I toasted almonds soaked in tamari sauce, to make them salty and caramel-like, crunchy. I added those as well. Texture in this dish is important; there is a danger of ending up with a mush.
I mixed everything together, apart from the tomatoes, and poured it into a deep baking tray. The tomatoes went on top for decoration, along with some feta cheese and extra basil. It took about fifteen minutes to heat up, in a moderate oven. It is wonderful served at room temperature with a side salad.
Rain was falling heavily and grief was ever-present. The pace of the day was leaden. The ground was wet and seeping with springs which cut wounds through the grass. Everything was green and the weather mild. There was a sense of winter not having arrived yet. The holly tree which had suffered badly in the harshness of the previous winter did not seem to mind. Somehow it looked relieved, as did the birds playing hide and seek in the undergrowth.
I looked up as I was writing and saw the curtain of rain, bits of cloud, and a few dripping sheep staring at the valley below. Did the sheep know?
From my window I noticed a retreatant going around the place, fixing things. He had helped with the milk refrigeration system by tieing the crates and the bottles with blue rope, fixing the crates to the ground with stones and then placing them in the stream. He had changed the riddle wheel of the Rayburn before I arrived, replacing the old one with the forged cast iron wheel that I used to keep in the kitchen window to remind me that “the wheel of the teachings always turns”. I had heard him howling this morning, outside the kitchen, and I could feel his grief mixing with mine; his pain like a mirror not only of my suffering, but of a collective, universal sorrow of loss.
I decided to try to enter fully into the sorrow, rather than push my emotions to one side. I knew that if I didn’t confront it, it would take hold of me and drown me. I knew that I would find the necessary support from the teacher, Hilary, help from the trees, the mountain, the sky.
Hilary encouraged me to write. She told me to write about both the pleasant and the unpleasant, so I made a list describing how I felt before arriving here. I wrote three pages. Most was doom and gloom: “I feel flat, a desire to curl up and die, grief, voices in my head, self-pity, insomnia, drowsiness, exhaustion, blurry mind, awkwardness, disconnection, revulsion, nausea, despair, anger...”
How could I have allowed myself to get into this state? I noticed that as soon as I walked into the kitchen, I began to feel better.
As I stepped out of the kitchen and into the garden, a heavy drop of rain from the sycamore branch fell into the tiny bowl of soup sitting on the tray, a part of our lunch offering to Tara. I smiled. I noticed. I had strong fantasies of being transported to my grandma Fina’s house. I longed to hear cicadas and green parakeets by the pool, and to eat a dulce de leche cake in the sunshine with my family. My mind went round in circles dreaming of magic carpets or winning the lottery. My husband Simon had in the past bought me a ticket at the last minute, when by mid January I was barely functioning. “Go and get your oxygen mask,” he used to say.
Yet sometimes, on retreat, winter becomes comfort rather than penance or punishment. Could I drop the negative feelings and embrace “whatever comes”? I layered myself up with thermals, fingerless gloves, thick wool socks and sheepskin boots. Some of these clothes were older than my children. It was so dark in the kitchen that I also wore a head-torch most of the time.
Since I hadn’t mastered magic or apparition I decided to offer people my home in a dish: a simple vanilla sponge with dulce de leche and coconut.
A lovely afternoon light fell on the valley at tea time. The colours dispelled the gloom and dug me out of the bog of ache. I breathed; and breath after breath, I opened up to now. I decided not to eat the evening meal, but I still took the tray with the offerings to Tara. The slugs were feasting on the freesia flowers I had left on the steps. Bugs hovered around my head torch and when I switched it off I noticed the full moon. I stood bathing in its light.
After dinner I walked across the yard towards the Chan Hall. A few people stood outside looking at the moon, which looked like a big circle of brilliant bread dough. As I took a few steps into the mud, clouds moved and two halos formed around the moon, a moon with a wreath of rainbows.
Hilary led us on a silent walk up the hill, in the quiet of night. There were no torches, only squelchy sounds of wellington boots sinking into the mud and a slow line of fifteen people walking at uniform pace in the pearly moonlight. The glow was glorious.
After the walk, I went back to my room, and became immersed in thoughts of tomorrow’s menu. I lifted my head and looked out of the window and saw my reflection: my Fes scarf wrapped around my neck; a long braid falling on my left shoulder. I was wearing spectacles, green reading glasses I received for free when I bought the pair I keep in the kitchen. There was an ageing me in that reflection. One of the windows was slightly open and I saw my reflection merged with the sycamore branch, my face knotty and mossy, a Kahloesque picture of woman and tree.
As I shut the window the image of me was no longer split. My pen slid out of my hand. It was time to go and make the wheel of the Rayburn spin and riddle, to get the kitchen ready for the next day’s potions.
I made a mushroomy miso soup. Miso is light but has substance. I always carry sachets of instant miso soup in my handbag. It comforts me better than a cup of tea.
There is always one day halfway through a retreat when people have had enough, or when things begin to shift. I call it the breakthrough day, or Miso Day. There is something about the clarity and goodness of miso that lightens the spirit.
Miso is a paste made from a fermented grain (usually soya), salt and kōjikin, a brewing fungus that has been used in Japan, Korea and China for over two millennia. Miso plays a key role in Buddhist monastic life in both Chan and Zen monasteries, nourishing teachers and monks. I use brown rice or barley miso to make soups; these are salty, so taste before you season. I sometimes put it in bread dough, and make black sesame miso rolls, or I add it to vinaigrettes, marinades and dressings. The possibilities are endless: become adventurous!
The secret of miso lies in not boiling it, as this affects its probiotic qualities and denatures the enzymes.
Miso soup
Serves 4
½ fresh chilli
5 cm piece of fresh ginger
1 stalk fresh lemongrass
½ leek
4 small carrots
½ red pepper
6 brown or shiitake mushrooms
4 spring onions
150 g green beans
2 litres homemade vegetable stock
4 -6 tbsp miso paste (to taste)
1 tbsp tamari sauce
Sesame oil
A handful of fresh coriander
Finely slice the chilli, grate the ginger coarsely, cut the lemongrass in half and “bruise” it with the bottom of your chef’s knife. Finely slice the leek. Grate the carrots. Cut the brown mushrooms into quarters, slice the pepper and the spring onions. Trim and finely slice the green beans.
In a heavy-based pan, fry the mushrooms in a little sesame oil, until they have softened. Lower the heat and add the tamari and the miso paste and mix well. Remove from heat and leave it to rest, then add the chilli, ginger and lemongrass and set aside for a couple of minutes.
Meanwhile, heat the stock in a new pot. Place it on the stove on a medium heat.
When the stock has boiled, turn off the heat and add the miso mixture. Mix well. Start to build your soup by placing all the vegetables in the miso soup and reheat it, making sure it doesn’t boil. Place the lid on the pot and simmer for five minutes, making sure that the vegetables retain their colour.
Pour into four bowls and top with freshly chopped coriander and perhaps another dash of tamari sauce. A sprinkle of gomasio (see page 93) also works well with this soup.
After lunch, I started to heat the wok for the curry build-up. As I toasted black mustard and fenugreek seeds and fresh curry leaves, people kept p
eeping into the kitchen to check what was cooking.
Curry
This is my family’s favourite curry. It springs from a Jamie Oliver recipe, and everyone knows how to make it now. Curry cooked from scratch is so different from one made with a ready-made sauce. Breathing in the aroma that comes from the first stage of toasting the spices is one of those deep experiences that make cooking sensual and transporting.
I have made this curry recipe, with variations, on almost every retreat. John often used to ask me if I could make it again on the last night. I serve it with my own take on a flat bread, somewhere between a chapatti and a naan bread, but I only do this if I have plenty of time as the breads need to be cooked one by one. I no longer follow a recipe when I make this curry and I suggest that you follow these instructions and then adapt it to your taste. Make it hotter or milder and try using other vegetables. Here I give instructions for either a butternut squash or a cauliflower curry.
Curry benefits from being left to stand so that the flavours intensify as the ingredients become acquainted with each other. On retreat I try to have the curry ready by the end of the rest period after lunch, only coming back to heat it up fifteen minutes before serving it for the evening meal.
Serves 4
1 butternut squash, peeled and cut into chunks, or 1 cauliflower
4 tbsp sunflower oil
2 tsp black mustard seeds
1 tsp fenugreek seeds
1 handful of curry leaves
1 fresh green chilli, seeded and thinly sliced
2 tbsp fresh ginger, coarsely grated
1 tsp turmeric
6 tomatoes, chopped (or a 400g tin of tomatoes)
14 oz tin coconut milk
Salt
A handful of cashew or pistachio nuts
A bunch of fresh coriander, chopped.
For the spiced rice:
Basmati rice
2 star anise
1 stick cinnamon
1 tbsp cardamom pods
Note on the chopping of vegetables for this curry:
In my opinion, onions should never be chopped in a food processor. It affects the consistency and almost destroys their chi, or energy. I cut the onions for this curry into long strips. First peel the onion, then cut it in half lengthwise. Slice as thinly as possible, following each line of the onion.
Chop the butternut squash into even, bite-sized cubes; after you seal them they should retain their bite and not disintegrate into a purée.
Cauliflowers are flowers and I treat them as such. I remove the leaves then gently tear the florets from the stalk. I never use a knife anywhere near the florets. You end up with a little mountain of tiny trees.
Find a heavy, stainless steel wok, or a heavy-based pan.
Pre-heat the oven to 160°C. Spread the pistachios or cashews out on a baking tray and toast for 8 minutes, until lightly coloured. Remove from the oven, allow to cool and set aside.
Heat some olive oil in the pan, add the butternut squash cubes and sprinkle with sea salt. The idea here is to seal the cubes, so that they are golden brown but they do not overcook. Use a medium to high heat and pay careful attention, keeping the cubes moving. When they are browned, reduce the heat and cover for five minutes so they sweat and cook a little more. Remove into a bowl and set aside.
Heat the pan again and start to dry toast the spices. First add the mustard seeds. Wait for them to pop, then add the fenugreek seeds and the curry leaves. Stir them, being careful not to burn them. Add the oil to the pan, followed by the chopped onions. Cook them until soft and translucent. Add the chillies and ginger. Stir and fry for a few minutes then add the turmeric. Chop the tomatoes in chunks, and add them to the curry. Cook for a couple of minutes, then add a cup of water and the coconut milk. Continue simmering and stirring. Season well with salt and taste the acidity as you might need a pinch of sugar as well. Remove from the heat.
Add either the sealed butternut squash cubes or the raw cauliflower florets to the base and allow the curry to stand, with a lid on, for as long as possible. Twenty minutes before serving, reheat gently and adjust the seasoning.
As you are about to serve, toss in the toasted cashews and the fresh coriander.
Serve with spiced steamed basmati rice. To cook the rice, heat a large pan and dry fry a couple of star anise, a stick of cinnamon and a tablespoon of cardamom pods. Once the pods start to make popping noises, add a tablespoon of oil, and the rice. I usually calculate one mug of rice for three or four people. Fry the rice lightly for 30 seconds and add 1¾ times the volume of rice to water. Add some salt, bring to the boil, cover the pan and reduce the heat as far as possible and cook for about twenty minutes. Brown rice has a much longer cooking time. When the rice is ready, scoop out the whole spices, which by then will have risen to the top. Fluff up the rice with a fork, and serve immediately.
Fresh fruit chutney
I make this fragrant chutney as an accompaniment to curry and I always tell people to serve on the plate with the curry and rice, rather than in a separate bowl. I make it with whatever tropical fruit I can find, remembering and honouring a simple lunch we were once treated to on Wasini Island, in Kenya. Use cantaloupe melon, pineapple, green papaya or mango. Try to make it at least a few hours ahead of serving. Sadly it does not keep very well, so eat it on the same day. Adapt the heat and sweetness to your own taste, but always use fresh chillies and coriander.
1 pineapple, peeled, cored and chopped into small cubes
1 ripe mango, chopped into small cubes
1 tbsp soft brown sugar
A good pinch of sea salt
Zest and juice of one lime
Fresh coriander leaves, without the stalks
1 green chilli, pith and seeds removed, sliced finely
Coconut flakes
Pre-heat the oven to 160°C. Spread the coconut flakes on a tray and bake until golden. Keep an eye on them as baking does not take much time at all. Allow to cool.
Toss the chopped fruit into a bowl, add the sugar, salt, lime zest and juice and the chillies. Mix well and allow to sit.
Check the seasoning, add the coriander leaves and the coconut flakes. Mix well and set aside until you are ready to serve.
I spent most of the miso and curry day crying, embracing my homesickness and my feelings of loss. It felt better to hold the ghosts rather than to fight them. I cradled them, soothed them with a sad song of sorrow. I sobbed throughout my afternoon nap, throughout the afternoon mantra chants, and again after the last mouthful of my supper. Yet the job still got done and the process kept on flowing.
The next day the sun came out after days of constant rain. I went for a walk up the hill, and when I got to the top, to the lonesome tree where we had scattered John’s ashes, two red kites flew towards me and settled on one of its branches.
In the evening we did a fire puja by Green Tara. We walked slowly from the Chan Hall to Tara, carrying all the Tibetan instruments including a big drum John had left in his room with a tiny piece of paper: “Only to be used in very important Buddhist ceremonies.” Pete blew the conch shell to the East, West, North and South, to the skies and finally to the earth. As the music faded, and the fire got going, we began chanting Guru Rinpoche’s mantra, my favourite mantra, at lullaby pace: Om ah hung benza guru peme siddhi hung.
Hilary had asked us to write down something that we wanted to honour, or to let go of. We were then to burn it in the fire. I wrote something to remember: my first retreat, that first tasting of the universe. The way I opened up to the beauty of being. I wrote a note to myself: be your heart.
John’s folding chair and hat had been placed by Tara. I only noticed it when the fire had almost gone out.
The weather had changed; the mood had also changed. During the morning work period I went out of the back kitchen to find one of the participants working on the lamps, wrapped in a scarf. He was soaked in sunlight, glowing, incandescent. A few minutes later Pete, the Guestmaster, came through the front door and
said: “Go outside.” Frost covered the valley like the fur of white foxes. It was lit by of the glow of the sun, which touched everything with warm red tones: flickers of auburn and ginger, ember-like. I stood in this moment of shining stillness, of hoarfrost and warmness. I went back inside and told people to stop chopping vegetables and go outside. As they stood gazing outwards a few had tears in their eyes, such was the beauty: devastating.
Instead of attending Hilary’s talk, I sat and meditated in John’s room. I lit an incense stick and waved it around, bowing, kindling the muses. The sun shone directly at me; it was just above the holly tree and the dormant lovage plant. It caught the little altar on the windowsill: a salt Buddha, pristine white. Sitting has been an important part of writing, of seeing, of dropping the distractions. I felt grateful and golden, my clothes tinted red by the sun. I felt just like an oat groat: organic, heartfelt, whole, nurtured.
Noticing is part of the process, not just cooking. Moments pass, minutes pass. Did you notice everything?
Did you notice the mint in the yogurt, the hint of clove on the braised lentils, the marigold petals? Did you notice the pain of the participants, did you feel it? Where? Did you notice how their faces changed as the retreat progressed?
Did you taste the fennel in the winter slaw, the hint of pomegranate in the dressing? The salt flake?
Did you wonder where it came from, who harvested it, packaged it?
Did you relish each bite like the only bite to be bitten, each chew, chewing, mindfully, that moment, gone, forever.
Did you notice the birdsong, just when you thought you could not go on, the birds, with their light feather coats, chirping in the cold? Why can’t you sing like they do?
Did you see the sun rising over the frosted valley, the day opening, full of possibilities? Were you there or merely a spectator? Did you see the smouldering trees in all their nakedness? Did you see people’s faces, distended and beautiful, and the barn ablaze, as if set alight?
Tales From a Zen Kitchen Page 13
