Introduction: Entering the Kitchen

Meditation is often taught as an ordinary act to be performed the same as, not separate from, our other everyday actions, such as: eating, drinking, sleeping, and elimination. For me, the question is more about how to incorporate meditation with our quotidian basic acts. When getting up from the cushion into a post-meditation world, what to do? Just release all that chatter and 'stuff'? Long ago the idea that 'something will just kick-in' or similar thoughts, proved unreliable.

The important thing, simultaneous with the not-so-important thing, is what is going on in our mind. There is a yearning to feed our hunger and to do it with wakefulness. In the kitchen we are working with desire as our inspiration and to do that we add inquisitiveness. We discover that we need to acquire knowledge about our subject. The idea is to make intelligent and informed choices and to find our way to an elegant solution. We are not applying our kitchen mind/brain to our meditation mind/brain - but the other way around - until there is no difference.

We are taking our journey to the kitchen because there is no better place to use all of our senses at once. The informed aspect of meditation will not necessarily make us the best cook, but the process will enliven us and arouse our appreciation. Maybe even create a shift in logic.

In order to take this journey of using all our senses, the pre-requisite is to be a meditator. That means to have had reliable instructions in meditation from an authentic and skilled teacher, and to have a formal practice. To follow a recipe with 'mindfulness' is not enough. What is the mind full of?

Initially, the recipes included here will be very simple. They will get more elaborate as we continue on this journey of taking our state-of-mind-of-meditation to the no-anxiety home kitchen. Each recipe will have Guided Meditation notes to follow as we proceed. Please join in.

Tasting: Spring Green

Seasons offer transitions. Gradually and over time we learn to accept them naturally. Having practiced meditation, I understand that the control of the outside world is temporary and illusionary. My sense of serenity and inner strength can only come from within giving me freedom and confidence. When summer turns to autumn, and autumn turns to winter chills, the simple elegance and coziness of my home meditation spot beckons all the more.

The steady compression of winter always seems to bring my elbows closer to my body. As a chef, the craving to bake and celebrate the seasonal transition begins around the feasting table at Thanksgiving. I love the creation of foods that warm and have soft textures and intense contrasting flavors. My deepest emotions seem connected to these familiar foods. I'm hooked on believing that I must, at this juncture, connect with every one of my friends and family and eat and eat and drink and drink. I want to rouse myself by eating good food. This cultural conditioning overtakes me like a forceful wind. It feels great. It feels human. I'm reassured. I'm eating every food that is in season at this very moment and, quite possibly, all at once! I'm ready to hibernate - after having eaten enough with one meal to sustain me through the winter. I'm ready to fast. But I'm thirsty. And then it starts all over again. No matter how much we eat we are always hungry again.

By the end of December I start to think that the Claus following Santa is for claustrophobia. The windows are shut. I'm wrapped in layers. Books are piled high. I look for some relief and get a massage and take another warm bath. Eliot's refrain returns to mind like the cuckoo clock.

Winter kept us warm, covering

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

A little life with dried tubers.

There seems to be no space anywhere. Maybe a fire is glowing. The walls are getting closer. All my winter whites are reflecting the snugness brought on by winter weight. The gym seems to be getting further and further away. Where is that first robin? Have the French increased their work week? Can a different President make a difference? What is the difference that makes a difference?

Can I do it? Can meditation practice where I focus on sensations of spaciousness and expansion come more easily? Why have I developed a disgust for foods that are slow-cooked when at the start of the season I was rejoicing in the change? Does my tongue really know things my mind will never know? What is it that thinks the food tastes good? What makes people eat and drink the way they do? Have the conditions conducive for happiness once again caused an equally non-conducive situation?

I go back to resting my mind. Just observing the thoughts as they come and go. I look at whatever thoughts, feelings and sensations are arising. They are acknowledged as ordinary - a sense of openness returns.

The thing that consistently brings me back to a sense of wellbeing is cooking. Cooking brings me back to my senses. No matter what we do we can't get away from food. We still have to eat. Please pass the salt. That is, the sea salt, though I don't know what other salt there is. Doesn't all salt come from the sea - from the drying of salt water? I do know that every salt tastes differently. With extended global exchange we are seeing more and more salts from different locations. A little goes a long way.

I imagine you have heard the chef's refrain, "season as you go." This means sprinkle some salt and pepper. Pepper, too, comes from different locations around the earth. We eat locally but season globally. Seasoning is not seasonal. We season in all seasons.

The redness of hearts in February comes when we are almost doubting the possibilities of amore. A bit of chocolate and an aphrodisiac to consume may not make us enlightened but then again every moment is unborn. We try allowing it to dissolve on our tongues without craving so as to practice dissolving. The tongue teaches the mind. We are magicians; we have turned something from solid to liquid from the warmth of our mouths.

And now, as it is said, now Spring has come bringing an awakening of the verdant light. Already and suddenly I feel grateful for that spate of winter where a quiet sensation prevailed. Yes, I was claustrophobic and craving more light, but settled. Before you know it Alice Waters will be wandering around the local farmers markets looking for food that speaks to her. She is looking for the aliveness. We search for that beet root that has come quivering from the earth. How our bodies crave green. Our life force wants the taste of the renewed, the fresh, the not dried, smoked or tanned. Our nascent belief in natural vitality and creativity comes forth naturally, flowing. Vegetation begins to appear. The gracile shoots of green herbage poke through the moist and warming organic soil. The pulsing soil wants to chew and spit, get dug up and have holes poked into it. Mud luscious and puddle wonderful says the lower case poet.

We want Green. The emeralds, olives, lime greens and apple greens, leaf green, and chartreuse. Look at those artichokes, sorrel, asparagus, fennel, spinach, green onions, okra, and peas. There are English peas in the pod, snow peas and sugar snaps. That subtle energy, creative energy that never departs, is still in our bodies and is life. In harmony, our bodies tell us to eat something, everything, Green. We look and appreciate all this potential.

As a chef, I want to gather the elements and create. I want to take my state of mind to the kitchen. What is the taste of love? Is the taste of something made with love the sixth taste? Let's acknowledge one more taste beyond sour, sweet, salty, bitter and umami - Let's add love. How do you get it? How do you give it? Is it a seasoning? A spice? Give me some of that basic goodness. Give me the antidote to destructive and negative emotions. Two opposite factors cannot happen at the same time. Flower sweet flower.

Using a little informed simplicity create a green cleansing brew - a potage. You can make it raw, vegan, or keep it vegetarian. I'm done with caramelizing, at least until the blue skies of autumn, of Vajradhara, arise again. Here is a soup that has the quintessence of green. It harbors no musty, soggy or swampy swirls of leaves. You want a bright green puree with nothing but pea flavor. No ham hocks, no croutons, just peas with peas.

This pureed soup might turn your heart green with envy and jealousy or set you off doing whatever needs to be done. The decision in every moment is yours. Can a soup do that? No, but you can. As it is said: Words don't cook rice.

A guided meditation recipe:

Fresh Green Pea Potage

Serves 4-6

2 leeks, white parts only, tough leaves removed

(or substitute 1 bunch green onions or 1 large spring onion)

3 pounds fresh peas in pods, or 40 ounces frozen peas, or a combination of both

2 - 3 sprigs thyme

2 - 3 bay leaves

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive or grapeseed oil

6 cups water

1 tablespoon honey

sea salt and fresh ground black pepper

2 - 3 tablespoons heavy cream, optional

Sour cream, yogurt or creme fraiche, optional

1. Wash your hands then gather all the ingredients and put them in front of you on the counter.

Notice the shape and color of the pea pods. Pick one up and feel it in your hand. Hold it up to the light and see its translucency. Eat a fresh pea out of the pod. Be aware of the texture and feeling in your mouth.

2. If you are using fresh peas, lightly rinse and drain the pods before opening them. Remove the peas from the pods and put aside. If you are making a lot of soup, you may want to combine fresh peas and frozen ones. Of all the frozen vegetables, peas seem best at keeping their integrity intact.

Notice what is happening in your mind. Do you have a sense of anticipation? Are you thinking, what's the big deal; it's just a pea.

Let your thoughts come and go.

3. Wash the white part of the leeks well: make two crossing slices along the length, creating a sort of brush, and wash well between the layers. Slice into ½-inch pieces.

Notice your posture while cutting.

4. Heat the oil in a large saucepan over medium-high heat. Add the leeks and saute until translucent, but not brown. Add the peas, reserving 1 cup. Add the thyme, bay leaves, and 6 cups of water.

Listen for the sound of sizzle when you add ingredients, it lets you know the oil is the right temperature. Crush the thyme in your hands and smell its oils.

Bring to a boil; then simmer for 10 minutes. Turn off the heat and let steep for about 20 minutes. The peas will lose their bright color if you cook them for too long.

Take a moment to pay attention to what you are thinking about. Are you absorbed and relaxed or distracted?

5. Take out the thyme and bay leaves. Puree the mixture in a blender; then strain through a fine sieve. Using a wooden spoon, push the peas through; discard the remains. You should have a very smooth puree that is quite dense. If too thick, add a bit more water. (Up to this point the soup can be made the day before and refrigerated.)

6. Return the soup to the saucepan and reheat slowly over medium-low heat. Stir in the honey and taste for seasoning. Add the cup of reserved peas. Be careful not to burn it. If you like, stir in a couple of tablespoons of heavy cream while heating.

As you taste, notice the burst of flavor. Experience the taste. Is it sweet, bitter, salty? What is the texture like in your mouth? Has it been cooked enough? What would you add?

7. Serve with a dollop of sour cream, yogurt, or creme fraiche. Garnish, if you wish, with some chopped chives, parsley, julienne sorrel, a thin-sliced and lightly grilled scallop, or a flurry of toasted ground cumin or freshly ground black pepper.

Dip your spoon into the hot soup and lift into your mouth. Notice how the flavor changes from one mouthful to the next. You could easily eat an entire bowl without even tasting it if you don't pay attention. Don't get lost in thinking about the next thing to eat. In the midst of eating this are you lost in craving? Are you thinking, "Oh, if only this was Matzo Ball soup, then I would be happy!" Try to stay with your experience of tasting and eating this soup.

When you have finished your meal, take a few moments to get in touch with a sense of cultivating health in nourishing your body and sharing food. You might offer the merit of this delicious practice to others. I'm told that the one who cleans up receives all the blessings.

Phyllis Segura is a Shambhalian, private chef, photographer and painter. She lives in Piermont, NY.
www.cookingontheriver.com

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