Sunday
Courgette, coconut and Lemon soup.
Bread rolls
Citrus and poppy seed cake.
Mushroom and Lovage stew
Creamy polenta
Green allotment salad.
The beginning of a Hua-Tou retreat, my first retreat of the year and I feel I really need it. Somehow, I’ve lost focus and cannot see beyond grey clouds. There is a nice group of people, balanced; John and Jake as teachers, which is quite a treat.
I came a day earlier to get the place into a nice flow. The pantry is now a fully functional room with lovely shelves and work surfaces, white pristine walls. I brought cabbage flowers for the altar and freesias for the slugs. The kitchen sizzles and the sleepy Rayburn toasts a tray of sesame seeds, slowly, at a snooze pace. The first stages of what is to become a bitey, courgette soup sweats away by the window where the cooker now stands. A misty start to a beautiful autumn morning, the valley clouded over by what looks like a creamy bowl of differently coloured ice-creams, that pastel subtlety of pistachio, raspberry, peach, hazelnut, sunlight filtering through it, the landscape’s deliciousness...
I took a tray to the Tara statue and as I kneeled before her, a beautiful butterfly landed on my arm and tangled its legs on my woolly sweater. The ‘gifts’ start to get noticed.
How to achieve perfection on this training? As in the vow of the recited grace, of each second bite of every meal, a shaping of focus and hard work, mindfulness, awareness combined with heart and creative spirit. If I can manage it here, why do I struggle everywhere else? Same resources, same potential, same person...what a quandary.
Serene moment
The stream flows down
With water I will never see
Yet, I hear it and it is present.
The sun kisses my skin and makes
My eyes flicker.
The coffee holds a whole sycamore tree in its reflection.
Jake collected some mushrooms and they were death caps, very poisonous. Luckily, I did not put them in the stew!
Tara, oh Tara, oh Tara...
Fried Tofu with Tamari
When we talk about soya derived foods there is a truth that on their own they are pretty useless. However, put together, the chemistry between them combusts into a full-blown love affair. Use ordinary tofu, not silken, with the meaty sponginess, and slice it thinly into square slabs, but thick enough for it not to fall apart, about 1 cm thick. Shallow fry it on a hot pan in olive oil until the tofu is golden and crispy on both sides. Add the tamari so it soaks into the slices. Turn off the flame and put a lid on and let the remaining heat caramelise the tamari and evaporate, for about three or four minutes. You end up with crispy, salty, healthy and delicious strips of tofu. Eat it on its own, with a salad or in a butty.
Acorns, oak leaves and lethal mushroom
Mandala on the steps, for Tara.
A brisk walk to the woodland area down the path.
Sheep chats.
Two red kites.
Delighted to find some lovage leaves for the stew, new and young and full of flavour, another gift. -
The moon and Venus
A trace of a plane to somewhere west of the border
Imagine the stories,
The people waiting, the ones left behind.
What is this?
We fly to remote places and we fly into space beyond the space that belongs to this planet. We are confined by an atmosphere while the universe expands constantly to unimaginable dimensions and realms, and that is part of who we are too, and yet we are cramped to being an individual, called x or y. Confined to a gender, an age, a role, restricted to a country, a nationality, an identity, a status. Limited to our role in society by the haves and have nots of the Saturday Guardian magazine. We are narrowed into finding a truth that suits us and then sticking to it, flying a flag with its insignia, defend it till death. How claustrophobic!
I am constricted by not liking the town where I live, the society I find hard to identify with, by short days and long cold nights, dark winters and unnoticeable summers, yet I am surrounded by beauty, abundance and generosity, by lush greens and ancient buildings.
The discipline of writing, is it based on a new notebook and a nice pen?
Monday Menu
Celeriac and parsnip soup from Evan’s farm.
Banana cake with golden sultanas and sunflower seeds.
Buckwheat, rye grain and black rice bake.
Notes for the cook
Wet hands crinkle paper with dampness.
Fat resurfaces in soup for the annoyance of the Tenzo on a diet
Never give the gomasio grinding to an uptight participant.
Trim or slice or shape the vegetables that you want in a certain way.
This pen flows beautifully, like the seasons.
The Hua-Tou - What is this? Normally comes back to me, to the self, and I am struggling with feelings of self-loathing. What is this? Takes me to me, to the lump that I am, to the lazy, grotesque person that I sometimes hide, for no one to see, the slob, the moaning blob, the flat, the clogged up me, the spotty, hairy, smelly me. The mundane, reluctant, arrogant me, the mean me, the small-hearted, too self absorbed to care for others me, a loathsome me. At the moment, I am possessed by feelings of self loathing, self disbelief.
But what is this? Because the way that I see and perceive myself is not the real me, or just a part of me, where is it coming from? Where is this? Where am I? Where am I behind the curtain of ugly? What happens when you undress the narcissist scallywag...where am I then? Can I too be the daffodil?
The kitchen has a wonderful flow. The pantry has been transformed into a fully functional room, ideal for afternoon light and spaciousness. The Rayburn however leaks fumes and I have not been able to warm it up enough to bake. The fire pit might be glowing yet the oven temperature is not even above 150 degrees... The kettles are doing their job beautifully.
Am I nice?
Am I nice?
Am I nice?
Are there mice?
Are there mice?
Are there mice?
Knobs, nibbles, nutmeg, noise
Books, blocks, balsamics
Jams, spreads, seeds,
Compost, fragrance, steam...
Took a beautiful walk up the hill this afternoon, collecting leaves and conkers, admiring the view, caressing those old gentile trees that guard us on the ledge. The breathtaking landscape and its diversity; Sally’s Puja by the stream filled me with sadness and the reality of impermanence. I reclaim language in all this silence. Now off to meditate...
Tuesday
Harira!
Butternut squash curry with spiced rice and purple aloo (purple potatoes).
The Harira was wonderful. I put little cubes of preserved lemons, with all their salty sharpness and it added a punch that was subtle yet noticeable at a certain stage.
However some people !...Tahini in a perfectly seasoned soup?
Before even tasting it? Despair...
Cooking the chick peas from scratch makes such a difference compared to the sweet and slimy tinned ones. I will never forget the flavour and texture of the chick pea I tasted in that market in Asilah. An old man selling plain boiled chick peas in paper cones. He gave me one to taste. Heaven - simplicity and wholeness at its best. The universe.
So what is it?
Are you still a slob, are you still a lump?
Spiritual cooking allows the flaws to come up.
Purple spuds look amazing. I tried to make a little bit of ghee by separating melted butter but failed terribly so I mixed a little bit of butter and oil, added cumin, coriander and cardamom seeds. Remove from heat. Stir in the potatoes, which were part boiled. Cooked them but don’t allow them to get brown or over cook, when you are confident that they are thoroughly cooked remove from heat. Add tomatoes, cucumber, dried mint, lemon zest, juice of lemon, coriander.
I am sitting this afternoon after tea, sun streaming thorough the window, chanting my gut away, the mountain looks wonderful, the different coloured trees, and valleys like a picture postcard, green and lush. Evan had a lot of vegetables this time and so far they are fantastic. Russian kale, parsnips, suede, potatoes...
I have been making lots of small mandala offerings with things I find on my walks, so far managing a walk a day...breathtaking. I made a beautiful one with the death caps, leaves and acorns...Tenzo practice involves more than just cooking and as soon as you start wording experiences people’s eyes dilate and the judgement begins. I even feel like that with the teachers.
I have seen a fairy every day, yes, fairies...insects, flying insects that I have never seen before but at the point of seeing them I have gone beyond the fact that they are an insect, undressed them of signifier, and at that moment one can perceive this otherness, this intelligence, the magic! And they were so beautiful and aware and so utterly perfect. Tara always gives me those wow moments, when I go to retrieve or to offer the tray, I get touched by nature and life in ways that are overwhelming, touching, awakening ...Today at lunchtime it was insects, the broken winged fairy, the tiny spider, two ladybirds whose colour I have never seen before standing on Tara’s head, no slugs this time, it is too cold but the metaphors and the connection I feel with these bugs takes my breath away, expands my heart and makes my knees wobble.
It feels wonderful, this flow of words. I haven’t felt like it for ages and I realise now that it is the computer that crashes my creative narrative, the flow of the hand...I want to write stories when John is telling us to drop them.
"What is this?"
I made curry tonight, the usual butternut squash from scratch. Fresh fruit chutney with pineapple and cantaloupe melons, coconut chips and lots of green chillies; lots of green chillies, sugar, salt and fresh coriander.
Wednesday
Such a beautiful day, I am sitting by Tara on the steps and the sun is warm. The stream flows merrily down the hill, chilling the milk bottles. The purple potato side relish from last night turned into an alternative and much more colourful Spanish omelette with a bit of an Indian flare. Fascinating colours and good texture. Miso soup today, diva speaking, not the best I have ever made, but let them have gomasio...
I have four people in the kitchen team and they are all great practitioners and full of generosity and awareness. John just came down for his third coffee of the day and is sitting on the bench next to Dan Meron, enjoying the sunshine; a pleasure to watch, a truly dashing brace of men.
I left some onions cooking with cumin seeds and salt. I am planning to make lentil cottage pie. I am so pleased with cooking things grown down the valley: parsnips, carrots, celeriac, butternut squash and potatoes, all from Evan’s farm. It is quite difficult to cook for small numbers. I am a big mama who loves big pots.
At lunchtime the day could not have been more beautiful, warm sunshine, clouds on the horizon, and as I opened the refectory door to ring the bell, a red kite flew quite low, over the sycamores and across the Chan hall’s roof and started circling around the hut. Gift.
The lentil cottage pie was beautiful (the stock had the left over miso which work wonders with flavours) and the earthy sweet topping contrasted in quite a Zen way; earth and moisture, yeastiness and the perfection of a puy lentil.
What is this?
Why do I keep coming back here to cook, to the Maenllwyd, to break my back, to get knackered, to peel my layers, to stir the big pot of emotions. This is it, the cooking, I am it. No different to a beetroot or a grain of sea salt. Everything goes into the wok, it sizzles and sweats and sips each otherness. It all becomes one.
John has been instructing in the middle of a silence during mealtimes. Hold your question! Where is your mind? Hold your method! This evening he said -Where else can you get a meal like this? We all smiled.
People are sitting by the fire and there is a beautiful full moon. Nights are cold but days are full of autumnal glory. It is Thursday and the week has almost gone by...it is that time in the early afternoon when everyone has gone back to the Chan Hall and I am left in the kitchen with loads to prepare for the evening but the sun is shining so I grab a cup of mint tea and sit on the bench. A blue tit sings, spring like, leaping from branch to branch of the holly tree, just by the lovage plant.To my left is Tara, getting less and less green but harbouring a remarkable collection of insects, so beautiful and perfect. The sunlight makes the green almost incandescent, and the crimson leaves on the cherry tree beyond the stream shimmer...
John talked about coming to retreat and for what? - that feeling of coming home, not because this place is our home, but because retreats in the Maenllwyd help us to come home to ourselves, to finding our heart. I was thinking or perhaps meditating about this: why do I keep coming here? Is it to cook and work long hours and fill my lungs with soot, and damage my back? Is it because I like it? Yes, with some sense of madness and masochism one could say I do. I come here because here I find the meaning of being, not having time to think about anything makes me abandon myself and melt into the rhythm of the kitchen and the schedule. I am one with time and one with the elements, fire, water, rayburn, lamps, kettles, bounty of ingredients, teapots, spices, pots, pans and spoons...I just move around them and with them and the cooking just happens. The vegetables tell me what they are going to become, soups arise from a few bowls of chopped vegetables and seasoning, the alchemy of a cake with pears and almonds, how wonderful. An hour before it was just scattered dry ingredients in bags...Magic. We look for meaning, we look for hints on “how to be” on this “life” of ours, and sadly we miss the magic which is always around us, in us. The Aliveness of Life.
Being away from our “life” is so liberating, and perceiving that we also can carry magic, in our hands, in our presence, in our heart. The magic of love. Be kind and people will be kind, smile and they eventually will smile back. Give give give and your heart will grow and grow until its bursts out of its cavity. Your heart will not only be in you, but will be you, outside of you, it will be the landscape, it will be the moon.
Tantric cooking, sadly I didn’t find any of the Thai orchids I tend to bring for the slugs, and I also think the slugs are sleeping off the feast they had in July.
Interview afternoon. Finding one’s heart in the magic. John spoke of the Maenllwyd spirits and ghosts, the ones I have felt on the way to the compost heap. I like it that I can share that with him. Not that I need affirmation.
Had a wonderful walk up the hill, all the way up, fantastic colours and breathtaking views. An eye to eye encounter with a sheep, have you ever noticed how strange their eyes are?
Lovely supper tonight...Ottoman feast without the aubergines, which I forgot to buy. What makes people experience a sense of lack more profoundly than others? I made spicy apple chutney and bottled it up in individual jars that look quite pretty. I will try and sell them at the end for Dana for the bursary fund.
What is this?
Life. The beauty of life pulsating, the perfection of a single brown lentil on the palm of one’s hand, the complexity of one’s biochemistry, the water that I hear going down the stream which fills me, yet I will never see it, but is there, in the moment, in me, and then gone. Moss growing on a bench, alive and thriving and the sun hitting the green grass incandescent and being a witness is not enough, yet I immerse myself in its lushness, I gleam, it fills my heart, a beautiful chunk of moss. Turning rice into ambrosia...
Evening chanting...A sky filled with stars.
Friday, last full day
Apple cake with cranberries, cinnamon, pecans and rose petals...lovely and wholesome and completely invented, so no recipe, never again one like it. At John’s request I made cauliflower curry with spiced rice, cucumber raita and chapattis, also orange wedges sprinkled with cinnamon.
What is it to challenge oneself beyond the challenge that has ceased to challenge? What is going beyond the challenge?
What is it?
Brownies by the fire...
I see fairies, but what do the fairies see?
The kitchen is slowly emptying, things are going back to boxes, to bags, and it is such a sad feeling yet I am ready to go home. Beautiful evening chant. The opening of hell’s gate. The hungry ghosts. Very moving.
There is something new yet archaic about biting a russet apple. New because I don’t think I ever tasted that particular one before, the seasons in it, all that it has stored, symbolising the end of the summer sunshine, preserving it as a gift for us to taste later. New also because I never tasted a russet before I came to a retreat, thinking it was a round pear, I picked one, took a bite and the inside of my cheeks imploded as I tasted the crisp sweet tartness of this understated and almost forgotten fruit. Archaic because of the way it has prevailed throughout centuries, holding all its history in its flesh, skin texture and flavour.
What is it?
Beautiful Flowers
Conkers floating like lotus
Altar glory.
Mahamudra
Flowers on vases, buds sprouting through the sycamore tree. The ground ready to burst as it slowly warms up with the season.
Loaves, silence, over six jars of peanut butter, bells, bowls, pink peppercorns and forks, fast, farts, snores, valleys and birdsong, the owl which I still haven’t seen but I hear and it haunts me.
White rice brown rice and mice who like to eat green scourers.
A shrew and tears.
