The worshipers (no, the hipsters) at the Temple of Peace in Haiku are all vegan, creatives and Woodstock-era descendants. Under crystal chandeliers hanging from the party tent, the open church rocked with Ayurvedic vibe and live music of praise to the mystery creator of the universe pervading the gathering with love and peace. But I went there for the legendary food, with all due respect. Starfruit kebabs (very ingenious); a pumpkin (and other garden-grown vegetables) spiced ratatouille (delightful); avocado dip with olive oil crackers; raw greens-and-herbs and watermelon beets salad, no dressing; my favorite in the banquet braised Swiss chards-wild rice basmati-lemons and grits (just phenomenal in its peasant food goodness); and on top of it all: Nigerian yellow mung beans and okra stew, garnished with roasted kukui nuts! The hand-to-hand circle song in the gathering before eating was the 1970s crooner “You Are So Beautiful,” an island kumbaya rendition of everyone at the temple with soft gazey eyes for one another affirming we are. Although I started getting self-conscious with the innocent stares of admiration, but I showed the best of my game to the group by swinging along my shoulders and neck in the beats of our meta-energies infused with intoxicating peace-love-flower vibe. I once read when I was still living in Portland, Ore., that where hippies congregate and transform as counter-culture community in their domicile utopia, is where foodies are created. I agree. Hippies are grounded but elevated, and their green thumbs run parallel to their down-to-earth spirits. They grow food for a communal table, they farm for the household of friendship. And boy they sure can cook another-level tasty. My idol chef-poet Anthony Bourdain was one. Patience Grey was another. And these two, of countless culinary luminaries I admire, were writers-at-soul first, and being a cook was beside the point. Cooking is an act of the nourishment of their great minds - they can make you just eat simply warmed sourdough baguette with churned homestead butter but it feels like a cozy alternative to the ceremonial breaking of bread and wine. They toss salads with their lime-rinsed hands and plate them edible colors dynamically. They woo you for the pleasure of your dining consciousness - the sage grassiness of the rare-grilled rack of lamb; the cacao soufflé with oozing pomegranate jam at the center of the airy cake. That's magic. Back at the Temple hula was a prayer my friend and I danced to. We were actually having a wonderful time, albeit spiritual and church-minded. The collection basket came out and floated around and I put ten dollars, she five. Not bad for a price (a donation) to a poetic meal and cool heavenly music experience. Namaste.
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