I write most often of the cycle of the Sun as it moves through my life: the rising and falling of the year that lifts us from winter to the long hot days of summer, and then lets us sink through the harvest and back in the cool and dark. It has become the dominant cycle of my practice, and perhaps it means that I am no longer really young, that I can find so much adventure in the slow dance from pruning to blossom to fruit.
In terms of vegetable love, this last year has been a good one. (Though it might have been better for some venison on my table and a few less deer in the garden.) The harvest went long and late, and so far the frost has been light and many of the herbs have endured. The leeks are up, and the over-wintering kale is already beginning to leaf out. I fear for the crocuses that have ventured up so early, but the peach trees, too, are convinced of an early spring, and I can only wish them the best.
For me, this time of year, after the Winter Solstice and before even the optimist's start of spring, is a time to pause. The year has passed another turning point, but before we head outside in earnest, it is still cold and dark, still time to spend contemplating the small spaces indoors, attending to projects that had been set aside.
There are other cycles that govern my life aside from the solar. Some of them already receive about as much attention as I want to accord them -- mortgage to mortgage, paycheck to paycheck, one tax year to another.... Some are cycles I go out of my way to call attention to, as their influences are easier to pass by. The lunar cycle is one of these -- the waxing tide of increase and plenty, the Full Moon that we celebrate with feast and company. The New Moon, too, which is particularly close to my heart at this dark time of year, the New Moon that I try to meet with fasting and solitude.
I am not one to pursue deprivation for deprivation's sake, but to me the Full and New Moons are necessary counterweights. They are as complementary to each other -- as much completing each other -- as inhaling and exhaling. As the Moon waxes, we move to build and create and shape the world around us. Like an exhalation, we project ourselves outward. And as the Moon wanes, on the return stroke, we go still, inhale and let the world fill us and change us.
There is a tendency for most people to enshrine one principle over the other. Even beyond that, more is said, I think, about the rising tide than the falling. In part this is a cultural bias, a reaction against mainstream religions that make more room for asceticism than celebration in spiritual practice. But also it is because that which is active and creative lends itself more easily to description, while the receptive and the internal are more elusive, perhaps secretive and certainly quiet.
For many of us, these quiet practices are more frightening than their active counterparts. To lead a ritual for a group, to work a complex spell, to sing in public, these can be challenging, and yet they are kinds of challenges that can be met in fairly straightforward ways by determination, practice and intellect. The quiet of our own minds is less amenable to compromise. When we sit alone with ourselves, we cannot find reflected glory in other people's faces. We can rest neither on our accomplishments nor our reputations but must find rest in ourselves.
I wonder sometimes if this fear is why meditation seems to be more often spoken of than practiced. (Is meditation so seldom practiced? Perhaps I'm falling into my own trap here and mistaking quiet and reticence for lack of practice.) Meditation offers scant external reassurance. It requires patience and something like faith.
My New Moon practices are not set in stone. In a different world, perhaps I would spend the day in fasting and contemplation, but in this one, things vary month by month around my schedule, the needs of my body (which does not do well by complete fasts) and my memory, which is also far from perfect. I'll tend to wear plain dark clothes on these days as a reminder to myself. I try to find time to be quiet, eating lunch alone or taking solitary walks. I usually avoid eating meat, rich food or food out of season. I try to clear a space in my day to sit.
I think of this time in the dark phase not as a time of famine, but as a time of rest, a time to appreciate things in their simplest form, individually, without distractions. In the kitchen -- so much of the heart of my practice is in the kitchen -- I try to make plain foods, humble foods with few ingredients. Simple soup with bread to polish the bowl. Vegetables steamed and sprinkled with a little lemon or wine vinegar.
This is a good time of year to remember the quiet and the dark, the early morning of the year, before dawn. In other parts of the country this is a frozen time, covered in white, and we live out of winter's stores. But here, even in the dark months it is green, and gardens can be full of kale and cabbage, the ruffly leaves of mustard and within the ground carrots, parsnips and leeks.
Carrots
Carrots almost always play a supporting rather than central role, often used as much for color as flavor. This recipe puts them in the fore. If you don't think you care much for carrots, give them another chance. Carrots are often boiled or steamed, and either process leaches their sugars and much of their flavor. Here, the carrots are cooked in a small amount of water, which as it evaporates glazes them in their own sugars. They are startlingly sweet. Choose a bunch of full-grown carrots with their greens attached, and look for greens that are fresh and perky instead of wilted.
1 bunch carrots
Water
2 teaspoons butter (optional)
Salt (optional)
Scrub carrots and remove greens. (Carrot greens make a nice flavoring for soups.) Cut carrots into sticks, about four inches long, and quartered or halved depending on the size. Place them in a large saucepan with just enough water to cover the bottom of the pan -- only a few tablespoons -- and cook, covered, over medium heat until the carrots are just tender (five to ten minutes). Remove lid, and cook a minute or two more, stirring gently until the water has cooked away. If you wish, melt a pat of butter in with the carrots at the last moment, or sprinkle them with salt.
Fried Cabbage
Cabbage is another oft-maligned vegetable that deserves a second look. This recipe is simple, and generally will give the cabbage with good texture and a sweet flavor. It can also be used for other mild greens such as kale or chard.
1 head cabbage
Oil
Salt, pepper
Core the cabbage. (Cut it in half and cut out the tough stem that protrudes into the head.) Chop the cabbage coarsely. Place chopped cabbage in a large skillet with a couple tablespoons of cooking oil, and sauté over medium heat until the cabbage begins to wilt. (It's important that the heat not be high, and that you take the time to do this slowly. That way, the cabbage will not be burnt, and its excess juices will have time to evaporate so that it will not be soggy.) Salt and pepper to taste.
Saag
This is a simple version of the Indian dish of cooked, buttered greens. This preparation works better than the cabbage recipe above for bitter-flavored greens, such as mustard or collards, but it is also a fine way to prepare spinach, especially mature, tough winter spinach. (Tender baby spinach would be wasted on this recipe. Save it for a salad.)
2-4 tablespoons butter
1 teaspoon each minced garlic and ginger
4-8 cups cleaned, chopped greens
1/2 cup water
Salt to taste
Cooked rice
Melt butter in a large saucepan. Add the garlic and ginger, and then the greens, a little at a time, and sauté over medium heat until they go limp. Add half a cup of water, cover and simmer over low heat for 10 minutes (if using tender greens like spinach) to half an hour (if using tough greens such as collards). Salt to taste, and serve over rice.
This dish can be enhanced by the addition of a little cumin or coriander. Or, for a southern variation, omit the butter and spices here mentioned and cook collards in bacon grease with the bacon. Tough bitter greens are well suited to a long slow cooking with a bit of fat.