Exactly one month ago, I took a walk on a snowy day to pick sage. I was making butternut squash soup for a client and toasting a garnish of tiny cubes of gingerbread brioche in brown butter. I knew the soup would need an herbal note to break the monotony of sweet and spice. I thought of sage; the only thing harvestable in my dormant winter garden.
Leaving the comfort of my warm kitchen on that cold day, even for a short jaunt, required effort. My psyche needed psyching and my body needed insulating. Motivated by the promise of soup, I went about the ritual of piling on the layers; the whole time longing for those other months and the seamless transition from indoors to outdoors. At times like that, I question the wisdom of living in a climate that robs me of that freedom, but Home is more complicated than weather and geography.
And so, on that snowy cold day in January, I set out to the garden, psyched and insulated. My intention was to make a quick exit and a quicker return, but I am easily distracted.
Snow has a way of slowing down time. Everything is muted and blurred, like going under anesthesia. Even the pain of cold eventually subsides. The act of walking on ten inches of ice-crusted snow feels awkward and surreal; every step calculated. That was the first distraction.
The next was the compost heap, which I neglect as soon as the weather turns cold, letting time and microorganisms do their job. Making compost is a lot like making lasagna--it involves the layering of carbon (dried material) with nitrogen (fresh material), controlling moisture, then letting it cook. And cooking it was; while everything else around it was white and frozen, the heap remained dark and soft. Even in the nose-numbing cold, I could smell warm humus--dark, rich, bittersweet, and mysterious--like the heart of the earth. It stood in stark contrast to the astringent and metallic scent of snow.
Satisfied that the compost was happy, I turned to the stand of behemoth pines that live behind a pair of sheds on my property. Those trees have been the bane of my gardening existence, their imposing height and girth forces the better part of my garden to grow in their shadow. I've considered cutting them all down, but I knew that I would regret the loss of their scented boughs and the void of green in the dead of winter. Having just removed my Christmas tree, I was missing its scent, so I broke off a few boughs to bring indoors.
I located the sage by their flagging tips that stuck out of the snow. I love the word "sage" and its connotations to age and wisdom. It perfectly fits this plant that is at least twenty years old and has been transplanted numerous times, yet it always adapts and still thrives. I used the broken ends of the pine to break through the ice that surrounded the sage, picked what I needed and headed back to the house.
At this point, you may be wondering why I am telling you about these ordinary events. If anything, they are a map that led me to what happened next:
I raised my hand to my nose to smell the sage, but I could only smell the oil and resin of pine on my gloves.
That's it, that's the climax... I expected to smell an herb, but instead I smelled pine and that simple act set off a synaptic storm that connected the two and made them interchangeable.
I've played with the flavor of pine and other conifers before, but with some trepidation. Until that moment, I thought of it as a distinct flavor in its own category; neither herb nor vegetable. In the context of an herb, it became approachable-- friendly even. This revelation set off a month-long exploration that produced a dozen posts about conifers and extended to other aromatic trees. It took me on a journey through time into the history of
salt, cod,
beans, and
spirits. It allowed me to revisit
flavors from my childhood in a new light. It prompted me to delve deeper into the fascinating and complex world of aroma compounds. It introduced me to a
delicious new product. It helped me to face the
dire situation of seafood and use my power as a consumer and chef to implement change. It was a true
inspiration.
Recently, I've received a number of emails asking about inspiration and how to acquire it, to which I rarely know how to respond. I apologize if my replies are inadequate. I am no authority on this, but I will say that inspiration is not exclusive and does not belong to the realm of the creative elite. Like grains of pollen that float through the atmosphere unnoticed, unless you are sensitive to them, they will not effect you. Sensitizing ourselves is simply being open to the myriad ideas, thoughts, and experiences that we encounter at any given moment and making a connection and expansion to what we already know about ourselves, our interests, and our perceived world.
I want to leave this exploration of conifers with a dish that is inspired by that significant walk to my garden on that snowy day. I hope that it reflects my connection to the earth and all of the wonderful food and inspiration that it provides-- even while dormant in the dead of winter.
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