Alexandersmap

    Category: seasons

    • Grilled Corn and Breaking Routines

      For all the new experiences I seek in this world, for all the exotic foods I’ll willingly try at restaurants around the globe, I tend to stick with the greatest hits when cooking at home. Call it frugal, or boring, or maybe simply safe, but I mostly cook foods the way I know they’ll be tasty without straying too far into the abyss.

      And so it was that corn on the cob was always shucked and steamed or boiled, and the grill was used for meats and other vegetables. Similar to my previous hesitation with pizza, there was a distinct separation of church and state when it came to taking perfectly good corn and sticking it on a grill. But like that pizza, I eventually recognized that the risk versus reward equation leaned heavily in my favor.

      There are three ways to grill corn, and two of them involve completely shucking the corn husks off. You can oil and season the corn and throw it right on the grill for a nice char and flavor, which is great if you remain at the grill and fully attentive to avoid burning it. Alternatively, you can wrap it in aluminum foil, which steams it while lightly charring it. Both of these methods seemed appropriate for the first attempt at grilling, but I wanted to go all in with the third method: grilling corn with the husk still on.

      Ironically, grilling with the husk on is the most labor-intensive grilling experience. You’ve got to roll back the husks, remove the silk and roll the husk back on, then soak the corn for 30 minutes so it doesn’t just burn away when you grill it. Not nearly as simple as throwing the shucked corn into a pot of steaming water, but what worthwhile endeavors in life are easy?

      I chose to use a charcoal grill with some hickory chips tossed in to maximize the flavor, waited for the grill to cool down to 400 degrees and placed it directly on the grill. Every five minutes I rotated the corn a quarter turn for about 25 minutes, then removed it, cleaned the grill and let it rest while I grilled the meat.

      And the result? Perfectly cooked corn with a mild grilled flavor. Nothing revolutionary here, but a departure from the norm. It was a good reminder to push the comfort zone with my own cooking. Next up? Direct charring on the grill. Can’t let this adventurous momentum stall just yet. After all, summer and fresh corn won’t last forever.

    • Garden Blessings

      Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave
      May I a small house and large garden have;
      And a few friends, and many books, both true,
      Both wise, and both delightful too!
      And since love ne’er will from me flee,
      A Mistress moderately fair,
      And good as guardian angels are,
      Only beloved and loving me.
      — Abraham Cowley, The Wish

      The air is filled with squeaky chirps and the buzzing sound of wings beating the warm morning air, announcing that the bluebirds of June were replaced by the hummingbirds of July. They remind me that the garden, despite early neglect, still dazzles, inspires and informs. The frenetic urgency of the hummingbirds to feed brings life to the midsummer garden, just when it most needs a lift.

      It’s sometimes easy to forget the things we build around us that attract nuance and substance. We build our lives on the four cornerstones of relationships, legacy, learning and action. Each in turn determines who we might become as we build our life atop this foundation. Like the birds flirting briefly with the garden, people come and go from our lives. Jobs and money and fashion come and go. We each note the changes, but how we react is determined by who we’ve grown to be.

      What is a garden but a foundation? We stake our place in this world to cultivate our hopes and dreams as life changes around us like the seasons. Each season brings enchantment, frustration, context and acceptance. We become what we cultivate, influenced by the seasons but not always determined by them. Everything has its time, and the blessings in our lives must be realized in their own season.

    • The Garden Blues of June

      There’s been some unusual activity in the garden lately. A squirrel walked up to me as I sat still sipping coffee, looked me squarely in the eye and didn’t run away until I called his bluff. A pair of bluebirds, normally quite shy, are aggressively guarding the birdhouse they made into a home. They let that squirrel know it was time to move along, while given me a sideways glance to remind me there will be no eggs for breakfast for me today.

      Speaking of blue, it’s almost blueberry season in New Hampshire and that means the return of catbirds, the little devils who gobble up ripening blueberries by the pint, usually just before harvest. In previous years I’d rig netting and chicken wire to hold them at bay, but they always seem to find a way to the fruit. This year no netting and only a half-hearted attempt to chase them away. After traveling for much of June I’m conceding the early harvest to nature. Maybe I’ll have better luck with the tomatoes later in the season. We all choose what we fight for in this world. Isn’t it funny how that changes season-to-season in our lives?

      Earlier this morning I walked around the garden, seeing first-hand all the work I’ll need to do to set things straight. Nearing the fence, I spooked a large doe, who betrayed her position in her panic. I told her as her white tail bounced away that I’d never have seen her if she’d just waited a beat longer. Movement betrays, it’s only in stillness that we become one with the natural world. The doe had no use for my unsolicited advice.

      The garden is neglected and mocks me my late return to tend it: “Too little, too late pal.” Such is the way, for stillness need not apply in the garden. But I’ve come to think of the garden differently this season. Or maybe just my position as head gardener. I’ve taken something of a sabbatical this year with more emphasis on the hardscape and less on the seasonal magic. Looking around, it feels foreign to me, this garden I’ve labored over for years. Thinking about the behavior of that squirrel and the doe, I wonder if they simply aren’t used to having someone linger in the garden anymore?

      Gardens, like our lives, ebb and flow. In June 2022, when things are usually flowing, I feel an ebb. So much feels different this season, but the bluebirds remind me that change is inevitable. We either roll up our sleeves and get back to work or we wallow in the blue. Gardens frown upon the wallowing gardener, for the season—our season—isn’t over just yet. And so it must be that we get back to it once again.

    • On Place and the Tilt of the Earth

      “I am summer, come to lure you away from your computer… come dance on my fresh grass, dig your toes into my beaches.” — Oriana Green

      Maybe it was appropriate that today, June 21, the Summer Solstice, I awoke at 4 AM—just in time to mark the exact minute (4:13 AM CST) of the tip of the planet back towards shorter days. But let’s worry about that tomorrow, for today is the longest day of the year in the northern hemisphere. After bouncing from Vienna to Boston to Nashville, my body isn’t quite sure which time zone it currently resides in. Yet the mind is fully rested and ready to hit the day.

      By the time of the solstice it usually feels like summer has been with us awhile. This year feels different, like I’m running away from the season. Travel will do that. I spent a day at home assessing the neglected garden before flying off once again. Is that a tragedy or simply a new way of experiencing the season? The weeds seem to enjoy my absence, while the cats seem surprisingly annoyed when I packed a suitcase as soon as the laundry was done from the previous trip. Sorry felines, the world calls.

      Do you wonder why we heed the call at all? Isn’t summer a chance to slow down and relax for awhile? Tell that to a farmer. Europeans know how to take a proper holiday, Americans jump right into the next thing. Which is right? It depends on what you want your life to be.

      Ultimately summers, like life, are made by what we do with the time. Whether our longest day or our shortest matters little if we don’t make something of the moment. Experience begins with presence, the rest is just finding a place to land and the tilt of the earth.

    • Get Outside

      If you can’t decide what you want to do
      If you can’t stand what people say to you
      If you can’t see when your eyes are open wide
      If you ask yourself what your doing and there’s no reply
      Get outside
      — Robert Palmer, Get Outside

      Sometimes you reach the end of the day and you don’t know what you’ve done with it. You check the boxes, have the conversations, do the work… and everything seems off anyway. These are days to get outside and feel the world.

      Yesterday, after entirely too much madness in my life, I walked outside to seek answers in the blooming lilacs. Like so many flowering woody plants their blooms are here today, gone tomorrow. Yet their fragrance is one of the most familiar of all. They make their mark on the world and recede from the scene as summer heat approaches.

      I want to tell them not to go. Stick around a bit longer. But of course this isn’t the way the world works. The lilacs remind us not to blink. It’s now or never, friend. Get outside and linger with them before your opportunity is gone. How many more lilac seasons do we have left in us anyway? We throw out our days as if our account is unlimited.

      Why do we spend so much of our time indoors when the world whispers to us in this way? We ought to be more present with the larger world. We ought to embrace the changes that wash over us whether we want to pay attention or not.

      The lilacs will surely return again next year—but will we be here to enjoy them? To every thing there is a season. The future is a fool’s game. Our moment is now. Get outside and find it.

    • I Saw Tranquility

      “Deep in the forest there is something sacred that exists without a perceptible function. This is the central core, the navel of the world, and I want to return to that place.” — Hayao Miyazaki

      Last month I walked through a forest with several coworkers on a group hike. One of them commented that the naked trees were spooky and reminded him of The Blair Witch Project. I looked around and saw something completely different. And two days later I doubled down on that place and hiked alone in the dark before dawn with a failing headlamp. The things we do for love.

      So much of the world is what we perceive it to be. I may find tranquility in a stand of trees, someone else sees a buildable lot and the trees themselves as a commodity to haul off to the mill. America was built on such vision. Thankfully there are people who saw the land as something timeless and preserved it. Were we to level every forest where would we ever find ourselves?

      The trees are beginning to leaf out in the Northern Hemisphere, transforming the naked landscape. Soon the forest will hide things that are apparent in colder months. Leaves bring deep shade and mystery to the forest. Often what we see appears distinctly different from one person to another. What the forest is really showing us is not itself, but our own nature. My hiking friend that day saw horror in the naked forest. I saw tranquility.

    • April Underfoot

      Star and coronal and bell
      April underfoot renews,
      And the hope of man as well
      Flowers among the morning dews.
      — A. E. Housman, Spring Morning

      Spring in the air, with a twist of biting cold thrust like a knife into the gut to keep you on your toes. That’s April in New England—best to appreciate the brief moments of wonder before the weather changes yet again. Daffodils are one of my favorite flowers precisely because they take it on the chin over and over again and still rise to the occasion. Who are we to complain?

      I’m not in a hurry to awaken the garden this year, feeling busy and distracted, but it doesn’t much matter whether I feel like awakening the garden or not, for the garden awakens. You either snap out of it and get ahead of things or you suffer through the ramifications of a rough start. There are beds to rake out, fallen branches to clear, fences to stand up, and soon sowing with more hope than a casual gardener has a right to. You’re either all in as a gardener or you concede it to the wild.

      I suppose I’m not quite ready for that. Like the daffodils we must rise and do what must be done. Our season is so brief and well underway. And there’s still hope for the harvest.

    • The Wind Always Speaks

      “If there seems to be no communication between you and the people around you, try to draw close to those things that will not ever leave you. The nights are still there and the winds that roam through the trees and over many lands.” — Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

      We’re often alone in this world, but alone doesn’t require loneliness. These days gifted to us are full of routine and ritual, from how we wake up in the morning to where we sit and what we eat. Who we interact with is often our choice, but alas, not always. How we react to everything and everyone we interact with—or don’t interact with—is always our choice.

      Stepping outside on a spring day in New Hampshire, the world is alive in chatter. Birds and squirrels debate nest design or which yard has the best feeders today. A light wind might stir the tree tops like a hand brushing over tall grass, while a heavier wind might offer a gusty, heartfelt shake. No, there is no loneliness outside—the world is always present.

      The garden begins to awaken. Rabbits have nibbled the tops off of some early bulbs, inspiring a silent curse and a fence resurrected to stake a claim for beauty. Days are longer now and there’s more to see, but for the stars as they concede more and more to the sun. Every day brings a new voice to the yard as the migration continues northward. Flashes of blue are a regular part of the days now as the Bluebirds, present all winter at the feeder, decided to make the birdhouse their own once again.

      Every day is a poem. Every day offers an embrace when you step out to greet it. Even on the quietest of days, the wind always speaks.

    • April Showers

      We are the first double-leaf sprout, two inches out of the ground.
      We need rain, or we may not grow more than this.
      — Rumi

      The rain rolled in right on schedule, really, timed to mask the Aurora Borealis thoroughly and keep my mind from wandering north. Quietly scheming to drop everything and drive as far north as necessary to be under the northern lights, it became a blessing when I saw there was no point in trying this time. Even as the geomagnetic activity caused a stir of excitement in the aurora community, Mother Nature mocked the audacity of those of us waiting for our turn in New Hampshire.

      April is the second month of the Roman calendar. Depending on the sources you believe, the name is derived from the Roman word Aprillis, for second, or aperio, which means to open up as a flower does. I’ll stick with the former, even as I recognize the world opening up around me. April showers help this process, even as it masks the magic in the universe.

      So be it. We need the rain. More importantly, I need to be present here and now, focused on things beyond my control. Let it rain. April showers wash away the last of winter and coax the earth to awaken in the gun-shy way annuals always approach April in New England. Stick your head up too quickly and you’ll end up freezing it off. Yet one day at a time the world begins to green once again.

      We asked the universe for clear skies, we received days of steady rain. These are the gifts we don’t always welcome in the moment, but come to appreciate some time down the path. For now we must be rooted, and using the stormy days for growth.

    • The Rhizome Remains

      “We do not know how life is going to turn out. Therefore the story has no beginning, and the end can only be vaguely hinted at. The life of man is a dubious experiment. It is a tremendous phenomenon only in numerical terms. Individually, it is so fleeting, so insufficient, that it is literally a miracle that anything can exist and develop at all. I was impressed by that fact long ago, as a young medical student, and it seemed to me miraculous that I should not have been prematurely annihilated. Life has always seemed to me like a plant that lives on its rhizome. Its true life is invisible, hidden in the rhizome. The part that appears above ground lasts only a single summer. Then it withers away — an ephemeral apparition.
      When we think of the unending growth and decay of life and civilizations, we cannot escape the impression of absolute nullity. Yet I have never lost a sense of something that lives and endures beneath the eternal flux. What we see is blossom, which passes. The rhizome remains. In the end the only events in my life worth telling are those when the imperishable world erupted into this transitory one. That is why I speak chiefly of inner experiences, amongst which I include my dreams and visions. These form the prima materia of my scientific work.”
      — Carl Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections

      Our lifespan is but the bloom that eventually withers away, yet the rhizome remains in our spirit and the work we leave behind for others. Think of the traits we see carry from generation to generation. Think of the art and music that resonates long after the composer has withered away. We have people that stay with us for the rest of our days; we can see the twinkle in their eye, we can hear their laughter. Life is Jung’s ephemeral apparition, but as we feel of those who have transcended this world, the physical manifestation of our being isn’t all there is of us.

      Our season is very short, but rooted below the surface we’re anchored to eternity. And this, when you think about it, offers a bit of hope in this ridiculous game of living. For we come and go in our season, but our rhizome remains. There’s a sense of permanence in that, as we make the most of our impermanent time in bloom. We shine in our time and offer what we might to those who carry on.

      The present season, anchored to eternity