Food for the Soul: Roasted Beets

Beetroot, by Maria Livings and Marie Rodgers of Lush Designs

Let's celebrate autumn with the vegetable that is surely the juiciest, most autumnal root—the beet!

"The beet is the ancient ancestor of the autumn moon, bearded, buried, all but fossilized; the dark green sails of the grounded moon-boat stitched with veins of primordial plasma; the kite string that once connected the moon to the Earth now a muddy whisker drilling desperately for rubies."

    —Jitterbug Perfume, by Tom Robbins

Beets aren't the friendliest things to cook, but you can be rewarded with candy-flavored little jewels of food if you're willing to put into some slicing and roasting time. 

Slice them up (wear an apron but enjoy the way your hands turn a lovely hot pink color). Toss in a few sliced carrots and let them get a little pink, too. Sprinkle some rosemary over beets and carrots. Roast at 400 or 425 until they're tender—about 45 minutes. 

You can make salads with roasted beets (red cabbage, walnut, red apples, and red wine vinegar is a good one), but after waiting for them to roast, I'm usually to impatient to do anything but eat them! Try roasting them at the same time as you roast a chicken.

Remember to save your beet greens, too, for a light reminder of the end of summer. If you have a juicer, the beet greens make a lovely pink foam for the top of your orange-carrot juice.

Nature's Course

Daphne mezereum with butterfly, by Georg Dionysus Ehret
via Victoria and Albert Museum

The flower invites the butterfly with no-mind;
The butterfly visits the flower with no-mind.
The flower opens, the butterfly comes;
The butterfly comes, the flower opens.
I don't know others,
Others don't know me.
By not-knowing we follow nature's course.
    —from Dewdrops on a Lotus Leaf, by Ryokan, translated by John Stevens, via gardendigest

This Zen poem has come up in several contexts lately, and along with a conversation on Derrida and his concept of waiting for the revelatory presence of the Other, it has me thinking some about the mysterious, unfathomable depth of things.

It's a favorite topic of mine; I seem to find the theme in a variety of places—Italo Calvino's writings, for example. The mysterious Other has such potential for ethics and art. Accepting the Other as mysterious leaves space for authentic encounters to occur. And, when the concept is combined either with a scientific or Taoist/holistic perspective, the face of the Other shifts. That mysterious Other that seems to completely separate from me becomes a part of me. 

Zen: The Life of Dogen

from Zen
via Rusty Ring

A few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to watch a wonderful movie, Zen, a Japanese movie about the great teacher Dogen. I can't recommend this movie highly enough. It's absolutely beautiful, visually and philosophically. It includes many famous sayings from Dogen's life, including this lovely conversation he has with a head cook:

I asked, "What are words?" The tenzo said, "One, two, three, four, five." I asked again, "What is practice?" "Nothing in the entire universe is hidden."

Trust me, this movie will make you see your own life differently. Maybe, like Dogen, you will find yourself on the shore, with the full moon above you.

Admiring: Pioneer Illustrator

"Wood Thrush, Plate II," by Genevieve Jones
(from the Adelson Library at Cornell)

You may have heard the story of Genevieve Jones, and like me, been inspired by her. Now known as "America's Other Audubon," Genevieve was not well known until a book by Joy Kiser came out earlier this year. Genevieve illustrated the nests and eggs of birds in Ohio, and painstakingly produced books of her work with the help of her family and friend.

The more I've read about her, the more I'm interested in her supporting cast of characters—her parents, who spent all their savings to continue Gennie's dream after her death; her brother, who found the nests for her to draw; the hired local women who worked as midwives to hand color the illustrations her mother drew.

I'm also fascinated by the events that caused her to begin her project—a question asked ten years before, a failed engagement, an inspirational visit to Audubon's exhibition. 

The story of Gennie has me thinking about the cost of pursuing a passion, how sometimes the creative process seems like the kingdom of heaven, found hidden in a field. 

Postmodern Hymn: I Am the Starlight

Big Star, by frecklefaced29

One of the final songs from the musical Starlight Express, by Andrew Lloyd Weber, is a sweet song about finding out that all the answers you seek come from within. 

The Starlight Express is a musical made for children: it tells the tale of toy cars who come to life. Rusty, the protagonist train, calls on the Starlight Express for help in winning a race. I got to see this musical when I was a child, and the magic of seeing people on roller skates, acting like trains, and singing with such hope has stayed with me all this time.

I think it's good every now and then to return to childhood fantasies and see the world again in a playful, hopeful way.

What I Wanted to Say

Letter to Emile Bernard from Paul Cezanne
via the Coutrauld Art Institute

"So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years—
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deux guerres
Trying to learn to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate—but there is no competition—
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business."
    —"East Coker," by T. S. Eliot, via even*cleveland

Lately I've been feeling that the art of communication is far beyond me, perhaps because for me,  communication really does look like a form of poetry. Maybe I've been thinking too much about Zen masters like Dogen, who could use words to teach such all-encompassing truths with such brevity and clarity. Or, on the less happy side, maybe I've been thinking too much about human failures of communication, in the realm of politics, or in the realm of families. Sometimes simply communicating seems like the most difficult poetry of all, and yet, all we can do is try.

Sacred Space: Imam Mosque in Isfahan

by Fulvlo Spada

The Imam Mosque, or Mudrasa Imami, of Isfahan is a gorgeous unification of art and religious aspiration. On the outside, painted blue tiles make the imposing building feel light as spirit. On the inside, the arched ceilings look like heaven itself. 

The mosque at Isfahan is particularly famous for its mihrab, a prayer niche that is oriented towards Mecca. Isn't it a beautiful way to orient oneself to what is holy?

Update, 22 September 2012: I planned this post quite a while ago, before the latest outbreak of protests and violence. It really breaks my heart to see people so filled with rage, and to see so much misunderstanding in the world. If this post could make a political statement in any way, it would be a call for everyone to see more clearly—to find peace in the world through peace in themselves.