What Gets Baked In?
Since the beginning of this year, I have begun some kitchen experiments - what some might refer to as “baking”. Usually on a weekend, I will raid the pantry and/or fridge to see what ingredients are available to transform from shelf powder to home-baked pastry. There are recipes, general guidelines, and traditional wisdom passed down from current and bygone bakers, but reading about scones and digging into the trenches of butter and flour are two very different experiences.
Baking is a simple and elegant example of emergence. An emergent property is one that an entity displays in its wholeness, that is not present in any of the individual parts that comprise it. For example, butter and flour and sugar by themselves have certain textures and tastes, but none of them can be said to be a biscuit. It is not until they combine with thoughtful ratio and exposure to fire that the alchemy of emergence brings about a new form - one that is more complex than the sum of the parts.
Baking has also reiterated for me how profound a subtle gesture can be. In the kitchen, like in life, things rarely proceed the way the recipe dictates. The ability to adapt to a changing environment is important. Sometimes, a “minor” substitution can yield a major shift in the way the experience unfolds.
Take milk, for instance. For my recent batch of biscuits, I realized there was no milk in the house well after the process was underway. Instead, I substituted Bulgarian yogurt for milk because that was what was available. The baking continued and eventually the golden treats were drawn from the oven. The biscuits were slightly chewier than usual. Not long after the first bite, the eminent critic weighed in. He proceeded to observe that this batch was “not as good. Not like normal.” In other words, these biscuits did not meet an arbitrary and preconceived notion of perfection.
But what about how they browned more evenly and the outer crust was richer? What about the witness who could take a moment to appreciate that I can spend a Sunday morning baking something (anything!) for the sheer pleasure of it? It gave me a chance to reflect on how much I/we miss in the ceaseless quest to judge and criticize instead of simply seeing what is right in front of us. Simple in its truth, yet sometimes rather challenging in practice. This process does not happen in isolation and I enjoy the good fortune to have a partner who encourages me to see this way, who reminds me when I seem to forget, and who patiently supports my adventures in baking.
Another “minor” substitution I have been experimenting with is reframing the question my mind asks about many of the things it considers. The shift from “what if…” to “what is…” may only reflect a single letter substitution in the ingredient phrase, but it yields a much different and much richer Present when it comes out of the oven.
As we enter the heat and the fire of this summer season, I am curious to ask: what is getting baked in? And how does the art and manner of how we bake impact what emerges?
A World Below
In the dark rich earth there is a world that often gets overlooked, trodden down, and covered up.
On an early Spring weekend in Portland, I had the good fortune of fine weather to begin excavating the backyard on a piece of dirt that will make a fine garden. Covered in leaves, weeds, and crab grass, what was once an ordered and tended plot of land had been turned by the hands of time into a neglected space. Nature was reclaiming that which no longer held human attention, and rightly so.
With trowel, spade, shovel, and rake the work of uncovering began. With machines powered by dinosaur remains, edges were drawn and a patch of earth was tilled. Across this not-so-vast territory it is easy to observe small animals - birds, squirrels, an occasional cat, and the lion/fox/bear/sometimes-dog Mack traverse and explore. But unless you dig down, and pay attention to what comes up, you would never see the entrance to the world below. Spiders, slugs, snails, worms, and ants infuse the soil. They create their own highways and byways, establishing an ancient symbiosis with the roots and the plants that grow out of the earth. Harder to see but just as important are the relationships of fungi with the rhizosphere root networks that inform the ecosystem from the ground up.
It is beautifully simple and wonderfully complex at the same time: everything is connected.
Taking account of how much life exists in some handfuls of dirt was a great reminder about how woven the wellbeing of the water, the soil, and the inhabitants of earth are. Spending time with the soil made it clear to me that it is not possible to spray chemicals of any kind, especially those that kill “weeds” without devastating consequences to the entire chain. One telling example worth mentioning is the decline of the western Monarch butterfly, whose population has been estimated to be 99% reduced since the 1980s.
BJ Palmer, the developer of chiropractic, made note of the potential for impact we can have with our thoughts, words, and actions. I intend to use mine well.
“We never know how far-reaching something we may think, say, or do today will effect the lives of millions tomorrow.”
Bonus Time
In 1905, the shipbuilder and former mayor of Seattle, Robert Moran, was told by doctors he had about one year to live. He was 47.
Moran had recently completed the project that would crown his shipbuilding career, the battleship USS Nebraska. His rise to fame and success was not ordained. He was only 18 years old when he arrived in Seattle, which was, at the time, a very small and recently incorporated outpost. He had left his family and his home in New York City and landed on the other side of the country with barely a penny to his name. He worked on steamboats, saving enough to eventually pay for his mother and siblings to come join him. With his three brothers, he established a ship-repair business that grew and prospered. He was elected mayor of Seattle in 1888 and because of his efforts to coordinate the rebuilding of the city following the Great Seattle Fire of 1889, he was re-elected to a second term. The fire had devastated the business district, including his own company. He spent the next 15 years growing his business, which thrived and culminated with the completion of the naval contract the Nebraska.
Issues with his health led him to seek medical care, and he was diagnosed with "organic heart disease". Hans Selye would not begin his research into the general adaptation syndrome until 1936. Moran had what would now be considered a case of "executive stress". Regardless of what it was called, both he and his doctors sensed that his health was failing. Robert Moran then did something that changed the trajectory of his life.
He moved to Orcas Island, in the San Juan archipelago west of Seattle, and began construction on a mansion that would be his final project. He left his company in the hands of his brothers and employed his shipwrights to build the home in which he planned to spend the rest of his life. His mansion, which is now the Rosario Resort, looks and feels like it would be able to embark on a journey at sea.
Robert Moran did not die of "organic heart disease" that year. In fact, he lived to be 86. Toward the end of his long life, he donated much of his property to the state of Washington, and constructed the roads, bridges, and look-out tower atop Mt. Constitution with his own resources, looking to ensure the preservation and future enjoyment of the land for public use. Foreseeing the potential strife among his family for his estate, he sold his mansion and nearly all of his possessions to an outside party, again working to preserve the integrity of his legacy.
Why is the story of Robert Moran worth recounting?
What strikes me is that throughout his life, Robert Moran seemed to act as a steward. He amassed great material wealth, yet his actions speak more to a sense that this wealth and these resources were passing through him, not owned by him. As a businessman and public servant, he worked to promote his own interests, but those interests also included the good of those around him.
In addition to stewardship, the story of Moran is a parable of "bonus time." In the case of our shipwright, we can imagine that every day beyond his expected date of expiration could be considered a bonus. His conscious decision to heed the warning signs of his body, to not get trapped in the designs of his ego, and to reorganize how he was living allowed him to live a much longer and much healthier life. Looking out over the San Juan islands, walking in the woods on Orcas, breathing the same air as a family of whales, spending time with loved ones - a chance to pause. Isn’t it all bonus time?
It reminds me of a poem, “The Summer Day” by Mary Oliver, which is perhaps the best medium to consider these things:
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
