Food for Thought: Conversations with Your Gut

According to researchers of “mental illness,” We the People of the United States are swimming in a vast and deep lake of depression and other mental “disorders”. Some call it an epidemic and blame psychiatric drugs. Some say it’s a full-blown “rebellion” against modern life and its dictates. Others claim it’s linked to genetically modified food and nutritional deficiencies. I’ve even read that the bombardment of radio and other invisible waves affect our brains. It may be that we are getting clobbered from multiple sources. Even to a layman such as me, it’s obvious the world is going bonkers.

When I first began working in the Garden of Nemesis in 2001, I noticed people walking down the street talking to what appeared to be—themselves. Nowadays they have cell phones or headsets embedded in their ears but nonetheless, are still conversing.  I honestly can’t see the difference.

The truth is there is a lot of pain and suffering going on. I, too, once endured the depression malady; I was in my early forties before it became clear I had had this chronic condition ever since I could remember. It was so chronic that I considered it my “normal” state of mind. Alcohol and other self-medications had once helped, but by my late thirties it became clear that what I was using to treat my condition had themselves become a problem. It was time for a lifestyle change.

This huge change began to work its magic when I stopped self-medicating and got into psychotherapy and AA. Really, it was a good thing I could not see into the future, because things got much worse before they started to get better. I alternated between crying jags and frantic rages for the first sober year. Many details of my childhood began to surface and I began to perceive just how screwed up my thinking had been. In the second year of my sobriety, I experienced my first moment of bliss while driving my old pickup truck on a Mississippi back road. Perhaps I had had this experience as a child, because it seemed vaguely familiar.

After that first glimpse of joy, I began to realize I had truly been “out of my mind” and my body for most of my past. I knew in my gut, in my “second brain,” that even though others may have caused my childhood damage, I alone was responsible to facilitate my own healing.

Children have the amazing capacity to lock away fears and demons into the dark recesses of the mind, otherwise they may not be able to survive the growing-up process. As an adult, it was up to me to deal with these fears and demons, otherwise my soul could not reach anything close to maturation. I reached out for help during this process and miraculously attracted just the right people who could help me. Some were professionals; others were those who had had similar experiences.

During the many years of my therapy, several doctors tried their best to get me to take medication. I believed, and still do, that in my case, chemistry had failed to bring adequate results and I needed to simply unlock the horrific and repulsive memories and allow myself to feel their true impact; then, and only then, would I be free of the daily, albeit unconscious, forays into the nightmare that was my childhood. My instincts were right.

One of the many transformations that occurred during this healing period was that I began to listen to my gut, my instincts. Amazingly, this ability still existed within me even though it had been suppressed and squashed for decades. It wasn’t until recently that I began to ponder the notion that gut feelings come from the same area as where I digest my food. Is there a link? Is consumed food communicating to my mind and body as it passes through?

Where and how had that animal on my plate been birthed and raised? Had that apple faced the sun naked or covered with toxins? What non-food substances had been added to that box or can? What kind of genes had been transferred into that fruit/vegetable seed before it was planted? Most importantly, is digestion more than a chemical process? Is some form of consciousness being communicated to my being as I digest this “food”?

It’s clear by the commercials on television that Americans are having digestive problems. Is there a relationship between the food that causes heartburn, acid reflux, constipation, diarrhea and colon cancer to—what? mental problems? If the gut is the seat of our instincts, our second brain, then what are all these non-food additives and GMOs doing to our thinking processes?

Richard Alan Miller has helped to educate me regarding the relationship of my gut and the food I eat. His research has yielded information that is not for the faint-hearted. If one is not open to changing one’s belief paradigm, this brilliant man’s material should be avoided. He has opened my mind to the possibility of “conversations” happening between myself and my gut. I am ever becoming aware of this ongoing communication between my Self and the sun, the plants, animals and even so-called inanimate rocks and soil.

Every day as I work or play in my garden, I have conversations with my environment. I am but a small link in the incredible Chain of Life. Each of us is as important as any other of the individual parts, and we all make up the whole; a whole linked not just in the physical, but in mind and spirit. Just as I am clearly conscious of my own suffering, I am aware of the pain of others. However, pain and suffering are not meant to be a way of life.

Pain gets our attention, points out that a problem exists; pain is an opportunity to make corrections. I’m sorry to say that nothing and no one can “fix” us from the outside. It’s an inside job. The buck stops here. Yes, the world is going bonkers and looking for cures in all the wrong places.

Mornings in the Kitchen

Mornings in the kitchen have replaced mornings in the garden this August and September. Not every morning, but enough to make me long for that sweet spot on the bench by the berm.

Well, it can’t be helped. The garden produce is ripe and must be canned, frozen, dehydrated or fermented. I do so with a thankful heart. There’s nothing more lovely than pantry shelves that display the ultimate results of my hard work.

Sometimes I trace the beginnings of the fruit or vegetable I am processing: the saved seed, its first contact with soil and its miraculous germination, the moment when it first pokes its tiny head above ground. I remember how it leaned towards the light streaming through the sun porch’s wide widows. It must been the largest and healthiest to have escaped the several thinnings and cullings.

The bedding plant stretches itself further as it is transferred to a bigger pot and then, about the time the tulips bloom, to the potting shed.

Sometime in late May or early June, it is moved to the garden, where it is dropped into a composted hole or trench. It may have felt the weight of a fabric cover if frost was expected. Finally, it grows out of its babyhood and becomes largely self sufficient, competing with other plants for water, nutrients and light.

The growing plant feels the weight of my footsteps and the sound of the hoe and of course, my voice as I exclaim how beautiful it is. Some of these developing plants are staked and/or tied to further facilitate the eventual harvest. Some of this harvest is from seeds direct sowed into the garden plot.

The garden plot has expanded itself into so-called flower beds. A dozen or so years ago, I began to restructure my belief paradigm about where plants should grow. The truth is, they should grow wherever there is room and they’re happy. A baby tomatillo had no space when it came time to plant it, so its home has been in the new strawberry bed.

It remains to be seen what has transpired underneath its gargantuan limbs full of hanging fruit. I’m sure the strawberry plants will recover in the spring.

Many herb plants such as feverfew, cilantro and chamomile grow proudly in my cottage garden, with passersby none the wiser. Chives and fragrant basil and thyme have escaped the formal vegetable garden and may be found in divers places. Aji Dulce peppers grow in pots to be overwintered in the house, as does the Medusa ornamental.

Ripening Medusa Peppers

Who knew peppers could survive in a window sill only to be set out in the spring for another season of production?

Aji Dulce in the house in November 2012

 Same Aji Dulce in the garden August 2013

Rosemary and lavender have also flourished in their pots and are natural home air fresheners.

Soon all the pots will come in the house, which is a task I dread. A few tropicals have gotten so big they are permanent fixtures, destined to never move again. 

Our Live Christmas Tree

Sometimes I complain about the care these suddenly-indoor plants require. The truth is I generally enjoy picking off dead leaves and watering these guys. I can have a little taste of summer even as I watch the snow fly outside the windows. All those mornings in the kitchen and the garden will be appreciated as, instead of eating supermarket garbage, we eat the superb food I have grown and preserved with my own hands.

Mom’s Recipe Box

I just ran across my mother’s little wooden recipe box. It seems to fade in and out of my life. This time, I actually took the time to look through it and organize its contents. I also added a few of my own handwritten recipes. Of course, I had to pause and contemplate her handwriting. I’m sure when she wrote those recipes she could not have imagined that someday in the far future her eldest daughter would stare in rapt attention at her cursive.

I just read where cursive handwriting is likely to die off, as the young have no use for it in our digital age. I imagine the teachers have lost heart at teaching it, too. In the 1950’s, we sat for hours a week at our desks made of real wood and practiced making perfect flowing loops. We felt we were joining the adult world and printing began to seem slow and cumbersome and childish. My mother’s cursive is near perfect.

 In my mother’s little recipe box are formulas for making cakes and pies and breads from scratch. I can recognize the contributions of her friends, some of which have their own personalized imprinted recipe cards. In some cases, Mom just gave her friend credit by writing her name on the top. Also tucked among the ruins of Mom’s culinary exploits are recipes snipped from old magazines, fragile with age. Most of them are not dated, but one is from “The Ladies Home Journal,” circa 1959. It must have been considered very precious to have been saved for that length of time. Thus, I carefully fold these relics back into their place, along with a handwritten note to my own daughter detailing the history of this special box and its contents.

The era of Mom’s Recipe Box seems to have passed. On the other hand, if I should ever be unable to boot up my computer, it is best kept in a safe place. I’ll keep cursive copies of special recipes inside, just in case. It’s likely my great granddaughters may puzzle over all those perfect flowing loops.

Mysterious Pink Flowering Shrub

Once in awhile something utterly amazing and astonishing happens in the garden. This one took my breath away! I’ll begin at the beginning:

In 2002, my husband and I were walking in a wild wooded area on the campus of a local university where I was taking classes. It was a beautiful, oddly warm day in late March, and we had been lured into the woods by several large, pink blooming bushes. The gnarly, thorny shrubs were laden with the most amazing fragrant flowers! We coveted this strange bush, so asked the groundskeeper if we could dig some suckers to take home. He laughed and gave his permission. When we came back with a spade and bucket a few days later, we dug five shoots for our vacant lot at home. I might also mention we dug a few other unknown shrubs and a lilac that was no more than a twig. 

2011

 When we got home, I planted all the babies on the southwest corner of the lot on the far side of the berm. The shoots of the later-identified service berries took off, one of them growing over forty feet high in the next ten years…But back to our saga of the pink bloomer.

One of the five pink bloomers died; I mourned its passing. After about five or six years, the other four began to bloom in late March. This early blooming amazed me, so I began watching the shrub in winter. I discovered that the buds began to swell in January, when the ground was frozen solid and spring was just a dream. I took to garden walking in winter, using this still unidentified shrub as an excuse.

 2011

One garden guest identified the shrub as a flowering almond and I took her word for it until I was at a friend’s house in 2011. Connie was showing me her flowering almond and it was a completely different plant! I asked her how sure she was, and she said 100%. Now my curiosity was peaked and I decided to research on the internet. It’s hard to find something when you don’t know its name, but I came across the flowering plum and it looked similar. I was once again sort of satisfied.

2013

 Meanwhile, the bushes became scraggly tangles of thorny branches; big and ungainly, as we stopped pruning them. I had noticed that the blooms diminished after we trimmed. The neighbor told us the corner bush made backing out of her driveway a hazard, so Jorge removed it in 2010. Now we were down to three, although shoots still appear where the old bush once stood.

Yesterday, we were back in that corner trimming the service berry when I looked into the bush and saw an apple stuck to one of the branches. A second apple was on another branch. Being the idiot I sometimes am, I said, “What’s that?” and grabbed both of them. My husband and I examined this mystery. They were green and hard with the size and appearance of a small apple. It was then I fully became conscious of the fact this guy was no flowering plum.

When I got into the house, I cut one in half and examined its interior. It looked very similar to an apple in that it was full of pips. A plum would have had one pit. After a half hour on the internet, I discovered we had three flowering quinces, whose fruit makes absolutely delicious jams, jellies and marmalades! Now I’m thinking about asking the university groundskeeper if I can wander the woods to pick quinces in another few weeks.

Quince Photos (taken24 hours after cutting, thus browned interior)

Now that we have identified this mysterious shrub, we know to prune the dead wood in April, immediately after it blooms. I can put up with the unremarkable foliage and the thorns knowing that March will bring all those lovely blooms and October a luscious fruit for preserves. 

A Picture is Worth More Than a Thousand Words

I’ve been harvesting and preserving for the long winter ahead.

From left to right: pumpkin, grape juice, strawberry juice, beets, pickles, salsa, potatoes, jams, jellies and marmalades.

I’m so happy to see the grapes, which went a little crazy this summer, off the vines and on the pantry shelves.

Grapes on Pergola 2013 

Grapes in progress on potting shed

 Grape Processing 2013

The pumpkin vine looked sick and stressed, so we harvested the eight little pumpkins.

Next on the to do list is to begin harvesting tomatillos from my one huge, sprawling plant. This is the first year I've grown them and know only what my neighbor has said and what I've learned in the internet. I found several recipes for preserves that I intend to try. I'm going to make green salsa to can that will heat up those cold winter snacks. More on tomatillo adventures later...

Tomatillo Plant 2013

The Little Jar

Muscles and tendons strain under the weight of the half-filled buckets. She recalls the time, not so long ago, when she had carried them easily full up. Grunting, she trudges to the end of the lot and dumps the finished compost in two piles between the newly emerged cucumber plants. The sweat streams stinging into her eyes, which she brushes away with a dirty glove.

            The same dirty glove wraps around the rough handle of the rake and, after smoothing the buttery black loam between the plants, the tall woman drops the tool and straightens to place both gloves on the small of her back. After a moment, she picks up the buckets and muttering, slogs back to the compost pile.

            Beside the compost pile shines the newly purchased wheelbarrow, unmarred by weather and time and grit. The woman considers a moment this work-saving technology and then proceeds to spade the buckets, again, half-full. One more trek to the front and her job will be done; her lunch earned.

            Inside the farmhouse, the man, the partner, watches out of the wavy glass his wife's exertions. Crazy woman. Just yesterday, he'd bought her the most ergonomic tool invented by man and still she insists on the buckets. He places a large checkered cloth over the lunch tray and elbows out the ancient screen door. On the porch stands a small, battered wooden table and two mismatched chairs. He places the tray in the center of the table, then fingers the silverware, centering it cleanly on the napkins. He adjusts the posy trough so his wife will have the best view.

            Satisfied, he pours the lemonade into the tumblers, adding a fresh slice of lemon to each. Here she comes, hands wet from the pump, faded red hair haloing her flushed and freckled angel face. His heart accelerates as he flashes briefly on the moment, forty seven years before, when he'd seen his son rush out of her womb. She looks up at him and smiles. Her stomach growls loudly under the farmer bibs. She is happy.

            He returns the smile and pulls her chair out from under the his mother's linen tablecloth. She settles into the chair while he serves. Although her appetite exceeds the small portion, the woman leans onto the ladder-back and sighs with pleasure. Her eyes wander out, over the riotous blooming garden and back to her husband's weathered face so concentrated on gathering and piling dirty dishes.

            There are so few moments, so few perfect moments, to be had in this life; this is surely one of them. They surely deserve this moment. All the preceding dark, dangerous, devastating and disastrous moments are forgotten.

            At the sound of a creaking step, they turn their heads. Well, if it isn’t the grandson of their neighbor to the north mounting the porch! Pink scalp under parted hair and no smile to greet theirs, just dark and downcast eyes as the official process server skims his sunburned hand along the peeling paint of the railing. The husband looks out to the road and sees a brand new double cab pickup tucked behind the barberry bushes. Tricky bastard.

            The sun ducks behind a rain cloud. A hawk screeches; finally, the dreaded papers. Like a ghost, the youth disappears as quickly as he had materialized. With shaking hands, the documents unfold that will irrevocably change their lives. Should they stay and fight or fade off at the bank's decree?

            This is their place. Indeed as the sun comes up in the morning, this is their place. Here, they have nurtured their child and one another and this land. They are as rooted here as the bordering tall maples and oaks and pines planted with their own might.

            The two sit in silence for a long moment and then the woman reaches over to pat his age-spotted hand. She heaves herself from the chair and steps violently aside to vomit over the balustrade. When she is finished, he springs up to extend the checkered napkin.

***

            He wakes upon the same feather mattress on which he’d been born, his extended arm numb from the weight of her head. The rooster crows.  Another day. He’s lost the farm. He’s lost it. He would not weep here, in her presence, but the barn was another matter. He’d promised to protect her and now what, a high rise in the city? An errant tear slips down the craggy cheek. The city would kill her.

            She stirs, lifts her head and reaches up to move his sleeping arm. Under the breeze scented, warm blankets, her hand moves to his chest and lingers before trailing lower. He groans and turns to face his solace. No mouth kissing in the morning, but everything else. He forgets the farm and any sense of place. This woman. He rises to milk Bessie.

            She serves oatmeal downstairs, topped with sweet cream and strawberries. Her appetite is vigorous, yesterday’s upset forgotten. Yet, the papers lay on the sideboard and must soon be discussed. Haven’t they already discussed, over and over and over, all elements related? Haven’t they already researched every possibility? Didn't they sell off all but the house and outbuildings and two acres?

            The husband retreats to the barn to feed the few animals they have left and the wife cleans her sunny kitchen. Should she pack? She opens the cabinet to eye the tinctures and reaches to the back. It’s still there, yes, it is. The small, dark jar is again pushed back into its hiding place and instead she removes the tincture of valerian. Sighing, she measures a half eyedropper of the medicine into the back of her mouth and grimaces. She gently closes the cupboard.

            Is he crying again? His scarlet eyes belie is his acts of courage. If only. If only they hadn’t done the remodel. Or paid cash for John’s college. If only the frost hadn’t ruined the strawberry crop in 1993. If only they hadn’t had to bury their…She brings herself up and exhales. This serves no purpose. What is done is done, there’s no going back; time to go to the barn and interrupt.

            The pitchfork moves to and fro, fluttering the straw. He latches the pen and turns his attentions to the old cart. Another load for the pile. Another day. He senses her at his back and turns. This morning would they would gather the fruits of their labors and preserve them for the future? He pushes a escaped curl back under her kerchief and briefly touches her soft cheek. Maybe they should instead visit John.

            Hand in hand, they walk the shaded lane. How many years is it now? Since the War? Since John had fallen? How many steps to the grassy mound and back? The breeze catches her breath and valerian wafts. Well, whatever it takes. Would the doctor’s chemicals be better than the herbs she gathers? Together they have shunned the doctors and been the better for it. Why, hadn’t the gout disappeared under her ministrations?

            He stays out of the kitchen when she is brewing and mixing her various concoctions. Anyway, it is primarily her domain, as the barn is his. The pantry is a cool place off the kitchen; she keeps the door closed and the window open in cool weather. He’d installed the hooks from the ceiling so she could hang to dry her medicinal plants. Neighbors without health insurance frequently tap on the back door and soon leave with small Mason jars of mysterious powders and liquids. They frequently add small donations to the egg money.  

            Her hand tightens in his as they approach the gate. Roses lay heavy on their trellis, trailing their perfume for the calling meadowlark. The grasses wave softly. Here he is. No, not here, but Elsewhere. Here his body rests, a stopping-off place for them to visit when they need connection—a connection to him, to each other. The medals, the worthless medals lay rusting on the granite headstone, bleeding, pressing their murky stains earthward.

            The couple exhales their collective breath. The woman bends and pulls a wayward weed. They consider mutely the grandchildren they will never have. She remembers birth spasms, the tiny feet, the first day of school. He remembers the gazing, hopeful face as the ball leaves the bat and the same face in the photograph from Basic Training. What’s done is done. Another day--deprived. Another day. She ventures one last glance over her shoulder as they shuffle back to the house.

***

            The night is warm and a light breeze swirls the sweet bouquet of memories of springs past.  A full moon lights the yard. The yellow cat brushes his fur on their legs as they gently sway on the porch swing. The dishes washed, the coffee sipped, the bank papers discussed, the carefully worded note placed in the mailbox. Now, some time to reflect, to reminisce.

            They remember John, laughing, sailing on the bag swing right there, on that very oak. He loved to swing. He broke the garden gate with his gall darn swinging. They consider all the agonizing moments coaxing him down from high places and away from dangerous machinery.  All for what? So he could die forlorn in foreign mud?

            Not tonight. Tonight is for recalling the good parts. That baby lamb. Wasn’t it the cutest thing? A cute thing that grew into a monster sheep that butted her to the ground when on the way to feed the chickens! He loved that lamb. Fed it with a bottle and slept with it in the shed for weeks. Poncho Pepper Lambert was its name. Never went to market, that one. Died of old age. Like the dog, the collie, Blondie.

            They rock. A train whistles in the distance and an odd car passes by out on the road. He puts his arm around her sagging shoulders. It was good, wasn’t it? The best of times. The farmland rented out for good money; the utilities and taxes easily paid. He buries his nose in her hair. She reaches for his calloused hand. You ready? His affirmation lay in her hair. An owl hoots and the yellow cat jumps to his lap.

            She gets up. The screen door creaks open. A moment later she is there, holding the little jar, which he takes from her steady hand. The animals, will they be okay? Don't worry, the mailman will call the number. The man, the partner, the husband, unscrews the lid and drinks half the bitter liquid. He hands the jar to the woman, the wife, and she tips the jar to her lips.

THE END

             

           

           

           

           

           

Bringing in the Sheaves

For those of you checking in here, I haven’t had time to write. Every day I’m either canning or preserving. The apples, beans, cucumbers, carrots, beets and tomatoes etc. wait for no man (or woman). The cool weather has made the garden and kitchen work more comfortable. As the pantry fills with colorful and life sustaining nutrients, I give constant thanks.

Aji Dulce pepper plant that over-wintered in the house is now producing for the second year!