issue no. 798

TIME AFTER TIME . . .

we hear from you, dear readers, with a note about how this newsletter connected with something on your mind or in your heart, perhaps before you even realized it was there. In our evolving efforts to listen better, both inwardly and outwardly, we can only conclude that this is not ‘just a coincidence.’ We are connected.

In Jenny Offill’s novel, Weather, there is mention of a Buddhist practice whereby you pay attention only to what is directly in front of you at any given moment. With that tenet in mind, I recently noticed how very connected I feel eating vegetables from my CSA. I’ve been a part of this CSA for several years, and each year, I try to use more of what I receive each week. So there I was on the front porch, eating a salad with lettuce and roasted beets from the CSA, while inside the house, the air was beginning to smell of the loaf of pumpkin bread baking in the oven, threaded with roasted pumpkin from the same CSA. The feeling this all gave me was one of profound satisfaction and richness. Even though I was alone at that moment, I had a sense of being well cared for that is unique in the way it’s tinged with a connection to all those I love who came before me, who got out mixing bowls, set tables, and said, “Here. Have some of this. It’s really good.”

Yesterday, after my regular CSA pickup, I had another one of those moments. It’s long been my practice to ‘process’ all the vegetables and fruit right away - my own foolproof way of ensuring I eat more of them. That means as soon as I get home, I take the ten or fifteen minutes to meditate over the sink, where everything is washed, and almost everything is trimmed and put in the fridge. In recent years, it has evolved to mean that certain items are cooked before they ever make it to the fridge - a feat that conjures that same sense of satisfaction and richness. There’s an accomplishment to this act that feels rare.

With this recent haul, I was roasting acorn squash and fennel in the oven, steaming kale on the stovetop, and I decided, since I was already in the kitchen, I better make some chocolate chip cookie dough. I pulled out my copy of Baking with Dorie, given to me by a friend of mine (whose birthday happens to be today - Happy Birthday, Bee!) after my dad passed away. I must take a moment to testify that receiving a pile of books when you’re grieving is a very beautiful thing - there was a cookbook, a novel, and at least one other title in that package, and I felt, to put it simply, cared for. I felt connected.

I had never made Dorie Greenspan’s chocolate chip cookie recipe, and because I wasn’t in a hurry, I read her two-page spread of background and tips, where she mentioned the originator of the famous recipe, Ruth Wakefield of the Toll House Inn in Massachusetts. Then I read this sentence: “One can only wonder what she’d think about the huge extended family that has grown up around her creation.”

Maybe it’s the perimenopause, but I felt like weeping. I think it’s common to acknowledge the legacy of recipes, but sometimes when it’s something as ubiquitous as the chocolate chip cookie, I forget that so much beauty, joy, and care for what we fill our kitchens and our tables with can be passed on like that, from complete strangers, down into the very insignificant, very ordinary moments of one person’s day.

I’ve been getting a lot of apples and pears from the CSA the last two months, and typically I’ll make a weekly crisp with a buttery, oat-filled topping, to flex between breakfast, afternoon snack, and dessert. Growing tired of that routine, I simply chopped them up and put them in a big pot with the lid on, to steam until I could blend it all into apple sauce. This never fails to remind me of my mom. When I moved to the state of New York, I learned that it’s a regular pastime to go apple picking. This is my kind of activity, having been raised on berry picking, graduated to peach picking (thanks to my friendship with Taylor), and never feeling more satisfied than when I can visit some kind of farm and do the work of harvesting that comes home with me, filling the car with scent and my mind with ideas of what I’d like to eat.

Growing up in Kentucky, I never went apple picking, but there came a time every autumn when I’d return home from school to find that my mom had been, which meant it was time for me to lean on my elbows at the kitchen table while she peeled apples for pie, or cooked them whole - peel, stem and all - until they were soft enough to go through the hand-cranked saucing machine she had borrowed for the occasion.

It’s a daily practice for me to confront just how much money, time, and energy it takes to cook and feed a household, no matter how small. Every time I do the series of steps it takes to use my CSA, I acknowledge that fact: this takes time, effort, and thoughtfulness. And although I have developed these habits partly out of an effort to save money, time, and energy, all for the purpose of reaping the benefits of a present filled with satisfying richness, and a future impact on individual and ecological health…I’m still highly aware of the effort behind it.

It wasn’t until the other day, standing in the kitchen by myself, cutting up apples, that I realized: my mom was raising two kids by herself, often strung out with overwhelm, frequently lamenting that we lived in a bit of a food desert aside from what you could grow (which was often very little, thanks to the previous two aspects of her life)…but to go every year to the orchard by herself meant that she must have relished the experience. She must have found, in those moments, that profound satisfaction and connectivity that I find.

There we were again, she and I, synchronized in our movements, our values, and in the feelings that pervaded our hearts and souls.

Here we are again, in community with you. Thank you for being here.

Let’s Stay Connected,

Dor + Tay

^{photo by Estefania Trujillo Preciado}

tidbits...

resources on anti-racism, environmentalism and food culture AKA stuff we’re reading / listening to / watching / noticing / thinking about / captivated by this Tuesday . . .

Do One Small Thing . . . what is something you’ve made - or eaten - recently that left you feeling connected? We’d love to hear from you - reply to this newsletter, share in the comments, or email us at info@goodfoodjobs.com.

Adam Wilson Parting the Curtain this week - illuminating the difference between being paid and sustained.

We’re heartened to see the efforts behind this Downtown 365 program - helping communities and small business be strategic about how to have the most sustainable impact for everyone.

Disturbing Homogenization shares “My One Cheese Regret.”

Atmos has launched a six-part series called Good Neighbors that highlights rural communities around the U.S. setting aside their differences to tackle environmental issues banging on their front doors.

The writing insights I always need to hear, from the wondrous legacy of Annie Dillard, author of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, and - my favorite - An American Childhood.

In our third installment of GOOD COMPANY (our Friday audio based addendum to our weekly newsletter) Tay give a small dose of medicine.

Have you picked up a copy of Dorothy’s first book of poetry? You can order Imagine a Woman from the publisher, from any local bookstore, ask for it at your local library, or on the Libby app.

View and share this free guide to How to Write a More Equitable Job Post, and stay tuned for new resources to deepen this work.

got a tidbit? drop it here for us and we’ll share it in next week’s newsletter.