COLOR THEORY

     Around 1839, in France, Michel-Eugène Chevreul wrote what would be a seminal book on the principles of color harmony and contrast, and during the height of the Impressionist movement in the late 19th century, famous painters considered his theories as "palette bible." The American watercolorist, Winslow Homer, was one of them, and his deep study of "De la Loi du Contraste Simultané" pervaded his works to capture the essence and movements of natural elements. The Chevreul principle is this: (1) color is perceived by the tone of light that is present over the object to illuminate it (we need light for our eyes to see); and, (2) that any surrounding reflection from various objects assembled together will affect each one's boundaries by simultaneously giving off a complementary hue to enhance their visuality through "contrast but harmony" (received light produces a secondary glow thereby diffusing the object's color). It was a fascinating weekend read and inspired me to understand the color theory using food. In the photo, using Homer's pigments schematic chart, the guava's Aureolin yellow sharpened the gleam of the star apple's Indian purple skin while deliberately flowing out its "halo" sweetly coating the Other green mixtures of the avocados. Empirical observation guided my science is like giving art its realism vis-à-vis rendering the fundamental illusion of light to science as a fact of imagination. Chevreul said: "To be familiar with this book is to possess a new sense. Every object in art and nature speaks a new and exciting language. Color becomes music to the eyes."

     There's another book waiting on my nightstand. It is by Mary Catherine Bateson called "Composing a Further Life." It's a poignant title, to say the least. Anyway, I went to the farmers market yesterday and got these unusual fruits (see second smaller photo) "bathed in light." Loquats are marvelously sweet like summer peach and are extraordinarily healthy for you (according to the elder Chinese flower vendor selling them alongside ornamentals and exotic orchids; the "composition" of her stall was an interesting harmony of house plants and table fruits side-by-side, catching your eyes to wonder whether they're purposely designed as such - that the fruits are [inedible] flowers too - but...), its citrus minerals are fortified and loquats are real immune boosters, not to mention their leaves are made to tea (arguably better for you than coffee). Later that day as I was

composing my fruits on the table, I also wondered what the elder vendor had done before turning into a farmer/florist later in life, and owning that spot at the Saturday market. Has it always been her dream to do that, and now is its fruition? I wondered what color-images float in her mind as she designs a rose-pikake vase, or establishes a white climbing hydrangea on a potted trellis, or houses a ficus bonsai with a miniature garden of fruits. Did she see herself in this future? And is she... finally happy, seeing her life under another tint...? 

 

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TAKING STOCK

 "If health is not 'cultural normality,' then it must refer to something else, must point beyond man's usual situation, his habitual habits. Health, in a word, is not typical, but ideal-typical. It is something far beyond, something to be achieved, striven for, something that leads man beyond himself. The 'healthy' person, the true individual, the self-realized soul, the 'real'... is the one who has transcended himself." (Ernest Becker, reading Søren Kierkegaard)

It consists of Kula-grown celery and sorrel, first extract, and to concentrate it further, he added wild malunggay foliage — everything he could harvest that’s blooming in the treetop: young sprouts, leaves, flowers and seed pods; all its life-force. Hence, this hot elixir soup was pure ecological sustenance unadulterated with salt. It’s a green essence osmosis. It’s the cousin sui generis of the twinkling planktons defused in clear sea. He took stock of his health. There’s nothing pharmaceutical and agro-chemical in his body. What he ate greatly came from the unspoiled earth. They say he was "The Picture of Dorian Gray," but with a soul that’s the child of a living spring. Without a trace, cuts and scars regenerated to fresh skin; he was like a fairytale. Despite the topographical dangers in the rainforest and the waterfalls canyon, nature let him play unscathed. As a matter of course taking "inventory" of his life, he had indeed stopped growing. This is the story of Ayu Mowgli: a Peter/an orphaned-animal left to fend for itself in the jungle, God shaped like almost a man. 

The fantastical soup was foolproof bottoms up. Its healing properties included meta-mineral benefits to the endoskeleton. Mowgli always hunted food with a friend-panther and both respected the laws of the kill. They all took turns: animals had strategic mobility and range, but they’re meat to another in watch; or otherwise safe in a neutral corridor. Herbivores were meat too, unless they’re fast enough to outrun the big cat. The mighty elephant was the exception to the rule of the grass-feeding type with no known predator. Instead, its foraging controlled the choking abundance in the jungle, and then stomping on, had engineered a way to create a beautiful savanna. The python floated as long as the river and when hungry coiled in a struggling prey. Mowgli had begotten all their skills, also their capacity to design beauty and to shed new skin, leaving the old behind. Mowgli swung on vines sounding off his heart for nuts and plants’ fruits and water in flowers, picking them up on the fly. He swum in the pools like a frog, according to legend, but captured fish in his mouth like a bear.

Two thousand years ago, Empress Jingu, in the Chronicles of Nihonshoki, defeated the invading Mongols through divination, and declared: Catch the sacred river fish, Ayu, and our people will be free! The "immortal" Ayu lives on today in Maze, Japan, in the most pristine river ecosystem in the world fed by a garland of summit-mountain snowmelt, as far as heaven-like a place his home is in this earth-water paradise. Ayu is disguised a fish, mystically, yes, but only to hide his true essence of peach-apple and sweet moss nature (allegedly its miraculous taste) within. The imperial military ate off an angel’s food, and triumphed over the enemy and saved the motherland. Sure, the gods protect the Ayu, but a chosen one is a sacrificial propitiate by destiny, as kings are the first soldier to die for his crown... What did Peter eat but a panoply of mushrooms in Neverland, and the power of his adventures! He even found a girl to love — forever. The writer of this allegory (blog) is his own "soup" for thought and imagination made real to firmly believe it. And to "count the ways" for you, he drinks it.                   

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THE FRUIT STAND

Long Island, Bridgehampton, NY; circa Nov. 2016 

 

The tangerines were rain-soaked yet looking fresh, the money box was gone but the dogs were barking. They recognize me so they stop, and bagging my fruits one or two whimper at the gate. John are you there? Yeah, Gary, hearing him through the screen door; you can leave the cash under the bell. (There was a time he had left a sharpie note right on the skin of a giant green pomelo stating: Reserve, for me, $2). His fruit stand is open all the time; it’s built of a small canopy tent that fits snugly on the house lawn. With emergency blinkers on, I park across the street and check out what’s available. A re-use bag is always ready on the passenger seat. Actually, the fruit stand is located a short walk from my work (a quarter mile, if so), and on lunch breaks I would saunter out of the office with a big farmer’s hat on my head and get some bananas and starfruit at the stand (a must for a co-worker); and there were occasions when John would even give me change.

There’s another fruit stand in Paia just past Mana Foods that I miss going to since moving closer to work (it’s been more than a year). I reliably got papayas there (almost daily), and seasonal vegetables if there were any left (I heard the owner was a cook). Just like the one close to me now, this fruit stand is honor-system, in fact most fruit stands on the island are such, and you can find them pretty much everywhere especially when the neighborhood is naturally abundant. I remember the mango and orchids shack in Ha’iku-Huelo in route to the gorgeous waterfalls just along side the winding road. In upcountry where the clime is cooler, a sign would read: Nectarines for 50 cents. To my surprise, there aren’t at all whole coconuts for sale here, though you would think, as compared to other island countries in the South East where those can be had easily and delivered to you to drink with a straw after the vendor had freshly whacked its top off with a machete.   

Years ago I drove out to the Hamptons alone in late fall. The Long Island highway showcased a kaleidoscopic forest scene. Reaching a vineyard according to my map, turning a bend and following a wooden arrow pointing to the estate, I received a ping on my phone. Carefully holding the screen up it read: don’t forget the fruits on your way home. (That weekend we were hosting a dinner at our loft in Brooklyn with friends over from France, and the most beautiful wine, cheese and fruits were imperative. Outside New York, the Hamptons is the food basket of New England with seasonally-focused growers boasting an agrarian ethos that goes many generations down history.) My blog is about discovery, rediscovery and nostalgia, following the course of my life where poetry, food and love are central. However: "A moment and it is gone. And no longer may we make the necessary arrangements, simple as they are. Our star was brighter perhaps when it had water in it. Now there is no question even of that…"  (John Ashberry, from Soonest Mended).       

   

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KITCHEN CONFIDENTIAL

 

For Mom

 If Bourdain was still around I swear in this wish I could be him. The philosopher Otto Rank wrote about the Art and Artist, and that melding of operatic design and execution is in the chef's mind I admire. What would he do with these awesome produce on hand? What is his private kitchen like cooking for himself? How does he think about food with that writerly impulse? Who comes first: the art or the artist? How does he set his table when no one is joining? In the act of cooking, did he choose the home or restaurant style, the rustic or modern traditions, to comfort him? Who is on his mind in his gaze inward? How well does a poet eat if he could reveal his secrets to you?   

 As votary of the Lotus Sutra, Nicherin Daishonin described that nirvana was a place on earth and likened his faith to a tree as a tree attains it mastering nature. Bourdain loved the world of food because from all walks of life he celebrated them in film noir, intellectually and romantically inhabiting stories of cultivars and victuals for their praises within. He studied the intersection of politics and street food in Burma for their nuance, while slurping his bayleaf-spiced root soup and shooting flower fritters to his mouth. Baobab fruits are the main sustenance of a nomadic tribe in Kenya on the driest months of the year, and full moon-dancing silhouetted the fires of the night camp. His commentaries would've been cosmic, but he wore their sandals instead along the trail, and what could never be revealed in picture transcended.        

 Taro breaks down its sticky substance with other vegetables at play in the stock pot absorbing its gel but flavoring the broth another level. The malunggay pods (a.k.a. horseradish drumsticks) are the "bone marrow" of the plant realm, and Henry David Thoreau would be my vicarious guest enjoying this meal both on paper and in stomach, sucking out the butter-scorched bell pepper juice from its life. Would Bourdain like that? I wonder. I live alone, I eat alone, I bow before eating, I shake the heart chime thanking the mountain for my food, and I write to live. I am motherless, but there's a heavenly portrait of her in my midst and gift offerings to boot. How does a poet eat? Well, it couldn't be further from the experience of love he had received as a child. So cooks like his mother to love him.     

   

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