Simple things aren't simple when you live outdoors.
The brother who drove me out on the last day of ango also brought my camera so I could take some photos of the place where I'd just spent 100 days alone. By then it was late summer, so the rainfly was furled, revealing the door and mosquito netting of the walls behind it. Equally telling is the fact that the entire world is no longer dark and sodden, as it was when I wrote the following entry.)
BEDTIME ORYOKI:
1. Unzip the tent fly, then the tent door, just at the bottom, so as not to let bugs in, and slide the rolled blue foam mat, orange Thermarest, and journal case through the slit.
2. Zip back up, return to Tyvek [meditation shelter] and [secure it] for the night. (Mostly hanging stuff up and blowing out the candle after thanking it.)
3. Pee.
4. Lay [walking] stick outside tent door. Unzip the tent and sit in it with feet still outside on the ground. Take off the road [right] sandal, then the heart [left] sandal, and leave them outside, on the heart side, under the fly.
5. Brush off feet with gloved hands if wet, or by rubbing them together if not, and lift them into the tent.
6. Switch on the tent light and place it in the attic [small net hammock overhead]. Turn off the flashlight and store it there as well.
7. Pull the stick inside, clean off the [dirty] end, and lay it along the door sill. Zip up the door.
8. Take off specs and put them in the attic.
9. Untie the blue mat and unroll it along the door side, beside the stick. Store the tying string in the attic.
10. Reinflate the Thermarest and lay it on top of the blue mat, at [the] head end.
11. Spread the [sleeping] bag out on the mats, zipper to the heart (inboard) side. Spread the [cotton sleeping bag] liner on top of the bag.
12. Take off the [monk] robe and lay it next to the bedroll on the floor, interior down, knife [worn on the robe's belt] to heart side, mala [also on the belt] road side, collar headward.
13. Remove needed articles (hand sanitiser, toilet paper, gloves) from cargo pockets of trousers and lay them on the floor against the standing [back] wall, chest-high [when lying down].
14. Take off trousers, roll them up, and place them on the rain poncho against the standing wall, at about knee height [when lying down].
15. Roll up [a] pillow from un-needed clothes and other fabric items. Place at head-level, on heart side.
16. Remove underwear and place on trousers.
17. Snake into liner [first], and then into the bag.
18. Spread the robe over the sleeping bag as a blanket, interior down, collar at chin level.
19. Tuck robe's roadside hem corner, belt end, and sleeve under the blue mat (not the orange one), to keep it anchored during the night.
20. Mount night guard [a plastic device I wear at night to protect my teeth].
21. Turn off the light, lie back, find and place pillow.
And pleasant dreams.
This process is very time-consuming. But there's no other way to do it so you meet all your needs: warm, dry, as comfortable as possible, properly positioned on the ground, able to find stuff you might need during the night, especially emergency stuff such as you might need during an attack of Giardia or something threatening outside the tent, like a bear.
(Feral apples are almost always the best-tasting, and you can't beat the price. With all the former farmland around here, the scrumping this time of year is great.)
Appearing also on My Corner of the World.
(Malus fusca. Native to the North Coast, in my home county it's a common understory tree, flourishing on the margins and in clearings of mature forests.
Though M. fusca's apples are only bean-sized, given the number available, they're a staple of local indigenous cuisines. Like all crabapples they're barely palatable raw, but a brilliant upgrade to other fruits, contributing depth, tartness, pectin, and rosy perfume to evergreen huckleberries, apple pie and cider, rose hips, blackberries and a great many others.
The wood is dense and hard, verging on flinty, and so good for such things as tool handles, stakes, digging sticks, and hard-duty walking sticks.)
Appearing also on My Corner of the World.
'Way back in the first weeks of this blog I posted on the sourdough bread that's been part of my monastic practice since before I became a monk. But seeing as the recipe has continued to develop over the intervening years, and is arguably improved, I reckon I should revisit the subject now.
The big news is that some years ago I stopped using baking soda to raise the sourdough, though that's the traditional Old Settler drill. Soda is good for baking on the fly, because it reacts to the heat of the oven instead of requiring a lengthy stretch of steady, controlled warmth beforehand to raise the dough.
But eventually I succumbed to the richer scent and flavour, and the light, airy crumb, you get from wild yeast.
And it's still a simple and straightforward process, calling for just 20 minutes of hands-on labour, followed by a single rise. So now I do it like this:
YEAST-RAISED SOURDOUGH HERMIT BREAD
1 1/2 cups sourdough starter
About 2 cups all-purpose flour (added by handfuls to optimum texture)
1 tablespoon oil for brushing
shortening or butter for lubrication
Liberally grease a 10-inch cast iron skillet. You can also use a cake pan or cookie sheet, but cast iron gives the best results.
In a large bowl, blend the flour into the starter with a butter knife. When too stiff to stir, continue cutting in flour with the blade until the dough balls easily and is dry enough to work with the hands.
Knead the dough while continuing to add flour as necessary to prevent it sticking to your fingers. (See notes below.) When the dough is smooth, elastic, and dry enough to work lightly without gumming up your hands, roll it into a ball and position it in the centre of the greased skillet.
Pat the ball down to six to eight inches in diameter. Brush the top with oil and perforate the pat in rows with a wooden spoon handle or similar until it's holed all over.
Mark the dimpled pat into 8 wedges with a cleaver, chef's knife, or pastry scraper. Clean up and reseal the edges, cover the skillet, and place the dough in a warm location to work for about 4 hours. (See notes below.)
When the dough has risen sufficiently, preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Uncover the pan and bake the bread on the middle rack for 20 minutes.
When lightly browned, unpan the loaf and place it on a rack to cool for a few minutes. Eat as-is or with any of the usual amendments. (Butter, jam, cheese, herbed oil, sugared berries, etc.)
Keep the fully-cooled pat fresh in an airtight plastic bag. Cold pieces can be microwaved for 30 seconds for a credible impression of just-baked bread.
Notes:
• For a richer bread, make your starter out of bread flour, then knead all-purpose into it as usual.
• I never knead this on a board, as is normal with bread. Instead I tip the bowl up on its bottom edge and knead the dough against the side while turning the bowl with the other hand, like a steering wheel. When the dough is sufficiently dry I hold it up and knead it between my hands. I suspect this technique is rooted in the recipe's origins as sojourner food; there's no other place to knead bread on the trail.
• If you lack grease for lubrication, oil and flour will work as well, but don't skip the flour dusting; the oil alone won't cut it.
• The dough must be tightly covered during the rise, or its surface will dry out and prevent the pat from expanding. I put a tight-fitting lid on the skillet. When baking on a sheet, I invert the now-empty mixing bowl over the pat. Make sure to grease an inch or so of the bowl's upper edge, or any dough that touches will stick tight.
• For the rise, place the dough somewhere that delivers gentle heat at 80 to 95 degrees. Good prospects include a water heater closet, a purpose-built proofing box, strategic positioning beside a woodstove, or, on a summer day, in reliable shade outdoors. I've also had success in an oven with the light on – usually with the door cracked a certain distance; the light alone can heat the interior to surprising levels – and a sun-heated car, but monitor the temperature carefully and consistently with both. I've also preheated an oven at its lowest setting, turned it off, and placed the pan on the middle rack, returning once or twice to take the dough out and heat the oven again. And I've put a size-appropriate incandescent light in a closet, tote, disused refrigerator, or large ice chest. Again, be very wary – those bulbs throw a lot more heat than you think – and mind the serious fire danger when placing a heat source in a tight space.
• Finally, remember that sourdough will also rise at room temperature if necessary, though it takes longer and results in a sourer, less consistent product.
The history of this bread, as well as traditional ovenless baking methods, is found at the bottom of my original post.
And a last important point: the original soda-raised recipe is still perfectly enjoyable if you've got no way to incubate the yeast; would rather not wait that long; or aren't over-fond of the taste of sourdough, which soda mitigates. It's also good for an upset stomach, among other things.
And I still mix it up for pizza dough.
At some point I'll post a few whole-grain elaborations I've developed over the years. In the meantime, enjoy this simple, thrifty down-home staple, that never fails to bolster my sense of comfort and well-being.
(Still Pleurotus ostreatus. I've posted on these before, but it never ceases to amaze me how attached this species is to the saltchuck. Rare just a few hundred yards inland, if you can smell the bay, this choice edible isn't just common, it's riotous. Something in the chemical signature of sea air.
The above photo documents just a few feet of downed big leaf trunk that's covered with them. And it's not the only host in this patch of woods, either; if I'd been of a mind, or just greedier, I could have had gallons.
But I only took about five stems, and am busy deciding what to do with them. [Among other things, oyster mushrooms are great breaded and fried, and make a worthy substitute for seafood or chicken in veganised dishes.]
A spring blessing that never gets old.)
Appearing also on My Corner of the World.
(Polypodium glycyrrhiza. Common fern of the North Pacific Coast, usually spotted as an epiphyte of broadleaf trees. When growing on a rock face, as here, you're looking at a site that gets above average rainfall. The common name reflects the use of its rhizomes as a "chaw" and tea mixing ingredient.)
Appearing also on My Corner of the World.
(Pieris japonica, known here as popcorn bush, is a popular landscaping shrub on the North Pacific Coast. Native to the same latitudes on the far side of the ocean, where climate and soil types are about identical, I'm told it fills whole ravines in Japanese forests. This must be brilliant to see, given its heady fragrance and dense sprays of sparkler-bright blossoms.
The early-spring show, and the fact that we had one at every house I can remember – always right by the front door – made this a favourite flower from early childhood. It's also a good carving and turning wood, fairly soft and light but fine-grained, taking an oil finish well; properties apparently unknown outside of Asia, given the absence of mention online, at least in any of my languages.)
Appearing also on My Corner of the World.
(Here are a few of the largest rings I've collected for making fudos. [Among those not yet deployed, of course.] Most of the malleable washers came off the beach, wrenched from the wreckage of docks and shoreworks cast up by storms over the years. Their condition betrays particular power. Note as well a rare wooden ring.)
Appearing also on My Corner of the World.
(Found these while biking, growing by the side of the road. Interesting thing about the way Pleurotus ostreatus behaves in these parts: it only seems to grow within about a quarter-mile of the shore. I've found them many times, but always where you can at least smell, and often see, the bay.)
Appearing also on My Corner of the World.
(Квас из овса. Made from toasted rolled oats. Very good; light and dry when well-chilled, with a honey-like perfume. Will be most welcome this summer.)
When I first became a hermit monk I had no zafu, so I sat on a sofa cushion. That got me off the ground – no pun intended – but was bulky, interfered with my thighs, and couldn't be transported on road trips. So a few months in, having researched zafu alternatives on the Enlightenment Super-Path, I upgraded to this. Since it took some time to perfect, I thought it might help others to share my experience here.
The suggestion I found online was "use rolled-up towels". This proved underwhelming for a few reasons, worst of which is that bath towels unroll readily beneath a sitter.
So I rolled the three thick terrycloth bath towels again, as tight as I could – painfully so – and bound them with jute twine. That prevented them migrating in the cardinal directions. It did not, however, stop them from telescoping out of integrity and firmness.
So I cut them loose 
again, fluffed them up, and started over. This time, after layering them on the floor, I cut two lengths of jute about a foot longer than the towels were wide and laid them width-wise across the stack, about four inches from the end. Then I cut four new jute bindings and tore up my knuckles hard-rolling them again.
After retying as before, I knotted each lengthwise string on opposite sides of the roll. (Be sure to weave them over and under the four shorter bindings before tying, to dissuade all from wandering. Also, I suspect four long strings would do even better.)
This was major improvement. But the roll still mushed down quickly, no matter how hard I rolled and tied it, and contact with the floor and my backside caused the bindings to wander and fray, and even untied the knots.
So… again with the unrolling, fluffing, knuckle-grinding, and tying. But this time I also made a drawstring cover to protect the bindings. (The 
velours I used has velvety knap that grips mat and meditation trousers and reduces travel while sitting.) For maximum structural support, I cut it so tight I could barely get it on. And because the fabric was under constant stress, both from me and the resentful towels inside, I double-sewed all seams and took other sailmaker measures to toughen them up.
After a lot of jerking, shoving, and swearing, I managed to force this cover on. (Pro tips: push the terrycloth down with two fingers and pull the cover up over them a half-inch with the other hand. Then turn the roll three inches and repeat, continuing patiently till you've got the cover on. A quicker trick is to tape collars cut from round plastic bottles around the roll and remove them as you progress.)
The result served me daily for a year, until I received the buckwheat zafu I now use, a birthday gift from my mom. (And during my 100 days I sat on a roll of closed-cell foam, which worked out somewhat better than the towel roll.) 
But I still keep the old bolster around, just in case; for example when passing my zafu and/or seiza bench to people who've asked me to teach them how to meditate. It's also a memento of the determination I brought to this pursuit, and the wonderful sense of growth and success in that early practice.
To be sure, even a well-built towel zafu isn't the equivalent of a real one; it's heavy and hard, and needs regular rebuilding – say, every two months or so – to restore loft and elasticity and repair bindings that come adrift. Also at those times, launder or rotate out the towels, which tend to compress and become stiff and thin with service. If at all possible, machine-dry before rebinding, because hang-dried towels don't recover their nap until they dry somebody.
The bursitis I've since developed would axe my old friend for twice-daily, hour-long sits – a problem I also had, though not as severely, with my closed-cell foam on the mountain.
But at the time this old bindle technology was just the ticket. I sat on it daily, travelled with it, and built a solid monastic practice on it. Given that store-bought options are expensive, this can get you into Zen right away, even if you don't have much money.
Deep bow to all who enter the Path, by whatever trailhead.
(Good eating while they last.)
(I've been making kvass [квас]
more or less weekly for the past five months. This photo, from my first batch, is квас из черного хлеба
, or classic rye-bread kvass. I've since made a few fruit kvasses too, but my mainstay is still the basic bread-based brew. Since that fairly blond first effort I've taken to roasting the bread hard, resulting in a dark, bitter, muddy concoction with vaguely coffee flavour. Ironically I don't like coffee, except apparently when it's kvass.)
Appearing also on
My Corner of the World.
So when the local newspaper ran a bit on a classic New Year's meal from the American South, I was all over that. The dish itself – which could be summed up as "rice and beans cranked up to 11" – is deceptively simple, but hearty and sustaining. And, if attentively developed, incredibly delicious.
Like most traditional foods, hoppin' john varies from region to region and even family to family, to the extent that recognising versions separated in space and time may be challenging. Over the years, with the benefit of experience and helpful Southerners, I've made mine memorable and worthwhile. So I'm sharing it here. (Note that vegan hacks are also included in the recipe below.)
Whatever your own recipe becomes, hoppin' john is earthy and flavourful and I look forward to it all year, full as much as the Christmas turkey. (The dark leftovers of which could be fortified with a few drops of liquid smoke and used here in lieu of bacon, now I think of it.) I like to serve it in the pot it was made in, for an extra nod to self-sufficient cheer.
As for the name, nobody seems to know for sure where that came from. But I rate this meal a fine note upon which to hop into the coming year.
Hoppin' John
To serve 4:
For the blackeyed peas:
4 cups soaked blackeyed peas (1 1/3 cup dry; other beans – red, black, white, pinto – can be substituted if necessary)
2 cups chicken stock (or substitute lentil stock)
2 cups tomato or vegetable juice
2 tablespoons chopped Italian parsley stems (reserve the leaves for the main recipe)
1 teaspoon powdered thyme
1 teaspoon powdered sage
1 teaspoon rosemary
1/2 teaspoon cumin
1/4 teaspoon celery seed
1 bay leaf
For the rest:
3 slices jowl bacon (if necessary, substitute Spam, another bacon, ham, or sausage; for vegan, leave out the meat and sprinkle smoked almonds on the finished dish instead)
1/2 medium red onion, chopped
1/2 medium yellow onion, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
one each green, red, and yellow bell pepper, seeded and chopped
minced jalapeño to taste
4 cups cooked brown rice
1 teaspoon powdered thyme
leaves of 6 or 7 large stems Italian parsley (substitute celery leaves if necessary)
salt to taste
Simmer all blackeye ingredients in a covered pot till the beans are soft, about 40 minutes. If they end up soaking in the liquor for a while afterward, so much the better.
In a large skillet or pot, fry the bacon soft. Drain both bacon and pot well. (Too much jowl grease is too much.) Chop the bacon and lay aside for later.
In the residual grease in the bottom of the pan (or olive oil), sauté onions, garlic, and peppers. Add bacon and salt. (I seldom add salt to any dish, but this one tends to want some. Proceed mindfully.)
When the vegetables are bright and glistening, stir in the rice and thyme and toss assertively. You want a certain amount of crushing and bruising here, to integrate flavours and textures.
Add the beans and their liquor. Toss well again to mix completely.
Cover and steam over low heat for 15 minutes, until the rice is hot and liquid absorbed. Add water if necessary.
Remove from heat. Scatter parsley leaves on top, recover, and let rest for a minute or two before serving.
Best of 2023s to everyone, and may we meet again here 12 months hence.
Here are a three easy tricks to spruce up your workaday winter tea for the season:
- Oranges are an ancient part of the holidays, owing to the fact that until recently they were rare and costly in northern countries. To put some of that tradition in your pot, add about half a teaspoon of minced peel to the leaves, either with or without a chunk of cinnamon stick and one or two whole cloves.
- Peppermint candy, whether in cane or other form, is likewise a timeless Christmas treat. Just bust off about an inch of cane – or unwrap an individual candy – and drop in your cup. If serving guests, hang one of those soprano candy canes on the rim of the mug with its tail dissolving in the hot liquid.
- To upgrade a pot of ordinary black tea with heady spices, substitute a storebought herbal chai mix for half the black. (If the teas are bagged, cut the leaves out, steep them as-is, strain out while pouring, and put them back in the pot.) Not perhaps as sublime as the real thing, but a quicker route to a worthwhile end.
My very best wishes to readers and fellow travellers, and may this holiday season bring peace and warmth to all.
(Photo courtesy of Robert Gombos and Wikimedia Commons.)
Last week I was down to the tea bog I've frequented for 50 years, and while there, under dark wet skies, I snapped a few (not very good) photos of its eponymous resident.
Labrador tea (Ledum groenlandicum) is a piece of North Coast heritage tea drinkers should get to know. This knee- to waist-high evergreen, which resembles an azalea that sets sprays of showy white blossoms in summer, monopolises peat bogs across the north of the continent. Its leathery leaves are narrowly elliptical, dark green above and rolled at the edges. Yellow fur on the underside makes this plant a snap to identify, as does the powerful, lemony aroma it exudes when crushed. In fact, your nose is likely to be first to discover Ledum after you unwittingly step on some.
As both the common name and binomial suggest, European sorties to North America encountered L. groenlandicum early on, and while the Woodland nations were already infusing it for medicinal purposes, the newcomers apparently were first to drink it as a beverage. On the North Coast it's particularly associated with the fur trappers and voyageurs of the pre-settlement period, who carried the tea-drinking custom west.
Lab tea is definitely enjoyable for that, though for my money it's even better as an anchor for a mix. I especially appreciate the added tang and colour of rose hips. Grand fir (Abies grandis) needles or sorrel (Oxalis or Rumex ssp.) are also good, as are dried liquorice fern rhizome (Polypodium glycyrrhiza), catnip (Nepenta cataria), mint (Menthe ssp.) ginger, cinnamon, cloves, and orange or lemon peel. A blork of lemon juice is often welcome as well.
My own mix looks something like this:
2 cups Labrador tea leaves, chopped
1/2 cup dried chopped rose hips
1/4 cup dried mint leaves, pulverised
1/2 inch gingerroot, minced
a bit of dried orange or lemon peel
1 cinnamon stick, shredded
1 teaspoon ground cloves
For a single cup, infuse a teaspoon of this mix in boiling water, or a tablespoon for a pot; adjust quantities to taste. Serve steaming hot, with honey and lemon if desired. (I don't add honey to most teas, but appreciate it here.)
Though Lab tea may be gathered year-round, the bright new spring leaves produce the best tea. Look out for poisonous interlopers such as bog rosemary (Andromeda polifolia) and bog laurel (Kalmia polifolia), which grow in the same habitat and vaguely resemble it.
Pick the leaves into a cloth bag and hang indoors for a week or so, tossing from time to time to promote circulation. (Ledum leaves retain their colour, shape, and texture when dry, so may not appear especially "dry" even months later.)
In addition to a warming libation, infusions of Ledum are high in tannin and other antiseptics, and so handy for stanching and disinfecting wounds and sores, particularly of the mouth and throat.
But there's no doubt that a finely-tuned Labrador tea mix is simply a source of great well-being. Sitting by the fire on a blustery November day, sipping this pungent golden brew, it’s easy to see why it symbolised self-sufficiency and contentment to Old Settlers, as indeed it still does in many aboriginal communities.
“I laughed at the Great Depression!” the old Puget Sounders of my youth declared. “Lived like a king on Labrador tea and clams!”
Elderberries (Sambucus ssp.) have the fruity flavour one would expect, but also an astringent edge that makes them better suited to tea than juice. I tend to avoid adding honey to the finished product, but do like to include a pinch a-piece (not more) of ground cloves and cinnamon in the steep, and freshen it up with a drop of lemon juice (again, not more) before drinking.
The result, drunk hot, is the perfect companion for cool days of crisp sun or driving rain, having the exact taste of the first and the antidote to the second. Because they grow in dense clusters, elderberries are quickly gathered and once separated from their stems they freeze very well, simply twisted up in a plastic bag. That way you can continue to enjoy this tea all winter long.
And that's a good thing, because among other notable benefits, elderberries have proven anti-viral properties, having particularly distinguished themselves in scientific trials against the flu. They're also high in Vitamin C, another winter concern, though how much of this survives infusion is a good question.
Finally, varieties with a healthy yeast bloom, such as the one in the photo above, make a good sourdough starter, suitable especially for sweet applications such as coffee cake or pancakes.
So sock a sack of Sambucus into your freezer for the cold months. It brings a bit of August sun to your New Year's Day. (Or a bit of February sun to the Queen's Birthday, for my New Zealand readers.)
