On Feeling Rich

This past weekend I went with a buddy of mine, HJB, to Lopez Island in the San Juans. We hung out with a various farming friends who live on the island, ate delicious food, did very little activities in particular beyond helping to build a fence, and then came home. It was a very simple trip, but it felt incredibly rich.

On the way out, we saw Orca whales off the side of the ferry, spouting in a surprise late afternoon sun. When we got there we were greeted by all kinds of dogs and a windy afternoon of fence building and relaxed conversation. Nothing too deep, mostly laughing at the dogs and discussing the universal sign for shaving goats. The farm we were on has chickens, beautiful Nubian goats, and sheep. There were six little lambs bouncing around, and I could almost appreciate that sheep are cute before they get all grown-up and wall-eyed. The farmhouse is the better part of a century old, with no foundation and therefore a bit of an exciting tilt to everything. It’s cosy inside, though, with an absolutely delicious kitchen containing nice, well-made implements, a gas stove and a large island that serves as a cutting board and a table. “Food tastes better on Lopez,” HJB claims, and I’d believe her. From something as simple as a chips-and-salsa snack to the amazing dinner of Vietnamese spring rolls and rhubarb fool that we enjoyed that night, food is delicious on Lopez. Maybe it’s something about the timelessness of the island, or maybe it’s something about how close to the land all of the farmers are there, how they are tied in to their food, how they so clearly  love everything there. It’s the rhythm of farm chores. It’s the way Kim brought in the drying sheets from outside when it started to rain but kept them up on the clothesline in the living room so she could keep that nice outside smell. It’s the collection of beautiful sea-worn stones Ben keeps on the tank of his toilet in his tiny cottage. In the evening, after dinner, Kim and I were talking about being foodies. “I’m 11th generation Pennsylvania Dutch,” she told me. “I come with a lot of inherited food traditions, but at the same time I make up my own. This island is a food tradition!” I know she was talking about the island in her kitchen, but she may as well have been talking about Lopez Island as a whole. I felt so rich and privileged to be in her kitchen, wearing a thick hat and sweater and eating rhubarb fool.

Richness, we know, has little to do with money. My basic needs are met, so to me richness comes from little sensory details–the curve of a tree trunk or the scent of lilac on my walk, watching things grow in my garden, the experience that is drinking hot tea. It’s good to make money, too, but certainly not all-consuming. Money is good. Money is just not necesarily where the richness is.

For posterity, here’s my from-memory account of spring rolls and fool, in case you want to make something delicious.

Vietnamese Salad Rolls

Outside:

Rice paper wraps, the kind that have the pattern that’s like a manhole cover.

Fillings:

• noodles, rice or bean threads work well
• tofu (or protein source of choice). She had marinated black beans and tofu. I used fried tofu at home and it was tasty.
• shredded carrots + shredded radish + sauce
• some form of greens (mustard greens, spinach, pak choi, whatevs)
• thinly slivered green onions
• I used sprouts at home. They added a nice texture.

Sauces:

1. Sweet Chili Sauce, which I secretly worship in my heart.

2. Vietnamese Magical Sauce, viz: about half a cup of rice wine vinegar, about two or three tablespoons of Fish Sauce, a teaspoon or less of salt, a tablespoon or more of sugar, and anything else wacky you want to put in (mirin? sesame oil? cock sauce?), plus a bunch of wee green onion rounds.

Rhubarb Fool

Combine in a pot and cook until gloopy and jamlike:

• one bunch of rhubarb cut up into small pieces
• sugar, maybe 1/2 cup
• orange zest
• orange juice from the orange what you just zested
• ground spices, e.g. cloves and/or nutmeg

Let this goodness cool, and in the meantime whip some cream. Combine the two to form a funky pink pudding. Cools all the spiciness from certain Vietnamese chili sauces. Deeply satisfying.