Month: April 2020

Cold Candied Oranges

Glazed orange with strips of peel removed sits in a shallow crystal bowl on a blue background
Sunshine in the rain, friends. Sunshine in the rain.

Yesterday was SHITTY.

It doesn’t really matter which day “yesterday” actually was because, let’s face it, no one really knows what day it is, and if they say they do they are a bald-faced liar.

But yesterday. Woke up with another headache, many weeks straight, anxiety, overall fogginess in my whole body and brain. I was glutened accidentally a couple of days ago, and this accounts for some of it, but I think the general medical term for what I am experiencing is malaise.

I, and many all around the globe, are suffering from malaise: a general feeling of unwellness or discomfort whose cause is not possible to identify.

Yesterday seemed to be the culmination of a long-building malaise. The simplest of tasks were challenging, like swimming through pudding.

I have no solutions. I have no quick fixes. I did the long walk, I taught the yoga class, I hydrated like a motherfucker. I ate well. I took meds – prescription and CBD and allergy meds.

Today?

Today I feel a little better.

I am not going to say that these oranges were the thing that helped, but they certainly did not hurt. Long-time readers of this blog will recall my uneasy truce with citrus (my grandmother is now 101), but I actually went out and bought oranges on purpose for this use.

Correction: I bought them online, and Octavius from Giant on 41st, as wonderful a person as ever walked the earth, put them in my car.

This is not my recipe, these cold, candied oranges. This recipe belongs to The New York Times. Because they sometimes have an annoying paywall, I am going to go ahead and write things out here (copy/paste, actually). I cut the recipe in half because I cannot eat six of these, and even still I will give two away.

But my goodness. The orange, encased in a festively striped peel with the stained glass orange flesh peeking through, becomes plasma inside – not liquid, not solid. The peel keeps a satisfying chew, but the orange itself becomes Something Other, rising above its pedestrian squirty self. The flavor stays true to the orange, and once you’re done eating the orange itself, you’re left with a delicious orange simple syrup for the best old-fashioned you may ever drink.

Get at it. Can’t hurt.

Cold Candied Oranges

Ingredients

6 firm, juicy, seedless oranges with thin skins (Cara Cara oranges), no bigger than a baseball
6 cups granulated sugar

Preparation

  1. Bring a stainless-steel pot of water to a boil. (It should be large enough to hold the oranges submerged.)
  2. Wash and dry the oranges, and channel from stem to navel at 1/2-inch intervals, removing strips of peel while leaving the pith intact, until the oranges resemble those onion domes on Russian churches. (Suzannah’s note: I had no idea what a channeler was, but I actually had one in the drawer in my kitchen. I don’t know that you could substitute any other tool, but I suppose you could try).
  3. Place the oranges and their long, fat threads of channeled peel into the boiling water, and reduce to a simmer. Cover the oranges with a lid one size too small for the pot, to keep them submerged. Let them blanch for about 25 minutes to remove the harshest edge of their bitter nature. They should swell and soften but not collapse or split. (Suzannah’s note: SIMMER. Not rolling boil. They will split)
  4. Remove the oranges and zest from the simmering water with a slotted spoon, and set aside. Dump out the blanching water, and return the dry pot to the stove.
  5. In that same pot, combine the sugar with 6 cups water; bring the sugar water to a boil over medium-high, stirring until the sugar has dissolved, then allow to gently boil, and reduce for 10 minutes, uncovered. You want some water to evaporate and for the syrup to take on a little body.
  6. Carefully place blanched oranges and zest into the sugar syrup, and reduce heat to a very slow, lethargic simmer. Cover oranges with a parchment circle cut slightly larger than the circumference of the pot (by 1 inch is enough), then place the too-small lid on top of the parchment on top of the oranges, to keep them fully submerged (and sealed under the parchment) in the sluggishly simmering syrup.
  7. Cook the oranges in the syrup for about 45 minutes, checking on them frequently to keep the temperature quite slow and stable, until they take on a high gloss and appear vaguely translucent and jewel-like. (We have several induction burners that come with features that can hold a temperature, and I leave the oranges at around 170 degrees for most of the candying, sometimes with a little bump up to 180. But without a thermometer or an induction burner, just a visual slow, slow, slow bubble is a good cue.)(Suzannah’s note: I clipped a candy thermometer to the edge of the pot and watched the temp)
  8. Cool oranges and peels in their syrup for a full 24 hours before serving. This kind of “cures” them. They get even better after 48 hours. First, you’ll want to let them cool at room temperature until no longer warm to the touch, at least 4 hours, then refrigerate them until thoroughly chilled. The oranges last refrigerated for 1 month as long as they are submerged in that syrup.
  9. Serve very cold. Eat the whole thing, skin and all, with a knife and fork. It’s like a half glacéed fruit and half fresh fruit — refreshing, tonic, digestive and so great after dinner.

What helps your malaise?

Sunday Poem: Morningtime by Me

Today’s poem is by me and was published by Plainsongs, a journal of Hastings College Press, last summer, 2019.

How optimistic things felt then, how wide open and expansive. This was many years ago, a whole other lifetime.

Sigh.

Morningtime

God, it is beautiful here sometimes.

When the high, hard heat sweeps across the baked pasture grass

To be tucked away at night with the setting sun;

When the first stars blink in the sky,

Light in points jumping off the river;

When the sun returns at dawn,

Shouting down the birds and waking up the lazy ants and bees;

When the rain pours a deluge,

Turning the backyard into a bog

And tattooing a steady rhythm on

The shingles and peeling painted windows;

When the blankets stir beside me

And your hand fumbles through the crumpled sheets for mine,

Quiet as a leap of faith,

In the sleepy pre-day of morningtime –

 

Before the dogs are fed and our girl is awake,

Before the insistent chatter of the alarm,

When I reach across the blankets

To meet your fingers.

 

Be well. Love each other. Wash your hands.

Diente de Leon Oxymel, Or How To Preserve Spring

Dandelions and liquid in a Mason jar
Teeth of the lion, indeed.

Can we talk about sunshine in a jar?

How strange and unusual this spring has been, not only for the coronavirus, but also for the weather which is one day bluest skies and sunny sunshine and the next blowing snow flurries and plant pots off decks with gusty winds bringing cold down from the still-frozen north?

Can we talk about how this weather is both a mirror and a portent of my state of mind and its wild fluctuations? And how a vata-person such as myself is blown about in this swirling cacophony of informationweatherfearanxietyunknowing?

And what can I do with myself to feel grounded and connected and not so wildly out-of-control when bread baking is not an option (gluten-free bread baking being more frustration than reward)?

Simple.

Go directly to the earth.

Pick sunny dandelion flowers, the diente de leon.

Gently remove ants and other detritus, then pack into a clean, comforting, always-constant Mason jar.

Add about 1/3 cup of raw honey.

Add 2/3 cups apple cider vinegar (or to cover).

Label, shake gently, then tuck into a dark cabinet for six weeks, shaking every now and again.

Eventually, strain the flowers out and put into a dark glass bottle (I will have plenty of dark glass bottles when this is all over, seeing as how I am gulping down CBD by the barrel, just to remain steady).

This delicious, sour-sweet syrupy golden loveliness is an oxymel. The name comes from the Latin oxmeli, meaning “acid” and “honey.” Using dandelions, the benefits of an oxymel include helping with digestion and removing sluggishness from the body. Dandelion contains vitamins A and C, plus choline, which stimulates the liver, the yin organ of spring.

A sluggish liver is normal in spring, after cold, dry winter months, and a dandelion oxymel can help wake it up.

Add to tea, use in cocktails, or make a bitter greens spring salad (think arugula, sliced apples, and chickpeas, dressed with plenty of olive oil and dandelion oxymel to taste).

My new strategy in all weathers: proceed directly to the earth and use what is being offered.

What’s your strategy? How are you making it through?

Be well. Love each other. Wash your hands.

 

 

Thursday Links To Love: April 16, 2020

William the Orange keeps watch at our hotel in Amsterdam (2018). One can dream.

Well, here we are, another Thursday. I am starting to use these Thursday posts as markers of time passing, like slashes on a tree to mark time when stranded in the jungle (we just binged season 3 of Alone on Hulu – 10/10 recommend).

This particular Thursday post is accompanied by a fat cat from Amsterdam. Two years ago right around this time, I fell in love with an orange cat and a city, and I despair of seeing either ever again.

Ah, well. Here’s some stuff for you. Read it all, click selectively, or ignore it. Up to you.

Well, of course it’s grief we are feeling, but my take on it was not featured in The New York Times like this person. Sigh.

And speaking of New York, the quintessential New Yorker says you can pry her city from her cold, dead hands (and her cigarettes, too, COVID be damned).

Among the best things I have read is this quote from a lovely, long recommendation list of things to read, watch, and do during quarantine:“…the concept of “guilty pleasure” is banned, canceled, absolutely not relevant. Nothing is guilty — any pleasure to be found in this time is to be seized and celebrated!” I love that and wholeheartedly agree.

Missing your office noises? Not me, but if you are feeling lonely without the clicking of your officemate’s laptop keys, try this website of virtual office noises.

Finally, if you have not already seen this, go ahead and click to see John Krasinski’s new Project Some Good News (episode 1 and episode 2). I have already known he was a good guy, but this new project is beautiful, surprisingly not saccharine, and pretty much exactly what we need right now: some good fucking news. Spoiler alert: if you are a fan of Hamilton, start with episode 2.

Be well, love each other, wash your hands.

Silence, Stillness, Observation: Creativity In The Pandemic Era

 

Yellow and black bee rests on a concrete sidewalk
Worky work, busy bee.

Even four or so weeks into Pandemic 2020, memes pushing productivity over peace, especially for artists, persist.

I was talking with my friend Irene, co-owner of the amazing local restaurant Dylan’s Oyster Cellar, after she posted a quote by Toni Morrison on the artist’s role during societal upheaval.

First, the quote from the extraordinary Ms. Morrison:

“This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.”

I have been struggling with my own creative practice since this began, and I know many others who have struggled as well. It has been hard for me to put into words why I react negatively to the quote above, but talking with Irene helped clarify my thoughts around this particular time and place.

This pandemic reminds me of 9/11. When the planes hit, the U.S. stopped. Planes were grounded, people stayed home. For four days the bones of the U.S. were exposed, flesh laid bare in the sunshine.

And for many years after, there was no art surrounding this event. Writers talked about how hard it was to write anything around that day – the risk of trivializing something so catastrophic was high, and there was a kind of respect that silence afforded that words and dance and painting could not.

Even now, art surrounding 9/11 is mostly commemorative, writing is more reportage than creative. It is missing a “call-to-action” element, though, which seems appropriate and thoughtful. After the boo-yah, racist energy of going to war subsided, the creative work from 9/11 is memorial, not activist or nationalist.

This is not to say that coronavirus-specific work isn’t being done, but for some reason there seems to be a sense of social justice-style urgency surrounding this pandemic. Like all artists have to be productive and write towards what’s happening right now, and if you are not working in that way, you aren’t really worth much as an artist.

What about people whose work was not in that style to begin with? I write about love and nature, and I paint abstract impressionist paintings. I believe that love and nature are inherently healing; I don’t need to manipulate those things in order to micromanage healing or connection. I paint intuitively, as many layers as it needs and for however long it goes until it’s “done.” My work is not oriented towards social justice, and it never has been.

But, if I am honest (which I always try to be), I have not felt much of a creative impulse, or rather, the creative impulse I have felt has been different this past month. I have felt a deep need to be in the woods, by the water, away from people. My fellow humans are weaponized with virus right now, and many of them are not exercising the sense god gave a turnip. Avoiding them makes sense to me.

Meanders in nature, looking for edibles and studying them, writing recipes and experimenting with teas and tinctures: this is where my creativity has rested for the past several weeks, and I am here for it. It’s comforting to provide for myself with what’s available, to watch how nature is responding to this strange weather (no winter to speak of and spring temperatures that fluctuate wildly, with fewer flowers bursting, not like 2019’s ostentatious floral gluttony), and to winnow the wheat of my life and relationships from the chaff.

Of course, no one should sail their ship guided by memes on the Instagram, but in the small sphere of my blog I am here to advocate for silence, stillness, and observation.

If you are an artist struggling to find a voice in this time, listen.

If you are normally running yourself ragged with work and school and kids and art, let the stillness settle into mystery.

If you have felt that the world is spinning too fast and all is a blur, watch.

I give you permission to exist in this state of dormancy, like the slow trickle of water under the frozen stream. It’s ok to not be churning out creative work. It’s ok to feel stuck, blocked, stymied, and frustrated.

Everything passes, including this virus and this life and this time.

Silence, stillness, observation: creativity in the pandemic era can take many forms. Let yourself be ok with whatever form yours takes.

Now a question: how has your creative practice changed, if at all, over the past month?

Take care, be well, wash your hands.