Earlier tonight, I roasted a chicken and assembled a kale salad with fig vinegar, sunflower seeds, and chopped rosemary and blood oranges; I made use of the extra fridge afforded by winter (the fire escape) to cool the leftovers of that earnest-lady feast before storing them. Now, from my quiet blue rooms atop an East Williamsburg hill, I’m drinking a glass of red wine and watching the city twinkle without me. It was a frustrating few days–egos flared, including my own–and if you could see me flanked by my somber little kitty at the kitchen window, you might think I was still mulling big stuff. Really, I’m just planning all the other meals I’ll cook and freeze this weekend–meat ragu, lentil soup, chile verde, cod and potato casserole–if the storm’s as bad as they say it’s going to be. It’s gotten to the point that, when meteorologists predict snow and hale, visions of furry slippers, 19th century novels, black-and-white musicals, and long-simmering stews dance before my eyes like sugarplums. They may call such weather harrowing; I call it cozy. And from there, it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump to glamorous.
It is the end of the year, and I have been musing on forgiveness. In general, I find it a totally bullshit concept–one that people widely tout but rarely practice. And that’s too bad. As I said to a friend today, when a person claims forgiveness that they do not really feel (as is so often the case), their declaration shuts a door with a finality that open resentment never could. I frankly do not see the point of extending forgiveness to a person who is not requesting it, anyway; such a pardon is a condescension, even a self-abnegation. True forgiveness is a contract between two beings who are spiritually progressing by mutually transcending their comfort zones: by courageously addressing their culpability; by honoring active vulnerability with grace. That said, in the absence of such hard-won peace, I see the point in releasing anger and acknowledging the beauty that lives in even the most harmful individuals. Such a fearless act, especially when unaccompanied by codependence, is one of the finest ways we can love people, including ourselves, at their most unlovable.
There’s a reason that All Soul’s Day takes place this month. With the swift onslaught of darkness each day and the even-swifter wind, we can hear our ancestors calling from the other side. We certainly can feel them. They’re in that rush of grief and wonder that grasps us while we scurry from place to place, the cold whipping all around us. No wonder we create holiday after holiday to gird us against that good night. No wonder we cook long, elaborate dishes to warm our hearths, entice our senses. We are clinging to our corporeal selves.
To that end, I sharpen my knife and eye this intimidating stalk of brussel sprouts I brought home from the farmers market today. It is bright green and almost otherworldy in its formation, like a medieval weapon crafted by aliens. With smoked salt and thyme and chili pepper and olive oil and a whisper of honey, I plan to capture all the sunlight that helped it grow. I will roast it into something so bolstering that it will ease the melancholy of this long Sunday eve. Say amen, somebody: It’s the Church of Sunday Vegetable.
Earlier tonight, I roasted a chicken and assembled a kale salad with fig vinegar, sunflower seeds, and chopped rosemary and blood oranges; I made use of the extra fridge afforded by winter (the fire escape) to cool the leftovers of that earnest-lady feast before storing them. Now, from my quiet blue rooms atop an East Williamsburg hill, I’m drinking a glass of red wine and watching the city twinkle without me. It was a frustrating few days–egos flared, including my own–and if you could see me flanked by my somber little kitty at the kitchen window, you might think I was still mulling big stuff. Really, I’m just planning all the other meals I’ll cook and freeze this weekend–meat ragu, lentil soup, chile verde, cod and potato casserole–if the storm’s as bad as they say it’s going to be. It’s gotten to the point that, when meteorologists predict snow and hale, visions of furry slippers, 19th century novels, black-and-white musicals, and long-simmering stews dance before my eyes like sugarplums. They may call such weather harrowing; I call it cozy. And from there, it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump to glamorous.
There’s a reason that All Soul’s Day takes place this month. With the swift onslaught of darkness each day and the even-swifter wind, we can hear our ancestors calling from the other side. We certainly can feel them. They’re in that rush of grief and wonder that grasps us while we scurry from place to place, the cold whipping all around us. No wonder we create holiday after holiday to gird us against that good night. No wonder we cook long, elaborate dishes to warm our hearths, entice our senses. We are clinging to our corporeal selves.