Kids and the city, part ?

Lamb pies on the curb at the Rogers Park Farmers Market
Photo by Nalin Bhutt

Before we had kids and while on a road trip to somewhere I don't remember now, Nalin and I listened to a fabulous book on tape of Family Man, by one of my favorite writers, Calvin Trillin. By that time, we were already living in Chicago and had settled into a fairly urban existence. And, although I don't recall my exact thoughts that day we listened to Trillin's words, I'm sure I nodded my head and smiled while listening, imagining that we too would raise our children in the hub of a thriving metropolis and attend raucous Halloween street parades just like his two daughters did, growing up in the heart of Greenwich Village. Well, our most raucous Halloween event with our children was a quite sanitized neighborhood kids fest in the heart of Rogers Park when Ettu was one and dressed like a monkey; but hey, you have to start somewhere.

There are a lot of reasons I love Calvin Trillin, not least of which are his Kansas City, Missouri roots. A Midwest boy transplanted to that strange and venerable island called Manhattan. His humor is so familiar and embracing and yet utterly new. It has been a long while since I read that book, but I'd love to revisit it now that I am parenting two children in the city. The questions of whether to stay in an urban environment or move outside the city constantly creep upon us. When we go to the museums or hang out listening to live music at the Food Truck Social with our kids dancing like crazy in the open streets, we think, yes, this is the place for us. When we visit friends or family with bigger homes and yards and open space, we see the glee and wonder in their faces and think, yes, this might be the place for us. But for now, we are where we are. My children are learning to skip rocks in the crater-like potholes in our alley that fill with water after a good rain. They eat hot, handmade goodies on the curb of the farmers market on Sunday mornings while waiting for their parents to scavenge for eggs, greens, and tomatoes. They grudgingly adhere to our admonishments to please not run so loudly down the hallway of our second floor condo. They barely flinch at the sounds of loud trains and sirens that pass them. They know every park within walking distance by name.

Wherever we go or remain, I hope that these days and experiences are shaping them to be flexible, tolerant, and inquisitive young men. All of us parents are in this same, crowded boat together, though. And we all do the best we can. As Trillin states in plain and simple words, "Your children are either the center of your life or they're not." And wherever we are, I suppose that pretty much sums it up.

Eggplant, kale, garlic, and tomato stir-fry

This came after the chili clams.

Chili, garlic clams and riesling while roasting tomatoes for winter

Courtesy of our iPhone

It's midnight, and I'm still slow-roasting these tomatoes out on our grill. I grabbed up nearly 17 pounds of lovely organic tomatoes at the end of our neighborhood farmers' market tonight for $1/pound. A steal, I'd say. After they are good and caramelized, I'll puree them, bag them, and freeze them for the winter. If I can keep this up for the rest of the season, I shouldn't have to buy a grocery tomato all winter. That's the goal, at least. Perhaps one day I'll learn how to can.

While I was preparing the pans for roasting, my lovely husband whipped up some chili and garlic clams and opened a bottle of our favorite riesling from Trader Joe's: Dr. Loosen. The boys nicely tucked away in slumber, we ate, sipped, and cut together. A nice late evening.

Teaching myself to wait

"The little things."
Photo by Nalin Bhutt. 

Simplicity and restraint are such difficult concepts for me to adhere to in life. I had a bumper sticker on the first car I ever bought myself (a lemon of a Volkswagen Quantum I just had to have) in college that said "Live simply." (Perhaps I should also admit to the "Free Tibet" sticker I had on the other side of the bumper.) Meanwhile, I'm quite sure that I was already on the road to racking up some fine credit card debt in the pursuit of such simplicity. And believe me, the irony has never been lost on me. We have a couple of books on our "special" book shelves in our office (the ones with our prized possessions) on the Japanese aesthetic philosophy of Wabi Sabi. In the one book, written by Andrew Juniper, he states that

"As the artistic mouthpiece of the Zen movement, wabi sabi ... is built on the precepts of simplicity, humility, restraint, naturalness, joy, and melancholy as well as the defining element of impermanence. Wabi sabi ... challenges us to unlearn our view of beauty and to rediscover the intimate beauty to be found in the smallest details of nature's artistry."

He ends his introduction by suggesting that this legacy, "left by the wise Zen monks of old" may offer us a new perspective on spirituality in a world moving toward "unrestrained materialism."

So what do I do with all of this knowledge and newly found conviction to lead a better, simpler, more aesthetic life? I find myself pining over the pages of my recent issue of Dwell on Japanese home architecture and style, envying the objects, homes, vision, etc. of all these others. If only I could have this, then maybe I could achieve that, I say. I think I'm missing the point a bit.

The book goes on to talk about the tea ceremony, a guiding force behind wabi sabi. Juniper then provides an interesting comparison of the tearoom and the church. "In the tearoom there is a sober veneration for unadorned rusticity, for the greatness to be found in the most restrained expression of the humble and simple." So here's my first problem. I'm not that much of a tea drinker. I've always preferred coffee. Nalin is the tea drinker. Perhaps this would be a good place to start. Obviously I'm not trying to draw completely literal parallels here, but it is interesting to consider our appetites as a mirror to our larger (excuse the pun) desires in life. If you go into any higher-end coffee shop these days, you cannot deny that the art of coffee is taken to new heights and more time with the endless options for handcrafted goodness, most notably in the individual pours of freshly brewed coffee (the Japanese got this right as well). But there is certainly an art and ritual to tea drinking and the tea ceremony that certainly cannot be rivaled. Juniper writes, "The intense concentration needed to perform a tea ceremony was both a discipline and a purification, for through the focusing of the mind on the microcosm of the tearoom, the rest of life's concerns would melt away."

And so this is what surrounds me tonight. The aches of realization upon seeing the ways in which my daily pursuits often act contrary to my ultimate goals. I need to remove myself from the haze of "need to" and focus on what can be. Perhaps then I can achieve a little of this noble and artistic pursuit.

"Food for the modern cook" and memories of a grand occasion

We have a cookbook in our shelves that is full of turned pages, printouts, food stains, etc. You know it's a good one. I reached for it today, as I've been feeling a little uninspired lately, even amidst the seasonal abundance of lovely food in our fridge. The name of the book is New Wok: simple stylish food for the modern cook, by Sunil Vijayakar, and it is one of the best things we have ever purchased. It appears to be out of print, but there seem to be several used options on Amazon. The recipes are Chinese, Indian, Southeast Asian, and they are incredibly creative and flavorful. The best part of opening this book today was the menu I found from a holiday party we hosted back in 2005. It has been safely tucked away here, even after we've revisited the book many times since. Many of the recipes in this book greatly inspired one of the most exciting food parties we've ever had. And my dear husband was the grand cook for it all.

As I read over the list of what Nalin cooked that night — papaya salad, okra-coconut stir fry, parchment wrapped prawns, fried tofu, tandoori chicken with mint chutney, beef kabobs, pea/potato pakoras, salmon/sesame fish cakes, spiced lamb poppadoms with mango chutney, carrot and raisin halva, etc. — I am filled with the greatest of taste memories. It was quite a spread, to say the least. Even now, I can picture Nalin slumped on a stool in the kitchen with wine in hand for most of the remaining party, truly exhausted, if not at least a little exhilarated. Of course those were the days before kids, so spending two or three days shopping, planning, and cooking for a party was a bit more feasible. Many of the recipes in this book that inspired some of the dishes Nalin made, however, do not require endless hours or too many complex ingredients. Which is why I reach for it today. There is something valuable in a thing that meets our needs in diverse circumstances.

And as I now become more inspired about the options awaiting me with the vegetables gleaned from this hot and wicked summer, I'm reminded of a poem by the great poet and organic farmer, Wendell Berry, whom my father introduced me to years ago when I was young and could not yet fathom its intent and relevance to the life I lead now:

The Arrival
Like a tide it comes in,
wave after wave of foliage and fruit,
the nurtured and the wild,
out of the light to this shore.
In its extravagance we shape
the strenuous outline of enough.

 May we all eat well and enough this night and always.