Chapter Three
Storms and Siestas
My personal journey as a cook started in my childhood. I grew up around stock pots, fresh warm bread, and seasonal vegetables from the market on Tuesdays. I used to watch fresh pasta being rolled out by the women in the family, and enjoyed the meat feast barbecues, skilfully tended by the men. Most of the major events of my life have been connected with food and as I embarked on my voyage of self-confrontation, the events of my past unfolded, their emotional residue intact, with all the flavours of the times.
Something about the kitchen at the Maenllwyd transported me to my childhood in Argentina, especially to the house in the hills where my maternal grandparents lived, where I spent my weekends and long summer holidays.
The house in the hills had presence, a jolly spirited presence, with walls crawling with ivy, and airy conservatories. Set in the middle of expansive wooded grounds, it was long and divided in three. Attached to one side of the house, there was the general store that my grandparents ran, the bakery and a series of outbuildings. On the other side, there was a big patio with a long table, and a formal garden that my grandmother tended passionately whenever she had a spare moment. We were often told to stay away from the general store side of the house if we were on our own, without an adult. Some of the bedroom windows faced that side and were sheltered by a vigorous vine.
Rich images of the life I lived there ebb and flow when I am in the Maenllwyd, like invisible silk ribbons dangling from the ceiling.
The house was lively, always busy. The only quiet periods were after lunch, when we took our siesta. The men in the house rose at two in the morning to begin baking, so this was a sacred rest.
Although now I see siestas as contemplative times that we were lucky to have, as kids we hated that time of day. We got bored. We had to entertain ourselves and we had to hush and tip toe, as we needed to be unheard, silent.
If we were lucky, we were allowed to stay out, under the shade of trees, playing in hush-hush tones. We invented games, pastimes. We played cards and constructed dens under the pine trees. Sometimes we collected wild flowers to make perfume in small medicine bottles and built apothecaries and pharmacies. One hot afternoon, plagued by the sound of cicadas, I got tired of having to do things in a hush, so I decided to rebel against the siesta, and not to rest. I wandered around the house and went outside, losing track of time, going through the door of the laundry room, through the bakery and coming out on the other side. I was scared I was in trouble. I was on the wrong side of the house, and I ended up outside my grandparents’ bedroom.
The garden looked different, less cluttered. Someone must have removed the crates with the empty soda siphon bottles because this is where they were always kept, hiding away, waiting to be taken to be refilled. It was a shame because I liked rearranging all the glass bottles by their different shades of blue and green. It would have given me something to do. Some of the hens were rooting around for insects. I hoped the vicious cockerel had not escaped. He was so bad-tempered he kept pecking people; now he was kept in isolation.
My mum’s favourite chair had been brought here for some reason. It was an old French garden chair, the flaked sage paint peeling off its legs. It was leaning against the wooden shutters of the bedroom window. My grandparents’ bedroom was the coolest room of the house in summer. It was south-facing, sheltered by the pergola wrapped in vine leaves and ripe, violet grapes that we were saving for my grandma, for her grappa. I stood under the structure’s dense shade, which swathed me abruptly in a chilly wave, tickling my bare arms with a cool tinge. It was swift and didn’t last long, but it was enough to make me sneeze. I looked up and closed my eyes as a few hot rays of sun managed to filter through the gaps left by the latest hailstorm.
The summer months used to bring spectacular electric storms. Since the terrain was mountainous, we were always at risk of flash floods. We used to be taken out of the water, if we were in the pool, and brought indoors. We used to watch as the grown-ups silently began to close all the shutters and draw the curtains. There was an air of excitement, of anticipation, of fear. We used to watch it all from the kitchen window, because it had a metallic mosquito mesh on it, so even if the hail broke the glass we were protected. The fifth storm since Spring had brought a bombardment of hailstones the size of tennis balls, first coming almost horizontally into the house, then, as the wind changed, freefalling at a terrifying speed, ripping and smashing anything in their way, rapidly covering the ground with a blanket of ice. That storm had broken every single glass pane in the sunroom.
The stones were so big that we later found dozens of dead green parrots and other birds in the grounds of the house. They had been ripped from their nests by an avalanche of hail. We spent the rest of the afternoon digging burial grounds and making crosses with twigs, laying them to rest in mass graves.
After that storm I knew that when the sky darkened in the middle of a hot day, it meant trouble. The atmosphere grew dense, and the electricity went off. My grandmother used to say that she felt it in her skin and in all her scars. She grew up in a farm and was hardly ever wrong about the weather. She could read the colour of the sky.
Everyone was asleep and I could hear my grandfather snoring in the bedroom. I was surrounded by silence; not a pin dropped. The cat had disappeared as he did every day and even the dogs were snoozing. I felt like eating something sweet but the shop’s back door had been locked. Grandad always used to pull the metal shutter halfway down after lunch, so that people didn’t come to the back of the house with requests, clapping their hands, expecting to be served.
I used to love being in the store. Often I was allowed behind the counter if the shop was not too busy. I used to help sell sweets and espadrilles, but I was the best at selling biscuits, which were sold by the kilo and kept in big, metal tins with glass windows. Everyone used to say that I was a biscuit expert, a galletitologa especialista. I could sell my favourite biscuits with a passion.
I noticed that the grapes on the pergola were hanging too high, but that some might be reachable.
Maybe I could bring a ladder, but instead I placed the old French chair by the wall and aimed for a lower bunch that did not look too high up. It was nearer one of the gaps in the foliage, where the light could reach, and the sun had made it ripen faster than the rest. Some of the grapes at the top of the bunch were beginning to wrinkle. I snapped the bunch of grapes from the vine and as I stood on tiptoe on the chair, a sudden hot draught from the north wind lifted up my cotton dress and the air ran through my legs. I sat on the chair and started sucking on the grapes. The skin was tough and there were far too many seeds yet the juice was sweet. I spat out the pips and the skin; I wanted to spit them as far as I could. I knew it was rude, but that my grandmother would laugh about it. My mother would definitely tell me off. I was getting good at spitting and my cousin Tomas was teaching me to whistle like a boy.
A fat fly appeared out of nowhere and sat on my lap. I shook it off but it came straight back. Perhaps some of the grape juice had spilled down my dress; maybe that was why it kept hovering around me. I took off the dress. I had my swimming costume on underneath, the blue one with polka dots. The fly soon lost interest in me. I was really hot and I wanted to swim. At that moment, siesta time felt the most boring thing in the whole world. I wasn’t allowed to go to the swimming pool on my own.
I heard a noise in the kitchen: perhaps my grandmother had woken up. She had promised to make Islas Flotantes for dessert that evening. There would be jobs to do: we would have to collect the eggs from the pen and I would help her divide the whites from the yolk and beat them until they were fluffy and spongy.
I put my dress back on, glad that I was no longer the only one awake.
Islas flotantes de Serafina
Serves 6
For the islas:
6 egg whites
A tiny squeeze of lemon juice
120 g caster sugar
1 litre full-fat milk
2 tsp vanilla essence
(You could use vanilla sugar instead. At home I keep a jar of caster sugar with vanilla pods.)
For the crème anglaise:
10 egg yolks
80 g caster sugar
For the caramel:
150 ml water
300 g caster sugar
For the islas you are basically making a meringue, so whisk the egg whites and lemon juice in a clean bowl until soft peaks form when you take away the whisk. Add the sugar a little at a time whilst continuing to whisk, until stiff peaks form when you lift the whisk.
Boil some water. Bring the milk and the vanilla essence to the boil in the largest pan you own. Once it has boiled, reduce the heat and leave it to simmer. Make sure you have a lid for the pan.
Pour the boiling water into a bowl and dip two large spoons in it, then use the spoons to make the 8 mounds which are to become the islas. Use the spoons to give them shape. Carefully transfer each isla into the simmering milk and vanilla mix.
Cover the pan and poach the meringue islas for 8-10 minutes, remembering to gently turn them over after a few minutes so that they cook evenly.
Using a metal slotted spoon, and being extremely careful, take out the islas and set them aside on a tray. Do not remove the milk from the simmering heat.
For the crème anglaise, whisk the egg yolks and caster sugar together in a mixing bowl, until the mixture is smooth and the sugar has dissolved.
Steadily add the hot milk to the egg yolk and sugar mixture, never ceasing to whisk. When you have mixed it all together, transfer it back into the pan and turn the heat to medium. Take a wooden spoon and mix constantly, until the custard has thickened. Pour the custard into a large bowl and place it over some cold water: ideally the water should contain some ice cubes. Continue stirring from time to time to help it cool.
To make the caramel, pour the water and sugar into a thick-based pan and cook over moderate heat, stirring and making sure that the sugar has dissolved. Boil the mixture whilst stirring it until the colour changes and it becomes a dark golden-brown. Pour it into a flat serving tray with even sides, deep as a lasagne dish, and spread it evenly.
Transfer some of the cool custard into the tray, then float the islas evenly in it. Pour the rest of the custard around and slightly over them and chill.
Just before serving, dip the base of the tray into some warm water to melt the caramel slightly so that you can pour the juices over the islas as you serve them in individual bowls.
Chapter Four
Retreat Two: Learning the Ropes
To study the Way is to study the self.
To study the self is to forget the self.
To forget the self is to be enlightened
By all things of the universe.
~ Dogen
A few months after my first retreat, Miche invited me to join her on a summer retreat to train as a Tenzo. I was to receive training for the first few days, to get acquainted with the way things were done, and then I would be left to cook by myself for the last two days. I accepted with gratitude and without hesitation.
I met Miche in a nearby village, where she took me to meet the local farmer, Evan, and collect the produce she had ordered from him. He loaded boxes of fresh vegetables into my car. We visited the local wholefood shop to collect last minute sundries and then began the long drive up the track. As we arrived at the house, I felt an immediate and comforting sense of home. I walked into the kitchen and knew I was where I longed to be.
I had learned during my first retreat that, since leaving Argentina in my twenties, I had struggled with a deep feeling of homelessness. Home was a scatter of places in which I had lived but none had made me feel grounded. For the past twenty years I had been harking back to some ideal place which didn’t exist anymore. What was it in that kitchen that called me so much, pulled me towards her, invited me in whispers?
I could not wait to be left on my own, to experience the space alone, but there was so much that needed to be learnt.
I knew nobody apart from Miche. The teacher was a Welshman called Ken Jones, who welcomed us warmly. The retreat was based around the teachings of the Japanese Zen teacher, Dogen, who based his extensive Instructions to the Zen Cook around his experiences of visiting Chinese monasteries in the thirteenth century.
We set the tables and got the kitchen going, unpacking the boxes of produce and putting things away. I listened attentively. I was there to learn, and to begin to relate to the space and the practice. I took my rests in the field by the Chan Hall, with the sheep. I lay on a blanket, soaking up the sunshine and the sounds of nature, embraced by the landscape.
Miche showed me the basic procedures and talked about the importance of good timekeeping. There was so much information to retain. We joined the other retreatants in the Chan Hall whenever we could; Ken’s dharma talks were inspirational. I soaked up all the instructions: from Miche, from Ken and from Dogen. I observed Miche as she instructed the kitchen team; I watched as the metal bowls filled up with carefully chopped and sliced vegetables; I learned how to “riddle” the Rayburn, a process of agitating the coals to release ash, and how to plan the cooking around her variable heat. There was a strong sense of splendour in the simplest of tasks.
Ken told us to stop thinking about time as separate from ourselves: you are time just as much as you are your body and you are your emotions. We tweaked soups and I observed how meals arose out of pure inspiration: there were no set methods or recipes. Dogen counselled letting go of planning in order to relate to the kitchen, to the ingredients, to the retreatants, and to yourself. Miche shared her artistic style of cooking with me, and little by little, I was left alone to prepare food myself.
Miche asked me to make a cake. There were no books, no recipes, no wheat or any sugar. She gave me one egg. She wanted to show me how to trust the process and be creative. One part of me was terrified of making a mess of it, another rose up to the challenge. “Create!” she said, “The Zen Kitchen is all about trust.” So I experimented. I set about the making of the cake in the same way as I would start a thirty minute meditation session. It is impossible to begin a period of meditation knowing exactly what the outcome will be. I gathered all the ingredients, breathed and started. I had no clue if it would work. I made a pear, elderflower and polenta cake, which was firm and moist, golden, tasty.
As planned, Miche left the retreat two days before it ended, and I was left as the cook. She left me with a box with all the remaining vegetables and a few ingredients. She said that the rest of the pantry was out of reach; she had done a stock take and asked me not to use anything else. I found this to be the biggest teaching. A part of me wanted to impress, and I felt hard done by: the meagre box gave me no choice or control. Soon I realised that I needed to drop the negativity, and just cook, allowing the ingredients to impress instead. Working to bring the best out of the ingredients became a mirror: just as I tried to bring the best out of myself for the benefit of others. Everything I cooked tasted as it should, and the retreatants confirmed this by leaving only crumbs on their plates.
Ken gave an inspiring talk in which he said that Zen practice was about making your life into a work of art.
I decided to make a curry before I noticed that there were hardly any spices in the jars above the sink. It tasted good anyway: unusual, if mild.
Ken left everybody meditating in the Chan Hall and came to the kitchen to help me. He told me that Dogen observed that in Chinese monasteries, the cook, or Tenzo, was chosen because of their “way-seeking mind”. What was the meaning of the “way-seeking mind”? What was I seeking?
I washed up and Ken dried as we continued talking about the meaning of being time whilst the rice cooked.
On the last afternoon, I returned to the pine tree copse, and to the memories that had awakened on my first retreat. Somehow the kitchen and the creative element of cooking were in that place, and training as Tenzo was the first step in a long journey ahead: a c
hosen path, or a path that chose me.
We finished the retreat with a walk up the stream. Ken led a fire puja, a ritual of offering up or letting go, on a big rock by the water. We built a pyre with pebbles and wood, and chanted as we watched the fire burn. Deep in the crevice of the mountain, by a beautiful pool of water, my heart swelled with gratitude for that moment, for finding a home, cartref, in the grey rock. Cartref yn y Maenllwyd.
In the autumn I trained with Pam, who was the cooks’ coordinator and a highly experienced Tenzo. Her approach was radically different, and the retreat we were sharing was double in size. John Crook, the founder of the Western Chan Fellowship, was leading the retreat. It was my first encounter with John and I felt slightly nervous about the whole thing.
Pam threw several different catastrophe scenarios at me: from burst pipes and cooking with no water from the tap, to blocked septic tanks or vegetables going off before you have had a chance to use them. She told me never to put food under a paraffin lamp, as they sometimes leak. She showed me how to do a stock take. She also tried (and failed) to teach me how to light the lamps. She had a different approach from Miche: she planned menus carefully, using Excel spreadsheets.
My body was tired and I gave myself a little question: “What is a cook?” I was beginning to wonder why I had opted for the kitchen rather than the meditation hall. What was this dormant cook aiming to achieve, apart from a sore back and exhaustion?
I rested very little but after the second day I felt energised, fully in my element. I learnt new things about the kitchen in a different season, like how to keep fires going. My timing improved, and I was able to experiment with my own recipes for the last two days. Pam left me to it and joined everyone else in the Chan Hall. I cooked and danced around the kitchen, never losing focus, continually learning the attention to detail which is needed for things to flow. I made a pledge that, as Tenzo, I was going to enjoy myself. In the act of nourishing and of learning to be fully present in each step, I would nurture my life and those around me. Some words from Ken’s instructions during the summer retreat kept resonating in me: “Make your life a work of art.” I sensed that I could begin this work in the tiny Maenllwyd kitchen.
Tales From a Zen Kitchen Page 4