Consider it monk food, for its serene aspect and infused temple spirit. Alfred Tennyson has a verse about a secret garden and I will paraphrase it to conjure a Buddhist vegetable plot: before a seed, comes a blessing— to blossom forever. Curled parsley, lavender basil, thyme and rosemary, the babies of chard and sage just snipped off their essence (from the herb garden on my porch); deep inhale, gratitude, and set in a bowl of rose water. Peeling the squash, cutting to sticks, steaming in olive oil and lime juice and homemade chayote stem tendrils and Kula onions stock. Monks don’t spice up their food; it is a principle of economy and simplicity. But in otherworldly sense, their dishes have a botanical emanation to taste. I’ve learned the elegant humility of this cooking technique at Miwang-sa, S. Korea during the harvest moon festival more than a decade ago, and I still carry with me this temple food tradition. At work, many times they ask me what I put in the salad or soup I brought from home, and I say delightfully, not much to it, but micro-pinches of salt and pepper and whatever citrus fruit I have to juice a tad, that the vegetables and herbs and flowers have their own identity, and from a heartfelt gesture, I share and serve. Once in Phenom Penh, Cambodia, I saw secular pedestrians pay their due respect to a monk standing in a sidewalk eyes closed with an empty bowl cusped with both hands. It was not begging. It was receiving food; and people bowing. At the monastery, caged brown sparrows were sold honor system for fifty cents, similar to dropping a coin in the collection box to light a candle inside a Catholic church. The intention is same. But in Buddhism, releasing the bird is releasing your suffering.
Nights are cooler now late November in the islands. This soup is just what I needed. The still fragrant leftover mashed sweet potato with churned cashew butter from Thanksgiving, I’m thinking dessert, I reconstituted creamier and lighter to become a spoony fudge with flecks of dried coconut in rich oat milk swirls. I know I am not a monk, but the Abbot at Miwang-sa I think will be proud with this humble sweet. My temple-stay was during Chuseok (name of the three-day festival), and visitors participate in the preparation of songpyeon, rolled rice cakes shaped into marbles of pink, white and blue and gently marked with a metal flower insignia. In that spirit, I know my fudge is pretty, and I offer it up... And I light a candle in my dining kitchen.
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