A 'Perfect' Meal

Dew startled my bare calves as I tromped through the abandoned campus garden at 9:00 in the morning, in search of the perennial herbs I had scouted out during my freshman year at college. As I peered through the knee-high grass finally spotting the soft sage leaves, strawberry-red miniscule insects pricked the backs of my knees. Back sweating, I gathered a few stalks and then wheeled around at an abrupt flutter behind me. A duck had flown out of the tall grass, about two feet away from my left ankle. I wasn’t the only one scavenging in the garden.

I had set out to prepare my ideal meal - made up of fresh (the less time between removal from the soil and my use, the better), seasonal (harvested at prime growing time, dependent on setting), local (grown as close to my house as possible), and whole (minimally processed) ingredients. The former K college club DIRT garden was my first of three stops  – none of which were the grocery store. I didn’t want to depend on the corporate, industrialized American food system; creativity and my own time and energy would replace convenience. My meal would be simple, nourishing, and flavorful, starring seasonal vegetables.

It being springtime in Michigan, I would use asparagus for the main dish, rhubarb in the dessert (accompanied by the last jar of my own strawberry jam), and local eggs for the protein, but the rest would depend on what I found at my three destinations: the campus DIRT garden, my bed in the Trybal Revival Community Garden, and the Kalamazoo Bank Street farmer’s market.

“What are you selling today John?” I asked the 50-something farmer with whom I’d struck up a conversation about apples last week, and about the logo on my t-shirt (advertising American Spoon Foods – a preserves company in Northern Michigan) the week before. He was a sweet man with a weathered face, and had the tendency to keep his eyes closed and rock back on his heels while he spoke.

                  “Well, I still have some fennel I’m trying to get rid of. People in Kalamazoo don’t eat fennel…I’m going to stop growing it.”

                  I had struck out at two grocery stores in a search for fennel just last week, and John had had it all along.

                  “I’d love some fennel!”

                  He tried to insist that I just take it, that no one would buy it anyway. “Everyone thinks it’s dill.” I managed to get him to accept one dollar.

“Now what do you do with fennel?” John asked.

                  “I’ll probably chop it up and toss it with some spinach, lettuce, apples, raisins, and some citrus dressing,” I said, the recipe for my salad taking shape. He looked impressed. “Ohh, apples. That’s interesting. I do have a lot of apples from last year…I’ll have to try that!”

                  I walked away from his table, fennel fronds in hand, fulfilled. With each purchase at the farmer’s market I was supporting a specific farmer’s practice. I could find bright red tomatoes grown in California, asparagus from Mattawan doused in chemicals, and wild ramps foraged from the woods in Van Buren county. Purchasing from a farmer’s market doesn’t exempt one from shrewd decision-making more obviously necessary in the produce department at Meijer.  I knew John raised his food responsibly, aligning with the original 60s-era meaning of the word ‘organic’.

                  As did I at the community garden I had worked in over the quarter. I biked a mile or so north-east of the market, my butt burning from the heat absorbed by the black seat, to harvest the spinach, lettuce, and greens I had planted several weeks ago. As I unlatched the gate and entered the garden, the afternoon heat dissipated. The garden felt damp and rich, cool and fresh – the green absorbing the sunlight and turning it into energy. It was a refuge in the grid of baking pavement I had biked through to get there.

 My perfect meal would be eaten in a refuge like this, a green-space if not a garden. I settled for the park kitty-corner from my house. It would be casual - I wanted to enjoy the food I prepared with people I was close enough with to eat off of their plates. There would be no small talk, and no over-polite comments about the food. I invited three of my closest friends to dine with me outside in a park, barefoot and picnic-style.

I allotted myself two and a half hours to prepare drinks, dinner, and dessert. Quiche, having the longest cook-time, was first. A quick sauté of the garlic, greens, and asparagus in a cast-iron skillet, chopped canned tomatoes on top, and whisked eggs, chives, sage, salt, pepper, and a splash of cream poured over it all and the skillet was in the oven.

Thinking the vegetable-heavy, crustless quiche might not be filling enough on its own, I threw some red lentils and vegetable stock in a pot on the stove. Eyeing the half-full jar of tomatoes, I added a few to the pot.

Sugar dissolved in water and a heavy splash of Moscato on the stove as I stripped and chopped the rhubarb. When the syrup began bubbling uniformly I put the rhubarb in the pot to soften for 5 minutes. Once slightly broken down, I added half the jar of my homemade jam, but not before sticking in a finger to taste it. I was brought back to the ruby berry mash bubbling in our bright green Le Creuset on the stove of my kitchen in Petoskey. Jars and lids sterilized in our biggest pot, and mountains of discarded strawberry stems took over the counter. I use scant sugar and lemon juice rather than pectin so almost a year later the ruby appeared to have rusted, but the taste had been preserved incredibly.

Each laden with assorted pots, pans, and sloshing beverages, my friends and I  trudged across the street to the neighborhood park. I spotted the perfect place for our picnic: a flat patch of clover and grass, dappled with late-evening sunlight. We laid out an old patterned bed-sheet and settled in with our drinks. The heaping bowl of spinach, the pot of red lentils, the bright orange cast-iron skillet of quiche made the perfect centerpiece.

“I’m glad the quiche is packed with asparagus. Like, there’s not just a little bit,” Sophie noted. I was glad to hear my unconventional veggie-to-egg proportion was appreciated, though I failed to compensate for the vegetable overload and the quiche retained a bit too much moisture. Regardless, everyone helped themselves to a second piece.

The lentils and tomatoes had broken down into a thick stew and the celery leaves’ freshness complemented the salt from the stock. Its richness was a perfect accompaniment to the airy egg dish and I made sure to have a bit of each on my fork. The salad was nicely dressed, with the bright, sweet flavors of fennel, raisins, and apple set off by the tang of the citrus. And boy did those spinach leaves taste fresh.

My friends were happily exhausted. We had all had jam-packed Saturdays and I looked around at sunburned faces and tired eyes. Sitting in the park, lazily enjoying a special meal was the perfect way to wind down. Dessert was the only reason we tore ourselves off of the sheet and packed up the picnic.

In my perfect meal there must be coffee with dessert. Sweets just aren’t as satisfying without the hot, bitter, brew to enliven the taste buds made sluggish by sugar. As the coffee brewed, I assembled the intentionally disassembled dessert: two scoops of vanilla ice cream (Breyers ‘all natural’ – a childhood favorite), a generous spoonful of warm compote, a handful of crumbled topping, and a sprig of mint for color.    

The warmth of the strawberry-rhubarb compote softened the ice cream just slightly and the topping – pressed in the bottom of a pie tin and baked for 15 minutes - stayed crunchy. Chopped almonds provided a bit of salt to cut the sweet. It was warm and cold, creamy and crunchy, tart and sweet…nearing perfection.

“WOW. This is so fancy!” “Classy, Kat-Rap.” “Did you just say infused?”

My friends were impressed. But I wanted them to know that I didn’t go out and buy a reusable tote full of shmancy ingredients from the co-op. The majority of my meal was free - the foraged herbs, harvested spinach, lettuce and kale only cost my time. My total at the farmer’s market - for eggs, rhubarb, and fennel - was seven dollars and the rest of the ingredients were scavenged from my refrigerator and pantry (and by ‘pantry’ I mean the closet that our cleaning supplies and rain jackets also occupy).

It wasn’t ‘fancy’ food; it was a simple and spontaneous meal inspired by what I had access to. In avoiding the convenient corporate food culture, my frugal, improvisational meal took on a personality; it was a unique creation, a sum of the human energy, belonging to a particular moment in time and space.