Waiting for New York

Summer House Soaps is going to the New York Gift Show in a couple of days.  Getting ready has felt much like waiting to take the plunge on New Year’s Day….same anxiety, same “let’s get this show on the road” impatience. I’ve been waking up at 3:00 a.m. and having trouble going back to sleep, my mind filled with Things to Do. Last weekend I went through an obsessive-compulsive stage when I made lots of lists and counted all the shelving screws (cause if you need 20 screws and it turns out you only have 19, you’ve kinda screwed. Likewise if you need duct tape or floral wire and don’t have it.) But now things are in place and I’m as much in control as I can expect to be. Knowing all the while that shit happens.

In my Zen practice, I’ve worked to get comfortable with change, with the unfamiliar and the unexpected. But the fact is, having been born naked and shivering into a dangerous world, we humans are wired to crave safety and familiarity. Only when we’re well-anchored in security do we start to want the spice of the new. Last year, when we went to the NY show for the first time, every darn thing had to be figured out for the first time. Where to park, which subway to take, how to get our stuff into the building, and on and on. There were major snafus, like when our booth space turned out to be two feet too short so our shelving didn’t fit. But we dealt with it all, and by midweek, a reassuring sense of routine started to set in. I knew where to find my morning coffee. I knew that if I was opposite that billboard, I was at the right bus stop. I’m sure it will be like that next week.

But still the anxiety. And a niggling little voice in my head that says “maybe you’re getting too old for this kind of thing. You aren’t as resilient as you used to be. Concentrate on reducing stress. Go for comfort. Take it easy.” And another voice that shouts back, “Shut UP! That’s exactly how you get old!”  

Probably both voices have valid points. Stress is bad for the body. At the same time, a lot of stress comes, not from the actual situation, but from anticipation. Usually waiting for things is much worse than doing them. And once they’re done, it feels pretty darn good.

The sprouts of winter

If I were trying to live off the land on Cape Cod, I would be very grateful for brussels sprouts. I planted a lot of them in the garden last spring and they’re still hanging on today, in spite of weeks of freezing weather and deep snow. Last night I snapped a dinner’s worth of frozen sprouts off the stalks. Once thawed, they behaved just like fresh. I’m quite fond of the earthy vegetal personality of brussels sprouts, but until recently I never ate them any way but boiled or steamed, with a little butter (a touch of mustard is good, too). Then, last year, I had addiction-inducing salad of shaved raw brussel sprouts at a trendy restaurant in New York City. That one had Jerusalem artichokes in it, (not something I’m likely to have in the fridge), but I’m wild about fennel and often have some on hand. This is my own version of that New York salad. 

(Incidently, if you imagine living off the land on Cape Cod, visit one of my new favorite blogs, http://www.starvingofftheland.com/)  

Shaved Brussels Sprouts and Fennel Salad

1 lb brussels sprouts, trimmed of stems and any discolored leaves, sliced very thin with a sharp knife
Half a fennel bulb, cored and sliced very thin
1/4 cup pecans, toasted in an oven and chopped coarsely
1/4 cup grated parmesan cheese

Toss everything together with 1/4 cut good olive oil, @ 3 TBSP fresh lemon  juice and a generous amount of freshly ground black pepper.  Salt to taste.
Let sit for a few minutes before serving to let flavors mingle.

New Years Day Plunge: How to Do It

“You should try it,” I tell other middle-aged people. “You’ll feel like a million bucks afterwards.” They usually roll their eyes, as if thinking, Not if I was on fire being chased by wild boars.  But in case you’re tempted, here’s a method that works for me:

Decide maybe you’ll do it next year, and then put it out of your mind until late December. For moral support, find a friend who is also considering it. On December 30th, watch the weather reports, hoping for frigid temperatures and wind that will let you off the hook without feeling like a wimp. The night before, continue to be very ambivalent but shave legs and bikini line just in case.

Wake up the morning of the plunge with a feeling of dread and doom. Be glad that the plunge is at 1:00 instead of late afternoon so there’s less time to wait. Feel mildly excited but mostly scared. Wonder if you have an unknown heart condition that will cause cardiac arrest. Feel like you are preparing for one of those tribal intiations where death must be faced for the sake of renewal. Put on bathing suit, now feeling like one of the young warriors in Lord of the Rings, arming for battle, grim, scared, determined. Out of nervousness, fuss endlessly about towels, robe, etc.

Arrive at the scene, relaxing a bit at the sight of so many others who are ready to do the same thing. Be amused at the Foolish Young, already stripped to their bikinis and trunks and shivering. Feel swept up in the group excitement. Greet neighbors who are impressed that you are going in with appropriate modesty, but secretly agree that it’s impressive. Find your friend and stick to her like glue…must have a hand to hold at the critical moment. Begin to feel impatient to get this show on the road.

Move down to the beach and feel alarmed at how much windier and colder it is down there. Peel off outer layers, ordering husband not to budge with your robe and towel. Feel excited and ultra-focused. Grab friend’s hand and wait for the signal. Run, screaming! (Screaming very important!) Be so fully into the scream that you barely feel the water when you hit it. Decide you’re deep enough and dunk. Turn and run out, heart pounding, breathing heavily. Marvel that you’re not even cold. High-five everyone in sight. Feel like a million bucks.

The gratitude holiday

Of the many holidays we celebrate in this country, it’s nice that there’s one devoted to gratitude. In spite of the iconic image of the Pilgrims celebrating their first Thanksgiving,  gratitude is an under-rated emotion in our culture. We don’t celebrate contentment here like we celebrate ambition…..it seems to indicate a lack of pluck. Our economy relies on our endless striving for something better than what we have, on our constant desire for more.
 
Gratitude, in spite of its slightly dowdy image, (one thinks of an auntie admonishing us to count our blessings) is actually a radical antidote to this cultural drive. Where the culture says more, gratitude quietly says enough. Far from being one of the minor virtues, it’s actually the key to a happy life. Without it, no matter how much we have, we will never be happy.
 
Gratitude roots us in the present, saving us from missing the beauty of the moment because we’re busy reaching for the next thing. It counteracts the tendency to fixate on what’s wrong instead of what’s right. It lessens anxiety and insecurity, the fear that there won’t be enough to go around. Gratitude reduces a sense of isolation by reminding us of our profound interconnection. When we see the things in our lives as gifts, we can’t help also seeing all the people and events that brought those gifts to our door. 
 
As Thanksgiving approaches, I’m thinking how lucky I am to live in a beautiful place like Cape Cod, working in a business I love. I’m grateful for the sun, rain, and farmers behind the oils and plants that go into our soap, and the wonderful people who have worked cheerfully alongside me, helping the business grow. And most of all, for the customers who have supported us over the years. For all these things, I just have to say, THANKYOU!

Shore birds

This morning I walked down to the rocks overlooking the place where the marsh creek drains into the harbor, and sat for a while watching the birds. A flock of gulls hovered over the water, diving, hitting the surface, and swooping away. Perhaps there was a school of small fish in the creek. Whatever it was, those gulls were pretty excited.

I wondered: what percentage of dives were successful? How many fish per day did these gulls need to survive? Was this a demanding schedule, or were the pickings easy? Of course, conditions would vary. Today there was a school of fish, tomorrow maybe not. Skill levels must vary, too.

The lives of these shore birds makes me think about the economics of food and work. When you see sandpipers running along the water’s edge, you wonder how the calories gleaned from their pickings in the sand could possibly equal the energy expended by their little stick legs. The mandate to constantly seek food seems so unrelenting for birds. Unlike other species, they don’t store a lot of fat, and don’t keep a stash in reserve for an off day. There are no holidays, no weekends, no time off at all. How can they stand it?

I bring this up because it’s Sunday, a day when I feel most strongly the pull between the need to be working (a 24/7 demand for small business owners) and the need to just BE, i.e., sit by the water, do a little yoga, write this blog. Perhaps the pressure to be doing all the time is no more and no less than the survival instinct talking to me. But what about the survival of the soul? That needs to be fed too, right?

I think a Zen master would tell me that I’m making a false split between Being and Doing, one of many delusions concocted by the human mind. Birds don’t make this problem. They have many of the same feelings we have: pain, fear, anger, desire, and probably even something that resembles despair. But they probably never feel resistance to the conditions of their lives. They don’t complain, Why me? It’s not fair! I shouldn’t have to do this! I don’t feel like it! They just do what needs to be done in every moment. So simple!  And for us, so difficult.

The Sunrise Breakfast Club

The sky was just beginning to lighten yesterday when I arrived at the Sandy Neck Beach parking lot for the first ever meeting of the Sunrise Breakfast Club. Six of us gathered on the beach to toast the sunrise with fresh squeezed orange juice followed by coffee, eggs and hash browns. The wind was whipping and it was cold, but the sunrise was beautiful. What you can’t see in the pictures is the sand in our teeth!

Oysters, oysters, oysters

Eating oysters feels just like eating the ocean, don’t you think? I indulged in a briny dozen or so last weekend at the Wellfleet Oyster Festival, a colorful street party that’s held in Wellfleet each October, rain or shine. We were one of the many craft vendors that lined Main Street on Saturday. It was windy and threatening but the rains kindly held off till closing time. We sold lots of soap to a boisterous crowd of locals, day-trippers, and just enough oddballs to give the festival its special flavor. There was music, an oyster shucking contest and all manner of food and drink…it was a wonderful celebration of the Cape’s shellfishing tradition. Sunday it did rain – torentially – so the festival went on without us. I hear the shuckers and musicians carried on, proving that Cape folks are a hardy lot.

Hail to the Harvest

It never fails…autumn brings out the pioneer in me. As soon as the weather turns chilly and the leaves begin to turn, a call comes from somewhere deep in my DNA to start Putting Things By for winter.

These days, my efforts in this department are more symbolic than practical. I don’t aspire to a cellar full of jars like my grandmother’s, because frankly, I’m not all that wild about canned carrots and beans. But cooking up a dozen pints of jam or spicy chutney…ah, now that’s a fine way to spend a fall afternoon.

Two of my favorite recipes are Roasted Garlic and Onion Jam, which is wonderful slathered on salmon or a roast beef sandwich, and Indian Pear Chutney, which is the perfect accompaniment for roast chicken. Both are great to have in the cupboard (stir a few spoonfuls of either into a pan sauce to really punch up the flavor) and they also make nice gifts. Since I’m trying to buy local these days, I’m planning to make mine with fresh garlic I bought from from Ben Chung at the Orleans Farmer’s Market, and some gorgeous Butter Pears from Crow Farm in Sandwich.

Roasted Garlic and Onion Jam
makes 6 half-pints

3 heads of garlic
7 cups thinly sliced Vidalia onions
1 TBSP olive oil
3/4 cup cider vinegar
1/4 tsp. dried thyme
1/4 tsp. hot pepper flakes
1/4 tsp freshly ground black pepper
3 1/2 cups sugar
1 package Sure-Jell Light (not regular Sure-Jell)

Trim the tops off the garlic, drizzle with olive oil, wrap in foil and roast in a 300 degree until soft. After they cool, squeeze the soft garlic paste out of the peels.

Heat olive oil in a large non-stick pan over medium heat, then add onions, and vinegar. Cover and cook over low heat, stirring occasionally, until onions are soft and golden, about 20 minutes. Add thyme, red and black pepper and galic  and whirl the mixture in a food processor or blender. Measure out 5 cups of the mixture. If you’re short, add a little water to make up the difference. Now follow the directions on the Sure-Jell Light package for peach jam, using the onion mixture and 3 1/2 cups of sugar. Ladle the hot jelly into hot, sterilized half-pint jars, leaving 1/2 inch headroom. Wipe rims, cap. Process in a boiling water bath for 10 minutes.

Adapted from Sage Cottage Herb Garden Cookbook by Dorry Baird Norris

Indian Pear Chutney
makes 6 half-pints

juice, pulp, and peel of 1 lemon, finely chopped
2 cups cider vinegar
2 1/2 cups dark brown sugar
1 clove garlic, minced
pinch of cayenne pepper
pinch of chili powder
1 1/2 tsp. salt
5 1/2 cups coarsely chopped firm pears, peeled and cored (about 3 lbs)
3/4 cup crystalized giner, cut small
1 1/2 cups raisins

Chop the lemon, removing the seeds and saving the juice and put all in a  heavy pot with the sugar, vinegar, garlic, salt, cayenne pepper, and chili powder. Boil the mixture over medium heat for 30 minutes, sirring occasionally.  Add the pears, raisins, and ginger to the syrup. Boil slowly, stirring to prevent scorching, until the fruit is tender but not mushy and the syrup is thick, about 30 to 45 minutes longer. Ladle the boiling-hot chutney into hot sterilized pint or 1/2 pint jars, leaving 1/4 inch headroom. Wipe the  rims and cap.  Process in a boiling water bath for 10 minutes. Remove. Cool upright and naturally.

from Putting Foods By by Green, Hertzber, and Vaughan

Sand dollars

Another week of clouds and rain on Cape Cod. Then Thursday evening the sun began to break through, so John and I drove to Mayflower Beach to see the sunset. The tide was way out, creating a vast sweep of sand and sea. The
sinking sun sparkled off the retreating waters and illuminated a light fog that hovered over the sand. Distant figures rose out of the glowing mist as if they were souls newly arrived on a celestial shore. It was otherworldly.

Down by the water’s edge, there was a family collecting something in buckets.  I asked the woman what she was gathering, and she demonstrated. Finding a dimple in the wet sand, she scratched with her foot and flipped out a rust-colored disk. “Sand dollar,” she said, dropping it into her bucket.

“Is it alive?”

“Yeah. You dry them and use them to decorate wreaths.  If you bought one of these in a store, it would cost a dollar.”

Taken aback, I looked at her nearly-full bucket, and the buckets of her husband and avidly collecting children. There were dozens and dozens of sentient beings there, about to be dried out and used as decorations.

But who was I to judge? If I’d encountered a family gathering oysters, I would have smiled approvingly. Living off the land and all that. I eat beings every day with far more going on in the consciousness department than a sand dollar. Even so, the words of the Metta Sutra kept running through my head.

Whatever beings there may be
Whether they be weak or strong
Omitting none
The great and the mighty
The medium short and small
The seen and the unseen
Those living near and far away
Those born, and to be born
Let all beings be at ease.

I scratched up a sand dollar myself. “Here buddy. You’d better get out of here.” Carrying it further down the shore, I placed it gently in the water.

Starting seeds

I started seeds today: tomatoes, chanterais melons, zucchini, eggplant, and brussels sprouts. I pushed the seeds into peat pellets and set them out in two lasagna pans covered with saran wrap. Once they sprout, I’ll put them in a sunny window. Come August, I hope my tiny seeds will have turned into a bounty of fruits and vegetables.

Starting seeds is a springtime ritual, a tiny miracle, and a rich metaphor. When we came back from the New York Gift Show last month, we told people, “We wrote some good orders and planted a lot of seeds.” Of course, those seeds have to be watered and cared for. We can’t expect good results if we don’t create the right conditions for our seeds to grow.

I always start way more seedlings than I need because I know not all of them will sprout and flourish. It’s a life lesson I try to impart to my son, who is currently looking for a summer job: “Don’t just apply to a couple of places and and then sit back and wait…put in lots of applications. You just don’t know where the opening is going to be.”

And seeds remind me that, in spite of my best efforts, I can’t really control the outcome with a garden or anything else in life. The groundhogs may trash my garden again this year. My kids may not be happy all the time. I can work hard and plan well, but a recession may whack my business anyway. This isn’t pessimism…it’s just truth, and it’s liberating to know it deeply.

When I feel my shoulders pulling up to my chin in tension, I pause and see if I’m trying too hard to control the uncontrollable. Then, just maybe, I can relax about outcomes and focus back on the process and the present. As I push those tiny seeds into the soil, I can’t know for sure which ones will bear fruit, but chances are good that some of them will.