Marshmallow soup

Indira Ganesan, Kale-Apple Salad and Butternut Squash Soup from The Oak on Thirteen, 2013

A pillow of marshmallow possibly spiced with nutmeg, streaked with what might have been cinnamon, sat in the middle of a white shallow bowl, and a waiter poured a purée of butternut squash to surround it. This was soup at the Oak on Thirteen, and my salad of choice was its fabled kale and apple. I asked for the candied almonds on the side, which I nevertheless happily nibbled on throughout the meal, but I admit it makes for a poor photograph. Andrew Wille the book doctor himself suggested the salad.

Boulder is about the mountains and running and bicycling, but for me it is about food. It is one of a handful of American cities not only thoroughly inviting for vegetarians but offers a level of culinary sophistication that makes me savor each meal. One day I ate maki, full of tender sweet mushroom and pickled gourd, drizzled with tamari and wasabi. I drank elixirs of fruit and vegetables, frothy cappuccino and lots of water.

Indira Ganesan, Maki at Hapi Sushi, 2013

I was there for a class and reading, and enjoyed the company of old friends, and new acquaintances,as well as students who were strikingly engaging, articulate, and welcoming. I bragged about my own students on the East Coast, as well as the kittens I am fostering. In the midst, my father called to tell me his brother passed away, and I sat outside the Trident Cafe, listening to details, remembering the premonition I had felt earlier in the day. How close are happiness and tragedy, chasing one another, waiting for their turn.

My visit was over too soon. I tucked a newly purchased volume of Elizabeth Bishop’s prose, and a pack of pencils and pens I bought at a favorite store. The pencils had replaceable erasers. The farmers were setting up the market as my bus rolled past, headed to the airport.

Indira Ganesan, Splice of Mountain, 2013

Since Moosewood

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On a marvelous gardening blog, I recently won a cookbook by lottery and answering a question on how my cooking has changed since I first used Mollie Katzen’s Moosewood Cookbook. I wrote I shopped for organic produce, which is true, but I also shop at Farmers’ Markets. In my town, the Farmers’ Market is under fire because they occupy a parking lot adjacent to a candy shop for five hours once a week, for about five months. The candy shop, open year-round, in regular candy shop hours, is across the street from another candy shop. There are at least two more such fudge shops in town. We only have one farmers’ market, a Saturday bounty of two or three vegetable stands; one bakery stand; an essential oils lotions and potions stand; a meat and egg stand; a fish place; an olive oil and goat cheese place; a fresh mozzarella and burrata place; and a local sea salt stand. As the season winds down, it just a few vegetable farmers, the baker, and salt and oils. We have one large chain grocery store in town, and three year-round small markets. There is talk that a Whole Foods might open in a year or so, in Hyannis, which is an hour away. Right now, we have a seasonal farmer’s market in a great location in the heart of town, where you can stroll into by foot, or bike or walk to gather provisions, chat with regulars, and leave with a full and contented heart.

When I first lived on the Cape, there was only a supermarket, a natural foods store, and a little store where I could walk to buy broccoli, carrots, and onion and potatoes. I ate pasta nearly every night, or made grilled cheese. With supplies imported from New Jersey, I could make a rare Indian curried dish. I used moosewood extensively with the ingredients at hand. I was lucky to be able to buy tofu.

A farmers’ market is such a joy,and necessity. Taste test a farm apple and a store-bought. Try an organic golden delicious. Never pass up an opportunity to try watermelon radish. Here are farmers making a livelihood of sorts, carting their goods from an hour and more away to sell fresh tomatoes, eggplant, okra, basil. They share recipes and stories. I would not live in this town if there was not a market. I still make pasta and grilled cheese, only with better ingredients, making them so much better.

Maybe it was Lou

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Years back, I lived in a resort town by the sea, much like I do now. Whereas the town I live in now likes to sport a scruffiness and nonchalance due to its remoteness, and lonely, aching beauty in the off-season, the other town was toney, a bit more buttoned up. Instead of taffy and sex toy shops, it’s Main Street boasted a small Saks Fifth Avenue, an artisanal cheese store, and a smoothie bar inside a tiny natural foods store.

I sometimes stopped after work to buy flax oil and vitamins, and one day decided to try a smoothie. I had noticed a motorcycle parked outside, shiny and expensive, like the town. Its obvious owner was at the bar, dressed in leather, and he smiled when I joined him at the bar. I remember thinking how singles might meet at juice bars, and I thought this because this was not just a handsome man with shaggy black curls, eyes hidden by sunglasses ( in my memory, I am certain he wore mirrored sunglasses) but because he had about him an air of strength, of magnetism, something that seemed to invite you in.

His drink arrived quickly, frothy and green.

“How is it?” I asked.

Surprised at my question, he smiled again.

“It’s good for the liver,” he said, and downed the shot.

I ordered the same, as he left the store. It was my first wheat grass shot.

Outside, getting into my car, I felt a quickening of all my senses and blushed. All because of an encounter with a stranger that lasted seconds. It had been years since I felt that way.

I have tried to write about this before, in fiction, because I felt something important had happened to me.
I never saw this stranger again in my remaining years, though I often thought about him in idle moments, in daydream.

I finally read an obituary last week that revealed Lou Reed did not live far from that toney town. I never knew. So, what are the odds?

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