It’s Little House On The Prairie-esque. A scene so astonishing and so touching. A young boy, not much older than six or seven years old, flaxen hair, so light and fine, more like golden rays glinting off wispy fields of wheat. His eyes were blue but not just any blue, a blue gray like the soft downside of a wild dove. His eyes betrayed his sheer delight. An ever-so-slight smile of pure satisfaction as he smacked his magenta-stained lips. Beetroot juice stained his cheeks and ran down his hands like strokes from some Impressionist painting. The little Theo hungrily and greedily crunched and munched a fresh whole beet like it was some caramel apple. It was a beet! A vegetable, some lowly root crop that many adults give the cold shoulder. Here’s this small child, relishing it like some Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory confection. With all the faith I could muster, I believed all the happiness he found in that beet. It was just unearthed like a rare ruby, barely minutes before he took a big enthusiastic bite out of it.
I’ve always pondered the expression “sweet pea.” Was it because peas were so tiny it made them “sweet” in the figurative sense? Was it because their delicate flowers had the sweetest-smelling fragrance? Green peas? Always a culinary afterthought often frozen or canned, boiled and buttered, sometimes in a rich green gloppy soup. But, oh, the fresh pea. Handpicked, with pearls of rainwater glistening on the pod, lovingly hand- shucked right before dinnertime. They make a soft, ploppy pleasant sound in a bowl altogether. No two are alike. Two peas in a pod? There are five, eight, even 10 in a pod. Bright green. Curiosity killed the cat. I put one in my mouth. One tiny pea. That crunch. And yes… sweet pea, oh, “swee’pea” like how Popeye makes love to Olive Oil. My swee’pea. So fresh, so bright, so happy, so far from the sad dull pasty green dots in your Yang Chow fried rice.
Elizabeth, my swee’pea’s mother, made us a dish that was pure summer in the mouth. Crusty toasted rye bread brushed with olive oil and kissed by a garlic clove; on it a vibrant chunky puree of fresh peas, broad beans, mint, a sharp accent of pecorino cheese and a hint of zesty lemon… green like young fresh cut grass on a sunny day. On top, a torn piece of buffalo mozzarella, majestic and pristine white flecked gently with cracked black pepper; a mixed green salad, leaves so crisp they formed an architectural feat, balancing like a fine feathered ample hat fit for the horse races. Can I describe the taste? No, I can’t. It was just wonderful. Summer in a bite. All the beauty of nature, everything in its prime because each little tiny pea, each little lettuce and mint leaf, was picked that same day. From garden to table… you can’t beat the concentrated pleasurable taste.
We often forget where our food comes from. We stare at our plates, revel in the fancy foie gras and tasty truffle mashed potatoes… rich Chilean sea bass, Norwegian salmon, and all kinds of fancy meats taking airplane miles, cold storage, frozen in time, arriving relatively delicious and ultimately far from where it started… it’s flavor just the same. I will not be hypocritical because I will always enjoy a nice gravlax and cool Sauvignon Blanc from faraway places in my hot Filipino environment, but when we know exactly who grew those asparagus… that fat, happy chicken once running around the farm now cozily roasting in the oven… when we taste those micro greens and fresh herbs from your own plant box… it’s unforgettable and incomparable.
Not too long before I left on my sabbatical, I went to visit the International Institute for Rural Reconstruction over at Silang, Cavite. It was their Nutrition Festival and, in cooperation with the Department of Education, they were promoting Biodynamic Intensive Gardening in schools: “Gulayan sa Paaralan.” It was through them I discovered some interesting, easy-to-grow crops such as saluyot and amaranthe. While all the world looks for spinach and extreme foodies search for kale and Swiss chard, I have found my special happy green place. These two hearty crops growing like weeds, one like a cross of arugula and baby spinach, the other slightly peppery, packed with good things leaving you feeling like Popeye once again, bulging arms and loving admiration. I walked through their organic gardens and they gave me tons of gorgeous vegetables: baby eggplants, fresh chilis, tons of basil with each leaf so perfect not one punched with caterpillar bites… I immediately set to work planting my own.
The flavors are so intense when you have this freshness. Many fine restaurants have their own gardens in the back so a carrot tastes like a real carrot, and turnips are so turnipy. The wild brown mushrooms and that one lucky porcini that we foraged in the German forest, strange, somewhat ugly, growing in unsightly places, transformed into earthy flavors in a simple bowl of spaghettini. Enriched with goat cheese ricotta, from a farm beside a field of nuzzling goats…
The garden-to-table experience is noble in its nostalgic simplicity. The flavors heightened out of sheer freshness, your senses warmed as you remember while you eat where it all came from. That moment when man stopped foraging and started growing thousands of years ago and great civilizations were built on the sheer quest for food production… And when a simple raw pea tastes that sweet and a child is happily stained by beets, you pay homage to the hands who cultivate and the God who made it all possible.?
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P.S. Special mention to the hardy buffalo that made my tangy creamy mozzarella and the cute little goats that with a “bah bah bah” offered their milk for my rich ricotta…because a world without cheese is a world not worth living in.
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For more info on IIRR, visit www.iirr.org. To know more about the efforts of the DepEd and their fight against malnutrition with the Gulayan sa Paaralan Campaign, visit http://www.deped.gov.ph.