Saturday Soup

After last weekend’s rollicking adventures, a couple of days close to home were in order this weekend. Today I’ve had leisurely coffee with a friend, potted some mums for my fall color, laundered my clothes, and splashed bloody red over the counters, walls, and floor of my kitchen. Here in the vegetarian Rancho La Paz, that can only mean that borscht season has arrived.

I’ve been making borscht since my early days in New York City when I first ate the soup at Uncle Vanya’s on 54^th street and I discovered the timing of beets and cabbage coming into the farmers market as the last of summer’s tomatoes were on the wane. As someone who is not always fall’s biggest fan, this soup offered a way to gracefully bridge the seasonal transition. I have a large and growing repertoire of soups, but this is the one that always says fall. With our rainy week (and clouds and thunder now disrupting our sunny Saturday and the damp clothes being whisked off the line), and in honor of my Peace Corps friends Veronica and David beginning their new chapter today in Kiev, the menu is homemade borscht. And yes, it does get a bit messy with the beets.

Borscht (Russian beet soup)

Saute in your big soup pot

2 Tbs canola oil

1 red onion, peeled and chopped

2 large beets, peeled and chopped

2 large carrots, chopped

Half a small red cabbage, chopped

1 tsp salt to help it all sweat

Add

1 large can diced tomatoes (or peel and chop your own)

Enough broth to cover vegetables (I use Better than Bouillon veggie paste, but beef broth is traditional)

2 bay leaves

2-3 sprigs of fresh dill

2-3 medium to large potatoes, peeled and chopped

½ tsp pepper

Bring to a boil and simmer up to 45 minutes until everything is tender. Finish at the end with a splash (2 Tbs) of red wine or red wine vinegar.

Let it cool. Pull out your bay leaves, but leave the dill. Then put through your blender to make a lovely red puree. Add salt to taste.

To serve, heat and pour in bowls. Traditionally it is served with a dollop of sour cream and snips of fresh dill. I prefer a dollop of my Siggi’s Icelandic-style plain yogurt. Serve with black bread and butter. Or gluten-free black rice bread with earthbalance spread. And suddenly fall feels so much more manageable!

Art, Life, Mountain, Wind

Had a little getaway last weekend with my Friday off, down to northern New Mexico. My stated goal was to visit the Abiquiu home of Georgia O’Keeffe and spend a few minutes among her things, her space; to breathe that air and feel that light upon my skin. It’s not that I’m a huge O’Keeffe fan, although what’s not to like? But I like her era, the aesthetic, the value placed on truth, beauty, and a place in space. She so embodies this corner of the world that it is a rich feeling to inhabit that world however briefly. Then I went to her museum in Santa Fe to walk among the gifts she left behind.

I also revisited a place and time of my own past, from nearly 20 years ago when I was trying to make sense of art and life. I always come back to something Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote as she was trying to meet the demands of flight, navigation, motherhood, and writing: “Living is a more important art than any other.” I’ve taken comfort in that thought over the years as I’ve failed in art but succeeded greatly in my own odd way at life.

In 1993 I visited a friend in Taos and we climbed this funny little three-eared mountain out on the mesa. My friend had immortalized in photos and books the mesa, the stock ponds, the lichen-covered rock, and the mountain, Tres Orejas. In my week there we visited the stock pond, stole—stole!!—the lichen-covered rock (I should be famous in certain circles for that act alone, but the act went undocumented for fear that someone [who, pray tell!] should bring a federal case against the famous author), and we climbed Tres Orejas. We bumped along the bad road in his old pick-up, rattletrap is the word he likes, until we could drive no further. We continued on foot along around to the backside of the mountain and began our ascent of the middle ear.

Tres Orejas is not a mountain as much as it is a semi-structured pile of rocks. I will quote Hemingway talking about bulls now because in my imagination it is relevant, and I’ve always enjoyed Hemingway as has my Taoseno friend.

“They’ve got bananas for horns,” said the critic.

“You call them bananas?” asked Romero. He turned to me and smiled. “You wouldn’t call them bananas.”

“No,” I said. “They’re horns all right.”

“They’re very short,” said Pedro Romero. “Very, very short. Still, they aren’t bananas.”

Tres Orejas is not tall, but it is not bananas. The lack of trail and the stony rockiness of it make it not bananas.

I believe this was my first mountain and it’s kind of interesting to revisit it now. For not being a very big mountain, I don’t suppose it’s more than a thousand feet up, the view is stunning. The Carson Mesa below has been developed with off-the-grid houses in the past decades, but it still looks wild. The slope of the hill hides the big settlement to the northeast.

I think, on reflection, that this is where I fell in love with ravens and mountains and the west. In 1993 we watched a pair of ravens playing in the thermals at just about our altitude. They actually performed synchronized barrel rolls. Today I watched a hawk on the thermal, silhouetted, perfectly still on the air.

It’s kind of a harrowing trip to the mountain. Despite the housing development, the road to Tres Orejas is as frightful as it was in ‘93. My thought as I neared pavement at the end was this: Happy to report that the Carson Mesa is still nearly impassable; a Subaru and a case of idiocy, however, can apparently get you through. I approached from the south and drove a rocky road up the south flank. I finally could stomach no more of the road and gave the car a break at what looked like a likely approach to the south ear. I followed a faint wood-gathering road partway up and then simply bushwhacked/rockwhacked my way to the point of the south ear. The point was too much of a real rock climb for me to feel comfortable doing alone. Well, I was sorry the whole way that I was stupid enough to be there alone. Probably not safe, but I comforted myself with my excellent cell phone reception (warning bells should be going off in your mind right now). I carefully picked my way around the south ear, alert for rattlers, making all kinds of sounds to frighten them off.  Gazed across the saddle at the middle ear and decided that I’d come that far may as well continue. I knew the middle ear was accessible as I had been there before. Yes, I was 24 then, but I was also a sea-level smoker. I’m so much more kick-ass now.

Achieved the middle ear with little fanfare. Stayed long enough to enjoy the view, the wind, the lichens on the rocks, the peace that comes arriving on top of a mountain. Exquisite. Even as I feared making my now-tired legs go back down those rocks. Fortunately, one of the benefits of age is knowing things like this: nothing like good boots, good tires, and slippery-butt double-walled pants to get the adventurer out of a pickle.

Driving out from Tres Orejas to the north/northeast the roads are equal crap the whole way, but not without karmic comic relief. I was picking along a section of not rocky but rutted road, and was thinking to myself that when it rains the road must really gum up, out here across the Carson Mesa. Then I came around a bend face to face with a late-model Toyota truck…and the universe smiled. All those years of driving the Jeep and getting out of people’s ways even when it wasn’t my responsibility and it wasn’t even maybe easier for me, it all just paid off. The guy without hesitation climbed the bank in his Toyota pick-up truck and let me drive by. I laughed and waved and thought, there is goodness in the world.

Upon achieving pavement, I remembered the treat in the cooler. A long-standing tradition of my Taoseno friend was to have treats in the cooler for post-hike reward. Cheese sammie, beer, vodka, whatever. My first summer as a westerner at Bryce Canyon, I carried a cooler in my old F250 stocked with squirt soda for my post-hike treat. I’d forgotten about such luxuries, but in honor of old times, I’d picked up an orange Fanta and stashed it in the cooler. I suppose it was my car that really deserved the treat, but dang! I enjoyed that cold orange soda.

Drove over the Rio Grande on the high bridge and south toward town to buy a chili ristra for culinary and decorative enrichment. Ay Juanito! The Chamisaville north/south still sucks eggs. Ristra in tow, sagebrush extracted from under the car, I pointed north and promised myself next time I would spend a little longer.

Coda

Had lunch in Santa Fe with a young woman I knew from the Owens Valley. She is getting a Masters in East Asia studies, which includes learning Sanskrit. She talked about being at a time in her life when she feels compelled to say yes to all things life offers. The photo postcard I bought of O’Keeffe grinning brightly as she hitches a ride on the back of a young man’s motorcycle says it all: Because I want to!

Peaches

The end-of-summer bounty is brightening my dining these days. Along with corn and tomatoes, we in Colorado are blessed with western slope peaches. Every week I buy a bundle and average consuming two a day. Palisade is the name of a town evidently renowned for the peaches. It's over on I-70 on the west side of the mountains (the section of highway I call the D.B. Cooper highway for the towns of Rifle and Parachute that you pass by...excuse the pea brain side notes). Greg Brown talks/sings about having a little taste of summer, my grandma put it all in a jar. Exactly.

I'm not putting anything in a jar. One of these years I'll achieve that goal. Meantime I bought some snowdrop bulbs today that I mean to put into the ground once it gets a little cooler. Yes, the aspens are starting to turn at higher elevation. Even here in town the trees are browning up, but it has more to do with our drought than the real onset of fall. Only in the stores, with the Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas decor on display, is anyone really fooled by the cooler weather of this past week.

Fortunately for us, we are still deep in the season of peaches. I keep calling them Paradise peaches instead of Palisade peaches, because in all honesty can you look at this display and not think you've achieved Paradise?

They are as delicious as they look.

Matei at Six

Received the following message from Matei’s mom, Olga, today. For those of you following and supporting the Matei saga, I long owe you this update (forgive my clumsy translation):

Dear Miss Gretel,

We say hello with respect and send you some recent photos. On August 11^th, Matei turned six. We are so happy to have him in our lives. We now wait to hear from the hospital in Italy about our schedule for October. We haven’t contacted Mr. Solca yet because we don’t know the schedule. We heard you had problems with fire and floods there. We are sincerely sorry. Here it is bad—they have suspended the president. The worst is that with our government they can do no good. The sin of our beautiful country. We wish you all good in your world and with your family and friends.

With love and respect,

Olga

A bit of catch-up: Matei and Olga and Marion, Matei’s father, went to Italy over the winter so that Matei could have the needed surgery on his leg. Instead of making a follow-up trip a month later, as expected, the hospital kept Matei there for three months. Olga stayed with him. We raised $3000 for Olga’s use for the two planned trips. It was a bit more than she had asked for, but it became necessary after all. The hospital is a bright spot in their lives as they receive excellent treatment free of charge. The money is needed for traveling expenses, and in this case living expenses, and medicine. Olga reported to me in the spring that although the whole ordeal was very stressful, Matei came through the surgery and recovery very well.

The next step, alas, is to have similar surgery on his other leg. This is the trip she mentions in the letter that is hoped to take place in October. I put a bit of money in their fund earlier this summer which is what she references regarding Mr. Solca. Petru Solca is the dear man I worked with in Romania who runs the Romanian side of NOROC, the agency through which we make donations to Matei.

I had written Olga earlier this summer and shared a bit of our Colorado fire story. Turns out she had a worse story of the ongoing political upheaval of her country. This is part of the problem with them receiving services for Matei—part of it is that services as we know them do not exist in Romania, but part of it is that the services that do exist, that have helped them in the past, are notoriously unreliable. The money that we have donated has made a very real difference to them getting the care that they need.

Here are the pictures that Olga sent. He’s getting so big. If you would like to help support this next trip to Italy, you may send tax-deductible donations to

NOROC

Attn: Carolyn White

200 Hedges Road

Abilene, TX  79605

Please write on the check that it is For the Special Fund for Matei Pricop.

I hope you all don’t mind my continued requests for funding, but I can tell you it helps immensely. We are making a tangible difference in this boy’s life, and that of his family. His mother is such a dear woman. She calls us her American angels. 

I must share with you that when I met Olga three years ago, she was a the end of her sanity--begging for help, any kind of help she could get, even from a strange American with very poor Romanian skills. I felt overwhelmed by her desperation because I knew not how to help. It turned out that she is incredibly resourceful and mostly just needed to be heard; I needed a purpose. The story continues...

High Country News

Or Absolute Leadville…or Rocky Mountain High…

Besides being one of my favorite periodicals, the title is descriptive of my cherished long weekend away. The place and the company turned out to be great, but the goal was AWAY. Leadville, Colorado, is known by some as the highest airport in North America, by others as a mountain town with a gritty mining history, and more modernly and generally, a recreationist’s paradise. The salient fact to remember is that the town sits at 10,152 feet in elevation. And it is in a broad valley surrounded by many of Colorado’s famed fourteeners, our peaks that exceed 14,000’ in elevation. (I have climbed two of California’s fourteeners, maybe next year for Colorado’s).

I made a last minute decision to spend my long weekend camping along a river or by a lake up near Leadville. It’s just a few hours’ drive from Fort Collins (less without heavy holiday traffic—Colorado is full of people!) Couldn’t get a reservation, so the available campsite I found was an odd combination of big parking lot, RVs, one last free spot in the corner, and a small climb up a hill to a very private and pretty table and fire ring overlooking the lake. Despite some afternoon showers and wind, the weekend was lovely. A meandering back road trip home today through the high country to avoid interstate traffic jams proved to be terrific. Here are the highlights:

Our family Colorado trip of 1976 brought us through Leadville, but none of us can seem to remember anything about it except the impressive elevation. Downtown has a street of historic buildings. Tours of the old mines are offered. I bought a book to learn more.

 My trip into the mountains coincided with Harvey and Diane’s last weekend of volunteering at the historic Leadville fish hatchery. Coworkers  years ago at Death Valley, Diane and Harvey were “instrumental” in setting me on my current musical path. They bum around in their motorhome these days, playing music, gold sluicing, bicycling, volunteering, and generally enjoying life. Our paths cross now and again. (Diane and the hatchery, below)

Diane took me on a hike by the hatchery. Below is Mount Elbert in the background, the highest mountain in Colorado. In addition to the mountain and the lake, high country sightings include: mountain chickadee, gray-headed junco, white-breasted nuthatch, gray jay, Stellar’s jay, red-naped sapsucker, yellow-rumped warbler (Audubon?), red squirrel, chipmunk, golden mantled ground squirrel, red fox, mule deer, hawks, vultures, and ravens.

View of the lake from my campsite my first overcast and rainy afternoon. The second night was clear and still; I had a roaring fire and enjoyed an hour of stars before being overwhelmed by a cascade of moonlight.

While the lingering 90° heat of Fort Collins belies the truth of this particular holiday weekend (an editorial in today’s NYTimes calls it a “holiday in school-bus yellow"), the aspens up at elevation are starting to turn. This hill bank was particularly yellow, but everywhere the signs exist: autumn is coming. If that must be true, give me aspens, give me the glorious, give me one precious weekend to breathe it all in.