AÇAÍ BOWL DISPATCH

     The man gave me, oh, I had requested for, three chances to guess the origin of the flag draped in the kitchen while he was preparing my açaí topped with toasted coconut flakes under a heap of diced seasonal fruits with palm honey. (The little shop on trendy Market St. is celebrated for its local vegan offerings, there is always a long line of patrons outside, and it takes time to order and wait because all is cooked to-order and the cook is alone and doesn’t seem encumbered by the pressure, the menu also includes healthy breakfast panoplies of sprouted ancient grains and greens with plant-based spicy sauces, I ordered one by the way, while listening to cool music.) Jamaica. He gave me a shaka stare of a disappointment, grabbed my money, pressed the till, and said, nope. Oh, I got this (proudly saying as true as can be remembering this land of injeras and braised vegetables you scoop with this sour crepe), Ethiopia. Man, what’s up with you? No! I swear that the flag was striped yellow and green, and, yes, there’s this insignia in the middle some coat of arms, but the colors flew high for me and was sure sure. Yet, I was still wrong. Give me a hint, please, start with the first letter. I have to get back and start orders, man, but O.K., “H.” Honduras!, I proudly exclaimed. (As far I have traveled-studied, there are tons of hippies there – “where there are hippies great food lives” – and I know an alcove exists where Norte Americanos are taking over the awesome surf break spots and camping out the rest of their young retired lives on the tropics, but I wasn’t but could be sure yellow and green too is the color of their flag.) I give up on you, brah, how could you not recognize this flag in front of you!? What is it, man? You’re standing on it. Hawai'i. Toni Morrison, one of our land’s literary icons once said: “Laughter is more serious than tears, and you better use it.” I sure did that morning, we did, the cook and I, and made my day shine out loud. I sat out on the bench enjoying my açaí, it was a humid morning yesterday, I had my back up on and shirtless, legs stretched out on the side walk of Market St., straw hat on, and feeling good– really good physiologically chasing down the coolness of palm berries turned sorbet feeding my tired, very tired but relaxed soul. (PS. Hey, açaí berries are indigenous to Central America palm species, and… Honduras, right, is in C.A.? I was almost close with this illustrious theory, lol, but didn’t bother the cool man in the shop and let him be.) 

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GREENS FIGS AND WHEAT SOBA

 

The combination is deliberate, but the enjoyment is individual. Coming back from my hike and swim in the valley, I have preconceived this menu on the road and luckily I had a mile to go on foot when hitchhiking worked again and got a faster ride home for this food! Folks, let's define "home" for a second here, especially those old-time followers of mine with keen eyes familiar with my food scene for the past couple of years and now thinking, Wait a minute: is this a new place by the author? It is. And officially I am blogging from a different backdrop - but it's all good (I have sadly moved from Mrs. Cole's aviary of a house with mountain and ocean views to a cottage not far away hidden under avocado and banana trees with tiny lanterns strewn in branches). Solo for a few years now and luckily only have moved twice on the island, transitionary is my attempt at defining the embodiment of my home, I am my home, and where I go welcomed and loved, I "unpack" my sense of belonging, what I take with me will not change, my heart is permanent of course. Food I cook is also my sense of home I nourish myself as if I was back with family or during my nuptials days - I have to eat well to relive that comfort, and quite frankly to live up to that old standard hard to match alone because the taste was out of this world when you were all together. But I try everyday. And today the figs and the scallion infused noodles don't disappoint with my wild hunger. Dropping my hat and backpack on the wood floor I went straight for the fridge, washed and plated my figs then pouring the prepared soba (from Mana Foods) into the bowl and convincingly attacked kissing the figs first inside my lips sweetening my palate in anticipation for the glorious arrival of the umami from the wheat strings and delivering to my tongue blessed my tired soul and hunger and I felt erstwhile deep in my sense of home. There's a statue of a painted rooster perhaps you don't see in the blog picture who faces the fruit bowl with its beak on my new table and it's a funny unintended design; I share a home now with an architect and this figure is a special touch to a modern ambience but with a social history ethos. The "road" is also an extension of my sense of home even if walking fictitiously for all intents and purposes of burning my energy for it, high on the words. The cold wheat soba is as refreshing as the waterfalls that cascaded on my head this morning at Iao massaging the "ground of my being" and quenching my solitude for a prize with nature. I can only write haikus at this oasis, and writing in the forest always gives me, ultimately a much larger, lusher, skyward sense of home.     

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NON-STICK POPSICLE

     The idea is not to make a mess. And this is how you do it. The red ice is hibiscus-ginger-turmeric tea and the yellow layer is frozen dole pineapple chunks (from the can), and I will bring all these flavors together tart-sweet-spicy with grapefruit juice fresh squeezed with agave syrup which you pour into your "popsicle" glass before "licking." Yes, you will drink this ice cream, and I daresay it's a "slow food" treat time-released and perfect for a sweltering and steamy September weekend on the island. And it won't stain your shirt. Watching NHK the other night, a food feature was about parfaits in Tokyo that goes above and beyond the usual mix and milk, adding to it design elements fancifying the dessert, of course this is natural to the stylish Japanese ethos of form and function transcending culinary boundaries. The episode showed a green melon parfait with pistachios and chocolate mint sticks bursting out of a champagne glass - impressive, to say the least. My take today is simple, on the other hand. I don't have accoutrements except colors to play with - and that's the idea, too, heeding the pastry chef in the trendy district of Roppongi finishing up his parfait. Taste is crucial to me to balance with colors and temperature and delight to your need of refreshment on a hot day. I think the ginger goes well with the pineapples and the grapefruit will give it the spritz. Your popsicle will decrease in volume in the glass in the heat of the day - and that's the purpose of containing it there in the enclosure to melt. An icy shot you don't have to suck. The fruits will have a granita quality to it crystalized breaking its substance on your tongue like snowmelt. I have a treat today that will serve me happy like a kid with a fruity popsicle in hand. The experience will be the same for this grown up. And mom will be proud she won't have to clean up. (She's not around anymore, and I have missed her so much.)  I have a grandnephew now (my niece's youngster) and he reminds me of me when I was four (his age now) as being doted by mom as my niece is to him and the salve for crying or pain or just being a child is the mighty delicious popsicle, and I see in all these generations lost and renewed the continuity of family matters and the legacy of mama's love carrying on from one child to the next across the same vein. Sometimes people ask me what my blog is all about, is it about food or is it about poetry, and I say it's both, or better I say, I talk about food but I'm really writing about poetry. Poetry uncomplicates things for me, makes life beautiful living it, and I have an ice cream with that, too.  

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UNDER THE PLANTS

 

And it’s raining inside my head…

David Sedaris, his occupation as the funniest writer in America, has once again affected my life through a street poet collecting money in exchange for a spoken word show. Give me any title of a book, he boasted, and I’ll give you an impromptu poem. “When You Are Engulfed In Fire.” (Of course by the maestro, D.S., I had handy.) Here’s what can be said of his performance worth so much more than five bucks, if I had more cash I would’ve dropped a few more bills in his case: dynamite. His theme was the use of “conflagrations within” as the light that could be you- given the power of your will to burn. He articulated a flash of gospel without being Pentecostal. He sermoned a romantic song to see your passions assume. And all this verse under two minutes in one breath. I have to admit that the “title” I provided wasn’t that tricky to compose something creative, the imagery was already embedded there, biblical or in comic books referentially so. But otherwise the poem barker made my day and had inspired me more of the direct relevance of poetry in my life, even at random moments. And the encounter wasn’t meant as a hilarious thing purporting the blog; it’s what lead to it that was a bit strange. David S.’s book “When…” was on top of the pile in my bag of seven others I got at Elliot Bay, and outside its door the disciple with the gift of gab stopping me in my tracks, D.S. is very entertaining (you should read his works) that I hope this poem ricocheted to him as a gesture of thanks for making this serious poet sometimes laugh, with all his hard work lately feeling as though engulfed in fire and needing to lighten up. A divine “intervention” comedy, to say the least.

I hope D.S. likes my humble attempt at a punch line inspired when waking up this morning and head against a wall opening my eyes to a windowsill of cozy plants that “rained on me.” It was a welcome blessing, so to speak, as well as the lemon lavender frosted Bundt cake reality waiting on the picnic mat at the botanical garden where I was spending time with more plants under the maple tree. Forests move me, I move forests. I lay in their grass everywhere I am.

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