Kitchen Stories by Alissa

it is early May when

a small herd of five Jersey cows

walk from the barn and out towards their first taste of spring grass

as i walk nearby in the forest towards

wild ramps, found in secret clusters in quiet places,

their bright verdant tips the first green to be spotted under

nearly bare trees.

the lifespan of a wild ramp accompanies

the arrival and departure of 

daffodils, tulips, and the trilliums that speckle the forest floor

as fiddleheads rise up, swirled, and unfurl

towards the wild apple blossoms that open 

to attract the bumbling bee.

meanwhile, at the right moment

the cows turn towards the barn for their milking

as i return to my kitchen 

to rinse ramps under cool water,

and reach for the cheesecloth

drying by the open window.

~ Alissa

We stood at the stove together, my guest and I, peering into a pot of bubbling soup.

Vegetables rinsed, chopped and layered in together, the conversation flowed easily, anchored down in moments of pausing, sensing the ingredients and their evolution before us.

A quiet settled in.

In her own time, it came from her, a soft whisper into the pot of simmering shades of green, “Vitality. I miss you.”

Past us, out the kitchen window, there was a late snow landing on daffodils, as winter slowly let go into spring.

There was something about the quiet, the rhythm of the kitchen that led us there, the view shifting outside the window, that made room for such a heartfelt prayer; an essential ingredient to life, dormant and renewing.

~ Alissa

Coming Soon!

A day stained pretty 

with the pinks and reds 

of another strawberry season.

Heart full, walking tired, turning, climbing up 

to the Metheral’s pond.

There, 

standing, soaking in green hills and pasture,

hands still sticky with fruit and lavender sugar.

Looking down into cool waters

I dive into

ripples of a late June sun, yellow and heavy, 

sinking into the horizon.

~ Alissa

with feet barely on the ground

me and the dairy farmer and his family

stand on tiptoes to reach for cherries 

hanging from bowed branches 

above us.

sweet, so sweet

the juices running deep dark red

and i wonder about bright spicy basil

and cool fresh mint

for balance, or just for kicks.

this

turns my feet

towards my garden 

for fingers to pluck the herbs

i carry through my kitchen door

wash and set beside the basket of cherries.

hands

pit

chop 

measure

mix 

stir

cook

pour

the herbaceous rich summer red into 

12 mason jars, ready.

i take it all in:

a pantry shelf neatly lined

a new recipe bursting with fresh potential

my joy captured from under that cherry tree.

~ Alissa

It’s late winter, tree branches bare outside Pete’s window as we stand inside by the stove and in the quiet of his kitchen. 72 and a retired working man, I’m there to help him roast his first chicken. 

Rosemary, thyme, garlic, lemon, the mingled scents coming from the cutting board are already divine, and we’ve barely begun. Bird buttered, seasoned, then stuffed with care, we say our farewells and pop it into the hot heat of change, simple ingredients transforming in the oven into a memorable Tuesday night dinner. 

We set a timer, pause, we take a break. 

Back turned, and looking out at red cardinals resting nearby on cedars, I feel a burst of cold air on my neck behind, and turn and there is Pete by the freezer, holding a reused frozen soup container, lid off and staring within. 

Do you think I can eat this, he asks? 

I walk over curious to see, and looking back at us is a rich, red, roasted tomato sauce, homemade and preserved well over a year, and I sense in his reluctance a story unfolding and just like that, he invites me in. 

She made it, he says, just over a year ago. She, the light of this kitchen and warmth of heart in food and home and spirit, passed around then. I look up and see into the freezer still open, cold on us, and the shelf that is now left bare.

Hmmm. I’ve often found it hard to let go, too. 

The timer goes, sauce set down nearby for later, freezer door closes gently on its own, and we turn to the oven and to dinner, now golden and now ready, scents on steam and warmth returning, slowly, here.

It's the end of a long, draining day, the darkness of November 2020 has set in. My body stiff with stress, now flat out, depleted and deflating onto the couch, attention straining towards glimmers of rest and renewal. 

I drift into a travel show and into my imagination I go, and there I am, with the tv host, the tastes of Italy a kitchen door, welcoming me in. 

As the hands of the Italian cheesemaker reach into a bowl of hot, steaming whey, and lift a cheese curd tenderly, my tense, tired body, softens with the delicate stretch and fold of hot milky curds, and a warm radiant current sparks suddenly within, cascading me electric from head to toe. 

I sit up, jolted. Energized. Enlivened. 

Curiousity coursing through my veins. Not just to reach into a hot bowl of steaming whey, to feel the stretch in my own two hands, but more the question of, what the heck just happened in my body? 

Joy jolts. Take heed, pay attention, tune into what lights you up. 

Because these moments, touched to our core with inspiration, fuel our days with the energy of life itself, infusing even a simple moment of milk warming and transforming, and blessing it with the sacredness of feeling alive.

Let me tell you about another kick-ass kind of women I’ve been lucky to meet, whose voice I hear first across the telephone line, frail, 90 years old, and quiet. She invites me into her home for tea and here we are seated at her kitchen table and she looks into my eyes and tells me how hungry she is.  

I look around the apartment and see empty cupboards. Empty fridge. Empty chairs at her kitchen table and I think to myself, yes, yes, she is very hungry. And I am taken by a feeling of sadness as I watch her speak her story, energy and body pulled by the inevitable trajectory of end of life, expedited by a deep, all-pervasive, persistent hunger. She can not cook like she used to. She can not get to the grocery store like she used to. And she is tired, of course by the weight of time and unavoidable pain of being alone and being malnourished. She looks into my eyes and tells me this and she is courageous to me. And I love her.

Because she reached her hand to her telephone and picked it up and dialled it and in all vulnerability and desperation she tells me in truth and without hiding, that she needs. That she is with out and she is suffering because of it. Not just an eureka moment had listening to the latest podcast driving in a car to work one day, belly full, and whoa, scarcity is just a mindset? No. No. This is scarcity in lived reality, and she, sitting here in front of me at her kitchen table laid bare, is so very hungry.

I tell you this because it needs to be said. How I admittedly in even the most difficult of personal times feel like I have nothing when in truth I have so much and how I forget about those who really don’t and who need our food, our presence and our kindness. And I am jolted for a moment out of my own reverie, when my phone rang and I answered the call and I am in front of her now, seated and bowing, touched and lit by her courage.