LE TTE R FRO M T H E E DITO R
Summer, One Bite at a Time
by Nicole Vander Meulen
This isn’t a letter from the editor per se, but it is an answer to a call— a promise I made myself in 2022—to say yes to more writing opportunities, especially for the Natural Enquirer. And to the call I put out to all the contributors for this issue: what’s the rush? “Yes, wow, hi. It’s all really flying now. Time, that is. And the deadline is fast approaching. So let’s get straight to it—summer dreams, summer themes. Make them last, won’t you? Ways to Savor Summer: this, because it is all really flying now, and don’t you wish we could slow it down, especially during the summer? Are there lovely ways COVID taught you to move slower? How do you soak it all up? Me, I’m thinking of Charcuterie as Meditation, with local cheese and berries, of course. Bounty of the County: this, because where else could you possibly want to be than here? We have it alllllll. Fresh produce, cheese, flowers, mountains, rivers… you know the spiel. We know it, but maybe sometimes we forget it. So, in a time when inflation is on the rise, gas prices are bananas, why pay more for anything not Skagit – food, fun, or otherwise? Me, I’ll be biking to pick up my Dear Table CSA every Tuesday at Viva Farms in Burlington, with Huxley the Executive Office Dog in tow. Anyway, we live in a magical place. Let’s rave about it —more, again, and always! Per usjz, take the prompt anywhichway you please.” So, here I am, imploring you to reflect on the same, hopefully while enjoying meats, cheeses, and fine wine from the Co-op. Because that really is how I’m watching the world turn. Even the aforementioned CSA ended up running behind because of the mere five hours of 70°+ weather we saw in the month of May. I can wait. And while I’m waiting, I will go everywhere and nowhere at once. Sounds dreamy, yes? Join me, if you please. All a’board! I have a friend who builds the most extravagant charcuterie boards. Super Bowl, Halloween, girls’ night, whatever the occasion, there will be a board. And there will be wine. She is the queen of playful mispronunciation and calls charcuterie “choo-choocheries,” like the sound a train makes. Chew, chew, like the sound your mouth makes when you’re savoring each and every bite. Choo-choo, chew, chew. Whenever I’m enjoying a board, I’m transported to her, and then, to anywhere else my imagination pleases—a little frontal lobe locomotion. Meditation, they say, is about settling into your sitz bones, breathing deep, and watching thoughts come and go like ships or sheep or something. That works. But what they don’t say, is that sitting still is just one of many forms of meditation. Running, swimming, gardening, gerund-ing—just about any i-n-g that connects you to yourself, your mind, and your surroundings. That includes noticing; it is an art, after all. Annie Dillard would agree and suggest you make a pilgrimage to your local creek, or the Magic Skagit if you’d rather, just to see what you can see. I also agree, and would suggest heading to your kitchen table, just to taste what you can taste because I do believe eating can be meditative. Nostalgic. Transcendental, even.
I believe this because I once attended a weekend retreat on Whidbey Island, a little too woo-woo for me, the average bear, but in the end, it changed me. It was a connection to people, place, and thing, or rather, food. One of the retreat sessions was lunch. Nothing new, but something out of the ordinary. Thirteen of us sat down to share a meal, no talking allowed—not out of militant rigidity, but out of reverence for the food: the land that produced it (behind me); the hands that grew it (sitting next to me); the hands that prepared it (sitting across from me). And then we shut our eyes, to dig in and take the time to actually taste the green soup in front of us. I started to think about the pitch-black dining experiences people pay extra for, just so they can fumble around in the dark for a fork and then be amazed at their heightened sense of taste. Closing your eyes is free. It made me think of blindness and how its silver lining is the superhuman intensity of all the other senses. No meal would go unnoticed. It made me think of the infamous and ultimate ultimatum: would you rather be blind or deaf? As if taste and touch are small potatoes. Which makes me think about Pirates of the Caribbean—ghosts haunting seaports to quench an unquenchable thirst and satiate an unending hunger: drinking without drunkenness, touching without feeling. An emptiness unrelenting. So, to eat without tasting? That makes me think of how we eat: mindlessly and senselessly on our way out the door, behind the wheel, dropping crumbs in the cracks of the keyboard. It also reminds me of COVID. Early in 2020, I cooked myself a “fancy” meal: peppered black cod, coconut rice, and a wilted green, I think. I can’t quite remember, because none of it tasted like anything. A mouthful of ash. At first, I thought it was an added layer of winter depression or my hit-or-miss cooking, but it persisted. For the next ten days, I proceeded to eat anything and everything, extra salt, extra sugar, and throw in all the onions while you’re at it (I despise onions), because all I wanted was to taste my food. Nothing doing. Only after mentioning it to my father did he relay that sudden loss of taste was one of COVID’s
strange and unexpected symptoms. Ten days and ten pounds later, I can tell you that I’d almost certainly rather be blind. And deaf. When we the thirteen opened our eyes, our expressions said it all: we had just communed over the best soup we’d ever eaten, not because it was the best soup (and not because it wasn’t), but because we had noticed every flavor, every temperature, every texture. Sip, sip. Chew, chew. We could taste its greenness. We cleared our plates, the table and joined hands around the chef in a moment of gratitude. We bowed, we worshipped, the grower fell to his knees. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room because the appreciation for a single bowl of soup was so overwhelming. Indeed, food deserves every ounce of happy tears. And taste buds? Don’t forget about those guys. They’re your best friends, and they can transport you anywhere, anytime, even if you’re going nowhere. Chew, chew, choo-choo. Choo-choocherie. Charcuterie, as meditation—a practice in mindfulness, forcing you to slow down and connect to your thoughts and your surroundings, simply by tasting every bite. There should be no more than 12 chews per minute. With that kind of max CPM, you’re in for a Bourdanian experience, no gas money required. Close your eyes, if you dare. Creating your own charcuterie is as simple as asking yourself what you like, then building your board from there: meat, cheese, nuts, crackers, bread, something pickled, something fruity. And if you dabble, a bottle of wine. The Co-op has a world of choices. Once you’ve arranged your picks (which can be zen-like too), it is time. Breathe in. Begin. I start with a little game of matchmaker. I’ll make you a match. And then I’ll make you another. A crispy cracker or chewy bread, crunchy mustard, creamy cheese. Yes, creamy cheese. Should I pair aged gouda with speck or spicy coppa? Now wash it down with bubbles. Always bubbles, at least for me. Then nibble a gherkin like a rabbit to a carrot, a beaver to a tree—your two front teeth doing all the work. Pop in a sweety drop! An explosion of tiny pepper flavor. Layer the flavors, make all the matches, then deconstruct to enjoy each piece as is. (continued on page 14)
Huxley, office pup, in his bike trailer.
Co-op Seeks 4% Friday Applicants for 2023 Immigrant Resources & Immediate Support (IRIS), pictured, is our 4% Friday Community Shopping Day recipient for July. IRIS’ mission is two-fold: to connect immigrants with existing resources in the community, and to provide immediate assistance to those experiencing a temporary period of crisis. IRIS will use funds from 4% Friday to provide immediate support to local families to alleviate suffering by meeting basic needs such as access to food, clothing, and shelter. The Board of Trustees is currently accepting nonsectarian, non-partisan charitable applicants for the Co-op’s 4% Friday Community Shopping Day Program in 2023.
Groups chosen, one per month for the calendar year, receive 4% of the day’s gross receipts at the Skagit Valley Food Co-op. These community groups are selected for their service to the community in the following areas: local community service, organic food, natural health, environmentally friendly and sustainable agricultural practices, human rights, environmental preservation, and other areas that reflect “like-minded” mission statements. The Board also hopes to select at least one organization with a focus on youth. Applications are due September 30 and can be downloaded from our website: www.skagitfoodcoop.com. skagit valley food co-op
• the natural enquirer • july–september 2022 3
