Tales From a Zen Kitchen

by Florencia Clifford

  1 medium red onion, sliced thinly

  ⅔ cup olive oil

  Grated zest and juice of one orange

  ½ cup unsulphured dried apricots, chopped into strips

  2 handfuls of rocket or baby spinach

  A few basil leaves

  Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

  Pre-heat the oven to 160°C. Spread the pistachios out on a baking tray and toast for 5 minutes, until the colour changes. Remove from the oven, allow to cool slightly, then chop roughly, but not too small. Set aside.

  Rinse the quinoa well under cold running water until the water is clear, otherwise it can taste bitter when cooked. Put it in a pan with 2 cups of boiling water and simmer until all the water is absorbed. Spread it onto a flat tray and fluff the quinoa with a fork as if you were raking it, to allow air to get in. This accelerates the cooling process, and stops it overcooking.

  Whilst the grains are cooking, fry the onion in three tablespoons of the olive oil in a small, heavy-based frying pan. Cook until it caramelises, over a low heat. This will take up to 15 minutes. Leave to cool in the oily mixture.

  Soak the apricot slices in some of the orange juice, and make a dressing using the oil, the orange zest, salt and pepper and the rest of the orange juice.

  In a large mixing bowl combine the quinoa with the dressing and the rest of the ingredients. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Serve at room temperature.

  After supper, Simon asked me how many volunteers I needed for washing up. I usually ask for two, maximum three. I told him: “Nine please”. There were only ten of us.

  In the morning someone thanked me for last night’s dinner and told me that the food was so delicious it made him weep, as he realised he would never taste that same meal again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Pomegranates

  Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree.

  ~ William Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet

  I use a lot of pomegranates in my cooking. I reintroduced them into my life a few years ago while choosing vegetables for a Western Zen retreat. I was at the greengrocer, collecting a bulky order for a week of cooking in the Welsh mountains, when I noticed a box of pomegranates. They were portly and round and stood out with their lustrous ochre glow, as if showing off all the sunshine they had accumulated in their lifetime. Even though I had no idea what I was going to do with them, I had to buy them. They joined me on my journey.

  I suspect pomegranates of holding the secret of time travel. They transport me to specific moments of my childhood, not only with their flavour but in the whole experiencing of the fruit: the holding it, the looking at it, the knowing it. Pomegranate is known as the fruit of patience. It is sensual, curvy, the queen of fruit. She sits plump in the throne of her kingdom, boasting her frilly crown.

  It is at its best in autumn, arriving in England from the Mediterranean and Middle East, China and North Africa, but you can buy it almost all year round. I love to sprinkle it in salads and to place it in meals where its seeds are least expected.

  I often feel like I carry an invisible key ring with all the keys to places that were significant in my life. Certain things, smells, sounds, particularly in the meditative silence of a retreat, awaken the power of the keys and enable me to enter, like a visitor, those spaces in which I witness moments of a different time. It is here that I confront myself, where chunks of my life that were buried deep in my memory, locked up for decades, become vibrant and alive.

  Pomegranates hold the key to my early years in calle Gregorio Gavier. My grandfather had bought two houses next to each other and had given one to my parents: he lived in one, we lived in the other. There was a door that connected the two houses. I liked his house. He had a piano and there was a pomegranate tree in the back garden. Its blossom used to attract tiny hummingbirds who came to feast on its nectar.

  The neighbourhood children used to knock on the door and ask if the pomegranates were ready. When they were, our ritual started. We would pick them, bring them out onto the street, sit on the pavement and tuck in.

  We loved to break the leathery rind, peel through the honeycomb membrane and rip into the juicy grains. Everyone ended up with hands, faces and clothes stained red; deep vermillion juice stained the pavement slabs around us like blood. Concentrating hard, we picked out the arils like edible rubies, piling them up in the palms of our hands. We avoided the white, unripe ones, and the yellow pith, we hated the bitter taste and the way it got stuck in your teeth. We stuffed the piles into our mouths, chewed, and sucked the juice out of them. We made slurping noises and some spat out the tiny seeds.

  We sat on the pavement telling stories and eating. It was the only time the other kids allowed me to join in their games and I used to associate that glory of belonging with the flavour of teeth-made grenadine.

  I tattooed a sweetheart with a bread knife on the trunk of that pomegranate tree. Inside it I carved the letter M. Matias was my third-grade boyfriend. We were both eight. I left the school at the end of that year, but I used to see him occasionally because he lived next door to my aunt’s house on the other side of town. He was impish, an attention seeker, and he used to get up to all kinds of mischief. Perhaps it was because his father had died. One summer I went to my cousin’s birthday party, where I joined crowds of girls in smock dresses and impeccable hair. Matias hadn’t been invited, so he set fire to the tree at the front of the house. He used to wave shyly at me, peeping through a hole in the garden wall, his eyes a piercing blue. A few years later, as I was about to leave for school, I picked up the newspaper and read that a young boy had been shot dead in the city. Then I read the name: it was Matias. He and a friend had been playing in and around an abandoned house when a retired army captain, a neighbour, had fired a few shots to the air, allegedly in an attempt to frighten the boys away. A stray bullet hit Matias in the head and killed him. We were both twelve. The two next-door houses are still there, but I am sure they are no longer connected by a door. The pomegranate tree was knocked down after my grandfather died and his house was sold. But I still have the key. In my imagination, I still go and visit. I caress the bark of the tree; I see my grandpa smiling standing next to it and I still trace the letter M and the shape of the wonky sweetheart.

  Roasted aubergines with pomegranates

  I first came across this recipe in my brand new copy of Yotam Ottolenghi’s cook book given to me by my friend Julia. It became a tradition to cook it towards the end of a retreat, as a treat. John Crook adored this dish. Now the book is my most battered, this recipe has evolved and I have my own take on it.

  Serves 4

  3 large aubergines cut into round, even slices (about 2 cm thick)

  Plenty of extra virgin olive oil

  2 tbsp toasted sunflower seeds

  A handful of pomegranate seeds

  A bunch of basil leaves

  For the yoghurt dressing:

  A small pinch of saffron strands

  3 tbsp boiling water

  180 g low fat natural yoghurt

  1 garlic clove, crushed

  Juice of 1 lemon

  3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

  Sea salt

  To make the dressing place the saffron in a bowl and add the boiling water. What you want here is colour, not for the strands to disintegrate. Leave to stand for a good five minutes. Toasting the saffron strands slightly beforehand will help diffuse the colour and flavour of this wonderful ingredient. I love watching as the water begins to change colour, the deep orange seeping out, like ink.

  In a large mixing bowl, whisk the yogurt, garlic, extra virgin olive oil, lemon juice and sea salt. When the saffron water has cooled down, add it to the yogurt mixture and mix well. Leave in the fridge for the flavours and colours to intensify while you cook the aubergines.

  Pre-heat oven to 220°C.

  Place the aubergine slices on a roasting tray and toss them with plenty of olive oil, sea salt and pepper until each piece is coated, distributing them
evenly. Roast for 20-35 minutes until the aubergines are cooked and have changed colour. They should be tender and have turned golden brown.

  Once the aubergines have cooled slightly, place them in a pretty serving dish, cover with the dressing and, with your hands, scatter over the toasted sunflower seeds and the pomegranate seeds. Carefully tear each leaf from the basil stalk and arrange with the other toppings, making the whole dish look beautiful. Serve at room temperature.

  Moorish aubergine dip

  This dip is great for crudités, for accompanying couscous or quinoa salads and for serving with roasted vegetables. Fire is the key ingredient in this dip; the aubergine must be charred in flame to bring out its flavour.

  1 aubergine

  200 g natural yoghurt

  2 tsp pomegranate molasses

  Zest and juice of half a lemon

  Drizzle of extra virgin olive oil

  1 garlic clove

  Sea salt

  Hold the aubergine over an open flame (gas or wood) and allow it to burn evenly on all sides. You will need to stay with it, moving it around with a pair of metal tongs. Place in a bowl and cover with a plate. The aubergine will cool and the steam will make the peeling easier. To peel it, just slide your fingers from the tip to the end, making sure not to scrape the skin but at the same time removing all the charred bits.

  Rub the garlic clove firmly around the surface of a mixing bowl, as if you were using a wax crayon to colour the inside of the bowl. This will give the dip a hint of aroma and flavour without overpowering it. Discard the leftover garlic. Put the aubergine, yoghurt and lemon juice into the bowl and use a potato masher to bind it all together. Add the pomegranate molasses and stir. Taste and season with sea salt. Add the oil and leave to rest. This dip is best served at room temperature.

  Baba ganoush

  1 aubergine

  A pinch of sea salt

  The juice of half a lemon

  A handful of parsley

  ½ tsp pomegranate molasses

  Char the aubergine and remove its skin, as in the previous recipe. Place the peeled, burnt aubergine in a bowl, add sea salt, lemon juice, freshly chopped parsley, olive oil and pomegranate molasses. Mash it all up into a paste and leave to rest before serving. It is great as a starter, eaten with white sourdough or toasted pitta bread. I also like to serve it alongside a big bowl of braised lentils (see recipe on page 82).

  Autumn coleslaw

  At home, we eat a raw, fresh salad every day. We have been growing our own vegetables since we arrived in York, so we eat freshly picked leaves for at least six months a year. The rest of the year, we try to resist succumbing to the bagged supermarket leaves, so our salads become crunchier, more entwined with the season. I love shredded cabbage and carrot, fennel, toasted seeds, but I dislike smothering it all with mayonnaise. It deflates the salad, taking its colour and lightness away.

  This is a good basic recipe which you can change and adjust according to what you have in your fridge or vegetable box.

  Serves 4

  ¼ medium red cabbage, finely sliced

  ¼ medium white cabbage, finely sliced 1 small fennel bulb, trimmed and finely sliced 4 small raw beetroots, very fresh, washed and finely sliced 3 carrots, peeled and coarsely grated

  2 crisp apples, quartered, cored and finely sliced

  1 small cup of pomegranate seeds 2 tbsp fresh lemon juice

  For the dressing:

  3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil 1 tbsp pomegranate molasses 1 tbsp cider vinegar

  1 tsp Dijon mustard

  ½ tsp honey

  Sea salt

  Toasted sesame and pumpkin seeds

  Carefully arrange all the vegetables and apples in a bowl. Drizzle over the lemon juice and toss, using your hands.

  Whisk the dressing ingredients in a bowl until they blend. Add to the salad and toss well. Sprinkle over the toasted seeds and serve.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Retreat Seven: Death of a Teacher

  It was January 2012, the beginning of a Silent Illumination retreat, led by Hilary. I sat in John’s room, writing with John’s pen. John felt present in each corner of this house. He had died in the summer, unexpectedly, and we were all still trying to come to terms with his death. I had cooked his last retreat at the Maenllwyd last February, where I had noticed how he beheld the landscape and the house, the surroundings. He contemplated them with a deep love, a oneness with the spirit of the place. He even managed to walk every day up the hill. His operation had given him the strength he had feared he would never regain.

  Whilst planning a Tara puja, standing in the back yard, he had told me that he thought he would live for another ten years. John was the Maenllwyd and the Maenllwyd was John. How does a place that is so intrinsically connected with a person continue to be the same when that person is no longer there?

  I remembered how his ashes danced in the wind, as his family scattered them at the top of the hill, near the lonesome tree. I heard his instruction as I gazed out of the window, full of sadness, yet with so much to do: “Get on with it!”

  Meditation facing the wall in the evening, the wall as a mirror of me. An owl broke the silence ... hoot!

  I had arrived feeling like a spectre: a sad, ghoulish me. January was doing its usual trick: trapping me in a spin of pain that drags me into a dark and petrifying space. It’s as if a part of me dies in January, mirroring the landscape and the vegetation. All I wanted was to be in the Argentinian sunshine with my family. I longed for early morning breakfasts in La Granja, under the chinaberry trees, a round of maté tea at the long tiled table with baskets of bread and dishes of cold, salty butter.

  I could hardly get out of bed to come. I took my time, drove slowly and arrived too late to make proper use of the few hours of precious daylight.

  My mood snapped on arrival. I shifted from “barely functioning” to “so much to do, so many people to feed”. The weather was unusually unwintry. The sun was shining.

  John was everywhere I looked, I saw him sitting on the bench, mumbling that it wasn’t cold enough. I missed him early in the morning, coming down the stairs for his first coffee fix of the day.

  I had been kindly offered his room, which has a desk and lovely views. I felt grateful for the space. As I looked out of the window I could almost touch the mossy branches of the sycamore tree, which was confused by the unseasonal warmth, buds forming on each tip end.

  The room was full of John’s things: an oak desk with ring marks of mugs from an era gone; a silver and china tray holding two torches; an old box of matches; a pebble; some old batteries; a book of British birds and a small bread basket with his personal cards.

  A couple of raggedy green coats hung from a hook on the ceiling, like a constant apparition. One was a green parka with a sheepskin collar, the other looked like a dressing gown: wool flannel with checked tweed details in the lapel and pockets, full of holes that only time and wear can make in garments.

  I wondered if I shook them, would I shake out their tales? But as the day went on I realised that the stories were not in the dust; they were in the people who were carrying on what John started. John the adventurer, the seeker, the wizard, the teacher, reminding me through each object: “Get on with it!”

  Tea beckoned. I made flapjack with jumbo oats and Welsh butter, melted with golden syrup, the zest of a navel orange, chopped, toasted walnuts and sea salt flakes. An offering.

  Orange and pecan flapjacks

  250 g golden caster sugar

  250 g butter

  425 g porridge oats

  180 g golden syrup

  50 g pecans

  Zest of one organic orange (the skin of conventionally produced oranges is often laden with pesticides)

  Pre-heat oven to 180°C.

  Grease and line a shallow, 12 x 7 inch baking tin.

  Toast pecans in a moderate oven, or in a heavy-based pan.

  In a bowl over a pot of boiling water melt butter, sugar and syrup. Keep the
temperature moderate, and stir constantly. Once the mixture has melted completely (if your bowl is big enough) stir in the oats, the toasted pecans, and the orange zest.

  Mix well, pour the mixture into the tin and press it down, making sure it is level.

  Bake for approximately 30 minutes, until the flapjack is golden but still soft. It is a good idea to mark the squares with a knife when the flapjacks are still warm as it makes them easier to slice once they have cooled down.

  Rice is a wonderful and versatile grain, the main staple for so many millions in the world. I have experimented with many different types of rice on retreats: short brown, white basmati, brown basmati, Arborio and wild rice, to name but a few.

  I decided to make a vegetable and rice bake, a dish that has evolved from a lumpy buckwheat bake I once ate at a Steiner School cafe. It is a recipe that changes all the time. Someone once asked me for the recipe but, after trying it out a few times, realised that it only worked when he focussed on the ingredients and followed his instincts, rather than follow specific instructions.

  I used red Camargue rice, wild rice, oat groats, and spelt grain. They all have different cooking times, so you need to cook them separately; you can also use buckwheat, black Chinese rice, rye grain or brown rice. Each grain has its own nuttiness. I love making the dish as the process is almost ritualistic.

  The secret is not to overcook the grains before they go into the oven. As I drained each type of grain I cooled it down before removing all excess liquid and mixing it in a bowl.

  Separately, I slow-roasted cherry tomatoes, giving them time to caramelise and release lots of juice. All you need is olive oil and sea salt, and perhaps a bunch of rosemary or thyme.

  I stir-fried, only slightly, so as not to lose bite, different vegetables: broccoli, carrots, red onions, red peppers, a little bit of chilli. You can use anything you like, as long as the vegetables have a variety of colours. I mixed the grains with the vegetables, and added fresh herbs: basil, parsley and tarragon. Then a good splash of tamari sauce, the juice from the tomatoes, and olive oil; the mixture has to be moist.