Tales From a Zen Kitchen

by Florencia Clifford

  350 g good quality dark chocolate (60%+ cocoa solids)

  250 g butter

  3 large eggs

  250 g dark muscovado or brown sugar

  80 g wholemeal self-raising flour

  A drop of good quality vanilla essence

  A handful of rose petals

  Pre-heat the oven to 160°C.

  Grease and line a shallow 9 inch square cake tin

  Break the chocolate into pieces and cut the butter into chunks. Place them in a bowl over boiling water to melt. Allow to cool.

  Whisk the eggs, giving them plenty of air, until they are fluffy. Slowly add the sugar, until you get a shiny and well-blended mixture. Add the vanilla and gently fold in the cooled, melted, chocolate mixture.

  Sift in the flour and mix carefully, making sure the flour blends well with the batter.

  Pour into the tin and bake for 30 minutes.

  Don’t panic about the softness of the cake, it will harden as it cools down.

  Allow to cool before cutting.

  You can add toasted nuts to the brownie mixture before baking (toast them lightly in the oven as it is heating up, but keep an eye on them so they don’t burn). I sometimes sprinkle some Maldon sea salt on top of the mixture, just before I put it in the oven. Sea salt and chocolate is one of my favourite combinations. You could also try sprinkling the brownies (again before they go into the oven) with dried rose petals from the garden or from a wholefood shop (commercial roses have high levels of pesticides).

  The colour of the valley was shifting from green to brown in the afternoon light. I sat with my tea on the bench and focussed on a foliage-free silhouette of two trees intertwined, connected through their growing branches which were wrapped around each other, like one tree with two separate roots. The bareness of the tree was a flawless depiction of the end of winter.

  The sycamores were budding fatly, ready to explode into leaf. I had been thinking of training as an analyst; if I did so, I would have to give up coming here to cook. Sitting in front of this spectacle filled me with sadness as I wondered if I would return.

  I love the rusticality of the Maenllwyd, the woody, crackly, drafty spaces, the dust, the rugs, the pictures, the ancient boots above the mantelpiece and the spirits. Above all, I love the sycamores and the kitchen with all its magic of ancient druidic energy, the slugs by Tara that connect me to my inner goddess. Everything reminds me of my nature, and helps me regain it.

  I had a strong sense that the muse was back. I felt creative, connected to the landscape around me. Simon had lent me a super lens for my new camera. I experimented with black and white photographs, but it was colour that won out, colour that became more and more intense as the retreat progressed.

  The green tea leaves swelled inside pots, were re-used, recycled to the last. One, two, three, four times they infused, hot water extracting taste and goodness.

  The house settled during the rest period after supper. People were hovering around, drawn to the squares of leftover brownie and halva on a pretty plate on the coffee table by the fire. There were only ten of us. Someone had fallen asleep and was snoring. The assistant Guestmaster Doug stared into the flames and glowed like a mirror of fire.

  The pears were not ripening, so I moved them to the shelf above the Rayburn.

  I started to memorise my koan:

  A monk once asked a pilgrim:

  “What is your style of practice?”

  The wayfarer replied:

  “I wrap my sandals in my robe.”

  “What does that mean?” asked the monk.

  “I go down the mountain barefoot,”

  Answered the pilgrim.

  Cooking was a joy on this retreat, the spirits of the kitchen and my own heart working together in harmony, spontaneously creating. The carrot cake had some added ingredients: fresh pineapple cubes, coconut flakes, and walnuts. I marvelled at the process, at the alchemy of transforming ingredients into food. Some of the flavours were sublime, but it felt like I had little to do with it. I was simply channelling creative energy; it felt like I was just one added element in the process, rather than the creator. I was simply allowing the food to express itself.

  The kitchen brings me back to something ancient that inhabits me, a non-linguistic space, hard to explain in words. It is something innate, inherited, alive in me, in each cell, in the complexity of data that we are. The knowledge that allows me to mix the cake batter, the way I sense temperature or concoct a soup: these are not skills learned at school but a deep understanding of food that comes from within and from the ingredients, from the tools, the fire of the stove. The sycamores help, as guardians, nesting my muses the slugs, and murmuring together. The sounds of the stream; the walls, cracks and draughts; a sheep skull reminding me of the fleetingness of life: all are part of the kitchen team, they join in the effort. The Maenllwyd kitchen is a place of potions and pain, of joy, of taste: the barefoot cook is alone with a job to do, her sandals wrapped in her apron.

  I took a walk up the hill to stand by the lonesome tree at the top of the track. On my way back I removed my boots and socks. It was painful, but I got a strong sense of each step I took, feeling each grain of sand, each thorny stick, coming into contact with the soles of my feet. I denied myself comfort in order to feel, and I noticed the humility of taking each step, as my bare feet became brown and dusty. I felt alive as I washed my feet in the stream and dried them with my scarf.

  The following day was implausible, almost summer-like, so unusual in the Welsh mountains. It felt like a precious gift; surely we would have to pay for it at some point. It had a tint of prophecy, surely foretelling a ghastly summer ahead. I had lived on this island long enough to be cynical about the weather. Just in case I was right, and because here, better than anywhere else, I inhabit the present, I tried to soak up copious amounts of sunshine. Later I took a blanket and sat by the stream and re-read my cook’s report. It amused me to see how almost everything I describe on retreats is repetitive: the trees, the birds, the steps, the valleys, the insects, Tara. Yet two experiences are never the same. Nature teaches me new lessons each time, using the same teachers.

  As I sat scooping pomegranate seeds on Tara’s stony steps, red, juice-drenched fingers and sun-rays filling a steel bowl on my lap, I lifted my head. I caught a glimpse of a man as he washed in the stream, half-hidden by grasses. His chest was bare, his skin was pale and his eyes flickered, lupine, as he splashed his torso and washed, crying out and sluicing his pain with mountain tears. Like a wolf that howls his aloneness, the entrenched solitude of his nature, that depth of sound with no noise resonated in my heart as his kept beating.

  Tara felt very active and the spirits and animals kept coming to feed off the offering tray. That morning I had made a circle of “out of date” pumpkin seeds surrounded by pink hyacinth flowers, with a rusty bell in the middle. By the afternoon only the flowers lay scattered around the steps; the bell lay behind a group of daffodils. There was a sense of troll activity, of force.

  “Teacher, show me the way.”

  “Have you had porridge this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then wash your bowl.”

  I had some spare time as I was waiting for something to cook so I started to clean and scrub the kitchen, dragging the metal bins outside so that I could sort out their contents. The back kitchen pantry began to sparkle.

  I made Chinese black rice and rye grain bake, with crunchy stir-fried vegetables, handfuls of tamari-roasted almonds, feta cheese, slow roasted tomatoes and fresh herbs. I kept the grains al dente, as this increases their nutty taste, and means that they won’t overcook when they go in the oven with everything else.

  I started to prepare purple kale, slicing the dried end off the stalks. The leaves were beautiful. I got the wok very hot, added some water, tossed in the kale and some salt and put the lid on. After a few minutes I removed the kale leaves with metal tongs and arranged them on platters. I scattered some toasted seeds on t
he top; it tasted of simplicity and perfection.

  Despite the small numbers, people were very generous and volunteered to help with the evening washing up. For the first time in ages I decided to take the compost bucket to the heap. I was usually too tired by this stage and my back had had its fair deal of lifting, but something was calling me to do it. It was a beautiful, strangely warm, starry night; I had put a bowl full of tea lights by Tara, and the space glowed. I walked up the hill carrying the bucket, the head-torch beaming light and showing me the way. As I approached the large wooden box I sensed a presence, and as I got closer I noticed a big beast feeding of the pile of food waste: a badger. Rather than running away, it jumped at me, frightened. I dropped the bucket and remained still. We stood there, staring at each other, until the badger ran away, towards a hole on the metal wire in the fence. I smiled. I had never seen a badger in the flesh before, only the unfortunate dead ones by the side of the road. I bowed to the furry garden troll and returned to the kitchen to make some tea.

  The lunchtime soup the following day was a celebration of winter vegetables. I made a leek base, sweating away leeks in a bit of butter, salt and pepper for twenty-five minutes. Small cubes of celeriac were sealed in the wok using olive oil. Once the celeriac was cooked and golden, I added it to the leek base, together with some salt and tamari sauce and then filled the pan with the usual homemade vegetable stock.

  In a heavy frying pan, I heated olive oil and fried half a handful of grated ginger, and in the meantime I toasted eight or nine pecan nuts and a tablespoon of coriander seeds. I allowed the ginger to almost caramelise and when the seeds and nuts were golden I put them together in a pestle and mortar and crushed them slightly. I added them to the pan with the oily ginger and mixed them well. I added the spicy ginger nut crunch just before serving the soup. It tasted wonderful: tiny explosions of heat, sweetness and nuttiness, like a dervish dance of flavour in my mouth.

  For afternoon tea, I made little fairy cakes with lemon and Madagascar vanilla butter cream icing. Someone said they were chirpy little cakes. I got help setting the table outside, which I covered with a blue and white check tablecloth. It was lovely to be part of a group of retreatants having tea with Tara on the lawn in early March.

  The pilgrim cook and her practice. In her practice she has learned that there is no aim, nothing to attain, just that beauty of walking the path: in the sunshine; in the snow; in the red, fallen leaves of autumn and in the muddy puddles. Walking with nowhere to go leaves room to notice where are you walking, what is on the ground, what the landscape has to offer. There is nothing to attain, just porridge to be cooked, a pot to be washed, bread to be made, the offerings to be offered. The cook’s heart, her spirit and her body are present at all times. Her feet are bare.

  If only things always felt so straightforward. That night I hardly slept, I felt run-down and overtired. The effect of three retreats in a row was taking its toll, and I woke up with a blinding migraine. I had no tablets and I needed some. I told Simon that I was going to try and get everything ready for lunch and go into town, to the chemist. The Rayburn had been quite temperamental and there had hardly been any hot water for washing up. Just before I left I had words with the Rayburn. I explained that I really could do with a hot bath, that it would be kind if she had some hot water ready for my return.

  At around ten in the morning I had everything ready: cake, bread rolls, soup and all the supper prepped, ready to be cooked later. I drove to the next village and went straight into the chemist, with no time to spare. Driving down and back up the track took its usual half an hour, because of all the gates, so I didn’t linger. The Rayburn was literally roaring when I got back. I bowed to her, feeling that perhaps she understood. I made a quick cup of peppermint tea and prepared a bath. I eased myself into the bath, relieving my aches and pains. I got out of the bath, dried myself, dressed, collected my things and had a short rest. The tablet was working but migraines tend to leave me debilitated, shaky and exhausted. I had so much to do and I felt I needed a good day’s sleep, but I could not. I felt weepy. I wrapped up, wiped away the tears and went outside to kneel in front of Tara with a stick of incense and a hyacinth flower. I asked her to heal me and help me get through the day. It was probably the first time I had prayed so desperately. By the end of the day I felt better.

  I sat on a blanket on the lawn by John’s room and gazed at the deep blue sky beyond the bare branches. The organizational marathon of this morning had paid off and I managed to lie horizontally for a good hour. What a wonderful place this was, what a gift it was to be here. I saw a tree that had not even dropped last year’s dead leaves yet. Didn’t it know it was spring? Trees know what we struggle to grasp, just by being, growing and losing their leaves. Their pilgrimage is upwards and outwards.

  I realised that I had been seeking to “get” somewhere, and I had been there all along. I had been seeking something to unlock me, and by seeking I was losing focus. By seeking love I had placed love outside of myself. If I stopped seeking, perhaps I could find the calm and serenity that gives way to opening.

  I pickled mushrooms, put them in sterilised jars and made labels. I would sell them at the end of the retreat for the bursary fund, which helps people with low incomes to attend retreats. I roasted peppers and put them in jars with a bay leaf, a garlic clove, a few peppercorns and extra virgin olive oil. I also made some raw carrot pickles with fresh lovage and whole spices: “the barefoot pickle collection.”

  I had a good interview with Simon and told him about my conversation with John on the previous retreat, when he had dared to suggest that I “change the menu”. I suddenly realised that John’s response was a direct challenge to my ego. What a wonderful way of teaching me. On that same retreat I truly began to write; before I used to be too tired to write anything apart from simple notes of dishes I invented. There used to be no time to write, and now there was. John wanted me to write. Tenzo practice was teaching me, nurturing me, connecting me to myself. So much has been cooked already, so much remains raw.

  We had afternoon tea in the garden again. I made a cappuccino cake, which was lush. The coffee lovers relished every bite.

  Cappuccino cake

  I make this cake in a big tray and cut it in squares. It is rich and moreish.

  250 g butter, softened

  280 g wholemeal self-raising flour

  250 g golden caster sugar

  ½ tsp baking powder

  4 eggs

  150 ml natural yoghurt

  1 tsp vanilla extract

  1 tbsp cocoa powder

  100 ml strong coffee, cooled

  For the icing:

  140 g icing sugar, sieved

  225 g mascarpone or cream cheese

  1 tsp vanilla extract

  Cocoa powder for dusting

  Pre-heat the oven to 180°C. Grease a 20 x 30 cm baking or roasting tin and line with baking parchment.

  Beat together the butter, flour, sugar, baking powder, eggs, yogurt, vanilla, cocoa and half the coffee in a large bowl with a whisk. Make sure there are no lumps left. Transfer into the tin, and then bake for 25-30 minutes until golden and risen and a skewer poked in comes out clean.

  Allow the cake to cool in the tin while you stir the icing sugar into the mascarpone. Add the remaining coffee and the vanilla extract, and mix well until smooth. Spread over the cooled cake. Using a sieve, dust cocoa powder over the iced cake.

  I joined in the afternoon chant and then returned to the non-stop cha-cha-cha of creation, preparing an Ottolenghi-inspired feast for the evening. I hoped people would be able to taste the universe, the mandala of flavours, the history of all they were about to taste.

  I cooked quinoa, the sacred Inca grain, with its seven millennia of experience of nourishing people. The legend tells that when the Spanish first encountered the Inca people, they came across a strong, vigorous, well-nourished and resilient population. Every year, the Inca king was in charge of planting the first quinoa seed with a
spade of gold. When the European invaders realised how important this crop was for the well-being of the people they were trying to conquer, they ordered every quinoa field to be burnt to the ground, and banned its cultivation. They also banned cocoa to the Aztecs, but that is another story. Without their wonder grain, the people weakened, starved and succumbed to illness, becoming the perfect slaves to be sent to the mines in search of precious metals.

  Quinoa has been available in specialist shops for over a decade. It is so beautiful when it cooks; the little spirals begin to show themselves as the grain starts to swell. It tastes nutty, wholesome and succulent. I always rinse it first as quinoa is coated with saponin, which is bitter in taste. Saponin protects the grain from the ultraviolet rays of the sun in the Andean Hills where the best quinoa is grown. It also stops birds from eating it.

  I cooked the quinoa according to the instructions on the packet and made a warm salad, adding strips of caramelised red onion, toasted pistachios, unsulphured apricots sliced in thin strips and orange zest. I added a squirt of cold pressed sunflower oil. I was cooking a feast and I was tired - Babette was beat - but the person that grew the quinoa probably works much harder than this every day of their lives, as do the spice collector and the orange grower. They plant and harvest as part of a circle, passing their harvest on to someone else to cook for another to eat. Honouring that circle is part of my practice. Here is the quinoa recipe. I served it with some of the pomegranate recipes that you will find in the next chapter.

  Quinoa salad

  Makes a large platter.

  This is delicious as an accompaniment to tagines, and served with the aubergine dip. You can vary what you add to the salad: toasted pine nuts, chopped toasted pecans, pomegranate seeds, roasted vegetables, mint… all these work well. The idea is for you to have a base recipe, so that you can raid your cupboard and experiment! If you are lucky, you might be able to find red quinoa, which is so much nuttier and tastier.

  2 cups quinoa

  ¼ cup shelled pistachios