly, Monsanto develops seeds at my agricultural university, including genetically modified ones, like insect-resistant potatoes. (Here and here are brief articles listing some pros and cons of Genetically Modified Organisms - GMOs.)
One night the big bad wolf, who dearly loved to eat fat little piggies, came along and saw the first little pig in his house of straw. He said "Let me in, Let me in, little pig or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!""Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin", said the little pig.But of course the wolf did blow the house in and ate the first little pig.
I took the pictures above one year ago. Here is the straw house this week, still not done, but the straw has been covered with stucco. I waited until the blue chicory bloomed again to take new photos. One of the color blue's characteristics in color therapy is that it is calming. It certainly does soothe me on my drive coming and going. Another trait of blue is that it promotes growth. Who knew? Slowly, slowly, country blue chicory is helping a little green house grow.
House of Straw
It's a blue star bi-way,
a green house bouquet,
hay rolls, straw bales,
wolves fly, pigs prevail.
~ me
When the Big Bad Wolf comes to huff and puff and blow this house down, the owners can relax, because the bales make good load bearing walls and are extra sturdy - besides being three [little pig] times more efficient than conventionally built houses, for insulating against the cold and heat. Who needs expensive bricks? And will the owners of Green & White Acres be afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!
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Needs
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Needs
Leaning toward the stand of tasty hostas
the ducks are lined up, necks stretched,
black beetle eyes about to fly
from the tops of their heads,
bills blowing like vuvuzelas.
Out from under the awning of leaves
I hear a lone chicken braaaah,
in a tone of profound tolerance:There is nothing for you here,But they stand their ground
go away.
in a row, as they say, like ducks –-
Indian Runners, Rouens, and Pekins --
waiting like after-game rabble at a bar,
while the black hen, Rose, turns her back
as a bar maid would, plucking leaves
with the manicured nails of her beak.
She is not clearing out
for ducks.
So, the drakes pivot from the bar,
their appetites deflected
to what is at hand, and begin their rite,
pinching the necks of the female ducks
with their brassy bills,
then climbing on for a rumba.
What else can they do?
The maple’s shadow rolls over,
having seen it all before.
From near the pond, the wind hums
the poplar leaves, as through a bamboo flute --
a low and deeply knowing accompaniment
to the fickleness of the natural order.
~ Ruth M.
NOTE: For anyone whose head was under a hosta and doesn't know what vuvuzelas are, like me until much later than most people apparently, they are those dreadful horns that have nearly driven the world crazy, especially the players, in the World Cup.
This poem is part of the new One Stop Poetry One Shot Wednesday poem sharing project, where Brian Miller of Way Station One is hosting today, which I heard about from Lorenzo at The Alchemist's Pillow, who also helped a great deal workshopping this poem. (Sorry, Lorenzo, I am very grateful for to you, but I have to root for the Netherlands against Spain Sunday, to support my sister who lives there. Otherwise, I'd vuvuzela for Spain (can it be a verb?) - and thanks for telling me what those "World Cup horns" were called.)
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-Family reunion #2: my family at the lake cottage
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I did pull down a jigsaw puzzle. It says it's the Columbia River Gorge in Oregon, although the castle-like house looks European. It was just what Nancy and I wanted, lots of green. In this shot midway through the weekend, my brother-in-law Rodger only has about 750 pieces to go. I don't know if it got completed after we left Sunday evening.
The kids keep us young. But they didn't stay as little as they were at the last family gathering. They keep narrowing the gap between short and tall. I wish I could harvest and store the youthful energy that was spent running, jumping, diving and swimming. Not that I know what I'd do with it if I had it. You also have to have something you want to do, and the will to do it. I am a sedentary person, but Don and I have decided we're going to start biking around our beautiful state. At least I can do that sitting down.
There were play fights. There were serious adult conversations too. Sometimes I think some play fighting as adults wouldn't be a bad idea, as long as there are quick peace talks, the way the A-team, Aden and Asher demonstrated.
There was sport and adventure. Eric, my tireless fisher-nephew, was no end of entertainment for his nieces, nephews and first cousins once removed. (Did I say that right?) But poor Lydia didn't have a stomach for the fish's pain.
Eric tried to show how to cause the least amount of damage extricating the hook, before letting the fish go.
We have gobs of love and joy in our family, but we also have pain, just like everyone. There is illness, there is heartache. In the cycle of family, new ones being born and starting life's journey, it's up to the older ones to show the younger ones how to not only endure suffering, but how to gather around each other, encircling and touching, even when we don't understand. We fail sometimes when we can't stomach the particular type of hardship we face. Other times the younger ones show the older ones how to do it better.
Life gets so messy. When you're at the cottage with 20 or 30 people, life really gets disheveled, and you're sleeping pretty close to someone else. You might be closer to the person in the next bed than you are to the one in your own. You wouldn't do that with just anyone.
We all have shadow selves, the parts we don't really want anyone to see, the aspects that cause us shame. But these are thankfully only part of who we are. What I saw this 4th of July, more than any other in memory, were some of the greatest challenges we've faced to the cohesiveness and flexibility of our big, and getting bigger, family. Look at us. We look like oddly shaped countries, with distinct borders, and big bodies of water separating us. The nice thing about being human, and not land mass, is that we can easily grab hands and shoulders and instantly thin the distance to a stream. One that flows between us and is easily crossed.
There is a Blogger issue I have reported at a forum, along with many other bloggers, that comments that get posted (since at least 9:30pm EST July 5) do not appear on the post. I received email notification of 8 comments from Mystic Rose, Gemma, Anna, Terresa, Delilas, Gwei Mui and rauf, but they have not appeared at this post. When I posted a comment about this below, it appeared when I posted it, but when I refreshed the page, it was not there. I hope you are not experiencing this at your blog, and I sincerely hope it is rectified soon. I am still not over the grief of discovering some time ago that I had lost at least the first year's comments at this blog, and also at Paris Deconstructed. These were precious exchanges with dear friends, including the first time rauf visited synch-ro-ni-zing, with Wordsworth's daffodil poem. :(
UPDATE: As of 11:30AM July 6, comments seem to be sticking.
UPDATE: As of 1:00PM July 6, some comments don't stick! It's a random comment stickiness.
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It's a puzzle
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Friday we are away to the lake cottage for the weekend, Family Reunion #2. I don't fish for fish. I fish for jigsaw puzzle pieces. Well I haven't done that in a while, so I think I'll pull down one of the boxed puzzles from the tall stack at the top of the linen closet, spread the hundreds of picture fragments out on a card table in a corner of the living room, and corral them into something whole. Others can stop and sit and search for a piece too, through the hours of the weekend, between intervals of swimming, fishing for fish, boat-riding, eating, talking, playing guitar, singing, drinking coffee on the screen porch, playing cards, roasting marshmallows around the deck fireplace, watching fireworks bloom in the black sky above the lake, and sleeping.
This 4th of July it is difficult to find something to celebrate nationally. It's even tough to believe any more that working on one piece at a time will accomplish anything. A jigsaw puzzle this 4th of July is a prayer, that it is still possible to reassemble broken pieces into something whole. As Lovely You at the good in you powerfully said in her post on lemons & limes, The 7-Up Lesson, the sour side of life is essential to transformation. As I connect the pieces in my jigsaw prayer, I will meditate on how the broken is also part of the whole.
If you live in the U.S., enjoy the long holiday weekend. If you are outside of the U.S. and a citizen of another country, or an American abroad, please accept a humble American's heartfelt wishes for a wonderful weekend. I like thinking that I have connected with you out there, and we help make the world more whole, like puzzle pieces, together.
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