"WOODNOTE"

"On the rain-freshened green moss, the slug's markings are striking and richly contrasted. As the slug slides onto the lichen-covered rock face, the effect changes. Colors and form melt into the variegated surface: beauty remains, but it is the camouflaged beauty of belonging.

"Multitudes crawl, squirm, and writhe below my feet. But I seem to be alone up here in the air above. The soil's warmth and moistness help make possible this zoological extravagance, but these benign conditions would be for naught if the soil were not well provisioned. Death is the soil's main supplier of food. All terrestrial animals, leaves, dust particles, droppings, tree trunks, mushroom caps, are destined for the soil. We are all destined to pass through the dark underworld, feeding other creatures as we go."

           ~ David George Haskell, The Forest Unseen

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WHO WOULD THINK?

They would in Portland (Ore.): Artichoke and cotija cheese tamale. Artichoke? That's a super top vegetable favorite of mine, especially in Italian salad hearts, or pizza. But in tamale? Huh. But I think I know what these geniuses are doing: achieve a boiled cactus flavor-profile nuance (or chayote nuance, a cross taste between a radish and a zucchini) further steamed in a masa dough mash, and further flavored under wrap of the corn husk. And the ricotta-quality freshness of the queso blanca creams the bitterness of the greens and sweetening them a tad, therefore the verde and rosa salsa is ready for prime time. I love this tamale because it's so original - yet makes its tradition proud.

PS. Here's a drink that I think will blow any New Yorker's mind: coconut milk ginger latte. I asked the roaster/barista at work on his open-pipe espresso machine at the farmers market if this drink was his invention. He said, "Oh, yeah; thought about it this morning on my bike. I got the coconut milk from Whole, and I have ginger syrup ready here. I just know it's going to work." And I second that.
                                       
Go to Portland for the trees - and make an awesome picnic of the city!

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Foodnote: Portland Ramen

The vegan shoyu at Marukin Ramen (in Portland, Ore.) is a good "traditional" soup brought on by the noodle in the broth. Your chopsticks should push the Ramen in your mouth while hot, and the steam already absorbed with flavor- it is an oriental air. That was pleasant. But the vegetable components to this soup, however, had a different flair- a surprise technique in cooking: ratatouille style. I loved it disintegrated in a shield of its own, away from the Ramen, and blended for all its juices taste. The sensation is like eating two distinct dishes in one bowl. Strange, but... I don't know if that's a "Portland" thing - the buoyancy of the food ethos here that buys "interest shares" versus the density of food prepared from love and grit acculturated - say, in New York food, heavy on tradition, take it or leave it. There is a Ramen bar in Bushwick, Brooklyn, that epitomizes this solid "brand" that I'm talking about, strictly known to its chef who created it, down to the salt. His restaurant's name is Shinobi, a garage converted into a bar yet to my mind is a nook temple making soup that nobody knows about  - and that's the beauty of it. In New York, you bring your culture in your luggage, unpack the stuff, and make a home of it. And all of that goes in the soup. Portland is cool. I love it. But New York is hot. And I dig all the way in.

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PAST FOOD

XINDIAN DISTRICT, TAIPEI
OCT. 2016
 

In my mountian home, a vegan restaurant that opens early (preparing stuffed sticky rice ball with peanuts and tofu, for folks and students bound for the city) is actually run by a former monk. I found this out by braving that question this morning. I had eaten here since I arrived from New York over a week now, everyday religiously. I had observed the quality of his work with food; there was a discipline of serenity to its manner. The restaurant isn't really open at 630am, yet I'm always inside as Mars, the owner, stands against a prep table at the halfway open door, stuffing and rolling the rice, and customers come for take out. He would play jazz music to start our day. I, quiet and writing, and him, patient and humble as a tree, his hands blooming food. When I approached him with "the" question (as translated on my iPhone), wiggling the device to enlarge the screen (I had actually meant it as a joke; again, I come here enough that he and I had already established a rapport; in fact he had taken me to the night market already the other day, with another friend I met at the palace museum; that's how close we are and easygoing with each other), but seeing his reaction after reading the question, my heart trembled a bit. He gave me a look as if there was still a faint light in his eyes he's still searching - it was a split second window to his soul - and half-smiling and sincere he looked at me and said: Yes. A bowing yes. Nothing wrong with that, brother, I exclaimed! You're not angry, are you? Back to the Mars I knew, he answered, No!, like an orchestra conductor. Although he can't speak effective English, he can listen and understand the language and more so I think because he had already connected with me, the rhythm and nuance of my speech, and the way in which I talk he seemed to get it as clear as day. I told him, in English, that there was a dimension of spirit that informed his work with food (I had done temple stays around Asia many times before so I can tell) how and when food was prepared as an extension of prayer. He simply bowed his head again. Returning to my table and him returning to his task, I couldn't help but write another note to him in gratitude for answering my question like a sport. I wrote: They say that the best training the spirit could ever attain for its own sake is the practice of living an ordinary life with people, where you learn just as much as meditating as by communing with them. Mars knows I'm a poet. And I think this special morning taught as both, though privately, that we knew exactly how it felt to "collapse" the sun of the universe and suspend it in the darkness of our mind's "search" for the light, though we may never find it. I asked Mars if he could teach me how to make the fan tuan, the rice ball, and he said come over. So I stood at the prep table and executed. Piece of sushi! A customer was approaching and the fan tuan in my hand was still warm. I handed it to her, in exchange for 55 TD (Taiwan Dollars), and Mars said, my student made that, patting my shoulder. Ni Hao. And I said: thanks to my teacher. And I bowed. 

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