High Summer
The past week in words and pictures, recipe for Fermented Garlic Paste, and fermentation innovation (some interesting links on insect fermentation)
Last night I was looking for something mundane, our stove warranty, and found a handful of letters I’d stashed in a file for later reading. Then, as one does, I forgot about them for the last seven or so years. I sat on the floor in front of the cabinet and began to read, the boring effort abandoned.
There are five letters. Four are from 1974, the year my family lived on the island of Ambon, in Indonesia. They are written by my mother to her mother in Los Angeles. The fifth envelope contains two letters written to my mother by her mother, in 1984, when we lived in The Netherlands. Of the four, my mother wrote one is many pages long and placed in an airmail envelope and three are written on onion skin aerograms—one sheet of pale blue paper that folds into its own envelope. (How old do you have to be to remember those?) Since my father’s family lived in Germany, that shade of blue, the feel of this whisper-thin paper, the red or blue diagonal stripes edging the envelopes, and the words air mail and par avion feel representative of my childhood. My family’s far-flung locations meant this was the only form of communication. Long-distance calls were few and far between, and the fees meant that the children didn’t talk. These little blue missives mean the world to me—first from my grandmothers, later from friends. Unfortunately, I don’t think anybody saved any I sent, or if my grandmothers saved them, they were lost in the clearings done after their deaths. While I saved everything as a child, I sadly don’t know where any of the ones to me are. I hold out that I will just bump into them when the time is right, as I did these.
In one letter, my mother is exasperated by the beginning of the rainy season. This I remember. I remember her frustration as she strung up lines across the rooms to dry my baby brother’s cloth diapers, but they grew mildew instead. In this letter, she is thanking my grandmother for two packages. My mother mentions she had already done some planting, which makes me think there were seeds. For the record, I don’t remember an attempt at a garden, and my mom wasn’t a gardener. I suspect the seeds drown. In a later letter, she describes deluges washing away bamboo homes that are rebuilt completely the next day.
In the thank you letter, she also writes, “…later today I’m going to make the yogurt—square dance material is great—now it will be up to me to get a group together.”
I have so many questions. First yogurt? I love that my grandmother sent yogurt starter. She was not a fermenter, back-to-the-lander, gardener, or anyone who would make yogurt. I love thinking about her finding the culture to send to her daughter. I am also curious about why Mom wanted to make yogurt. I can see that it may be something she missed, or did she feel our bodies needed it? (We didn’t use the language of microbiome then, and I was almost seven, so we know I didn’t.) This would have been an effort. Milk wasn’t readily available. We were in a tiny village wedged on a small slice of land between the ocean and deep jungle. There were no stores, no cows, maybe a neighbor had a goat in milk. I wish I could ask her how long she was able to keep it going. The PS on this letter indicates that the first batch was a success. I feel happiness for her in that small win, as the rest of the letter feels like she is struggling.
And truly out of left field, square dance material? Does this mean music and caller instructions? Does this literally mean cloth material? Nothing about this makes sense. We didn’t have a record player, let alone power. She wasn’t a square dancer—ever. My mom always had big ideas, and I would love to know what she had in mind. I do know I don’t remember any manifestation of square dancing.
Speaking of dancing. In one of the 1984 letters, my grandmother, who would have been 62 at the time, writes, “I’ve been doing aerobics every day in front of the TV. They are on every morning. But I still have a hard time not eating.” Imagining my poker-loving, bagel-making, game-show-watching, house-dress-wearing grandma bounce about in her living room to 1980s aerobics is almost too much. This grandma wore heels as house slippers. I am only a few years younger than she would have been at the time. I know the feels of an aging body, the crusty, beat-up shell that holds a self that feels no different than 19. I wonder a little, and smile to myself as I imagine her in leg warmers, understanding her just a bit more than I ever did when our ages were so far apart.
The rest of the evening, I sat on the porch watching the sun set and night take hold. I felt like I had just spent a little real time with these ladies. At the risk of being sappy and sentimental, it does make me wonder if reading electronic texts will ever have the power of inviting someone long gone into the space like a found handwritten letter.
Summer weekend
In an uncharacteristic spontaneous act, Christopher and I loaded up on a Friday evening and went camping up in the mountains for the night. We left with no reservations, no plan. I made hummus and Greek salad, gathered some fresh veggies, fruit, and ferments, and off we went. I must pause here to say that having a pantry of fermented ingredients is a boon for quick meals. I used a teaspoon of chickpea miso (recipe) and nearly a tablespoon of fermented garlic paste (instant flavor, no peeling! recipe below) in the hummus. At that moment, I thought it would be a good idea to start keeping a list of all the ways I use fermented ingredients throughout the week and share them. People have often told me they struggle with how to use a ferment once they’ve made it.
We secured the last spot at a campground along the upper Rogue River when the host told us that a previously reserved spot had become available because the people weren’t coming that day after all. We settled in, ate dinner, and went on an evening walk through sunset, then dusk, then twilight along the river, snacking on red huckleberries along the way.
The spot was tucked between massive trees. The sun rose long before we saw it. We felt cradled in this secluded spot, and though our plan had been to hike up a mountain early, we couldn’t rush the moment of that morning. We went about our morning leisurely and laughed because it was Christopher’s ideal morning, and I am usually the one leading the charge up the mountain, down the canyon, or through the forest. He compared me to our long-deceased border collie. It is true. I don’t sit still much, but have been trying it on recently, and it feels unfamiliar and (dare I say) nice.


We eventually made it to the trailhead and hiked for the sake of the trek up the mountain, rather than for the satisfaction of reaching the peak. (We started far too late for that…) It is a new feeling, not demanding so much of myself and a moment. I am trying it out. We will see how it goes.
More small joys of slowing down


This week we released a monarch. The last of three caterpillars to emerge from its chrysalis. Seeing a butterfly emerge is never short of magical. I don’t know how much a caterpillar thinks in the way that we “think,” but imagine only crawling slowly along stems and leaves, stuffing oneself in a days long gluttonous feast, curling up and going to sleep for a couple of weeks, and waking up with wings.

Fermentation Innovation (some 🐇 🕳️ reading)
How about fermented grasshopper flour? Insects are a place where many are trying to solve the problem of feeding a populated planet in a changing climate. Insects are and have been traditional food sources throughout the world. As of 2017, around 2111 edible insects have been recorded across the planet. After all, they are a better source of dietary protein than mammal sources with a much lower environmental cost.
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