artistry with food

Shokunin

Calgary, Alberta, Canada

a Japanese restaurant

I am intrigued by the artist,

the one who adds melody to rhythm, beauty to function,

the transcendent to pull us out of the humdrum,

to wake us up, so that we smell the roses,

hear the dream, unlock the mystery,

at supper tonight we taste the dream,

savor the flavor, appreciate the texture,

it was as if we were in the painting,

and it was delicious,

it was as if the sculpture impressed the eye,

and then wowed the tongue,

I can cook and my dishes are good,

I am more the rough carpenter 

who can nail 2 x 4s together into function,

the chefs tonight let the grain and essence of the wood speak,

just as impressive as the food were the people,

who, like excellent tour guides, helped us know

what could be before us, and then in us,

every color, shape, essence—perfect,

though life is short, such artistry touches the best of what can be,

and challenges us to reach even more toward that best.

by Henry H. Walker

July 9, ‘19

to help the species

at the last breath

a “bucket list” has never particularly appealed to me,

the checking off on a list,

almost like a list of chores that need doing,

I do judge my life, though,

particularly during the last 57 years,

all that time since my Daddy was there,

and suddenly wasn’t,

if I’m breathing my last breath,

what will I regret?

what will I be proud of?

when my brother was slipping away,

I kept seeing him as a little boy,

so scared of what was coming,

many of us have the dream of a sudden test,

and we’re not prepared,

the concept of St. Peter works for me,

a way to personify a celestial judge,

who knows my heart, and my actions,

whether I’ve lived well,

karma works just as well,

a sentence we all serve as that of Brahma within

seeks to burn off impurities

and reach toward clarity,

my soul wants to learn, to improve myself,

an artificial natural selection that works 

to help our species be worth our time,

I despair when others lose their way

and choose money and sensory gratification as their values,

I want the world to be better because I lived,

not indifferent that I am gone.

by Henry H. Walker

July 6, ‘19

introversion vs extroversion

energized and exhausted

extroversion?

introversion?

an easy duality

that helps make sense

out of what calls me,

my career calls me to reach out,

to see the kids, to know them,

and to give them help on their own journey,

that calling both tires me and energizes me,

so that shorthand diagnostic tool

leaves open how much I am extrovert or introvert,

love pulls me out of myself into other,

I want to help build connection, commonality, community,

I see others' worlds, while also still feeling my own take on it all,

and how the two, the several, can dance together,

I also need to let love for Gaea

pull me awake so that I can find myself

in exercise, in a waterfall, in a mountain top, in a flower,

today I climb up a wild high valley with my better half,

she who completes me, challenges me,

tells me to laugh out loud at my demons of self-doubt,

we slip in to a high pool, below a great waterfall,

the bracing cold and the bracing glory of the place

energizes my spirit,

I thank my body for the effort 

to allow this morning to happen.

by Henry H. Walker

June 30, ‘19

I lose myself, by finding myself

the face of Gaea

the Smokies are usually the door

I most often find, and use,

to escape from my work

back into the natural world,

where flora and fauna remind me

to not take the minutiae of my crowded world too seriously,

this year maritime Canada pulls me north: Nova Scotia,

just after my school year ends,

the Bay of Fundy, the ocean, the flowers, the geology,

and, majestically, the humpback whales,

pull me into their world,

and I lose myself, by finding myself,

in another face that Gaea shows us,

Summer has come, and I am now in the Smokies,

the last two days have been of summer transparency apples,

and making the exquisite sauce they have within them,

plus errand and chore that calls to me

to make good my part in keeping up our “cabin,” 

what my mother felt was her dream,

to keep it open, welcoming, efficient to the task, 

a portal for us, for our renters, for family,

to close off listening to the other stories that call to us,

false prophets who seek to deny 

the primacy of nature, of the other,

now I am here by the creek,

where rose-bay rhododendron flower

and bears have a world that can easily slip into ours.

by Henry H. Walker

June 29, ‘19

Summer Transparency Applesauce

We buy two bushels of summer transparency apples at Carver's Orchard in Cosby, Tennessee, usually in late June.  Last year climate change had the apples come in two weeks early.  My mother, Jean Beaman Walker,  taught me how to make this incredible applesauce, which she learned from her mother, Cora Goddard, who married Clarence Beaman.  Cora's roots are tied to the Waylands and Boyd's Creek, Sevier County, Tennessee.  Imagine how many generations have been making this applesauce.  Here is the transformation, and the work:

1/2 bushel apples

wash the apples

with knife, or scoop, cut out stem and ends

with knife, or apple corer, cut apples into pieces

note cores, with seeds, included in pot
add a pinch of salt

add a small amount of water, 1/2 cup?
add more water when needed

cook and stir, for hours
cover pot and keep on low heat, though maintain a simmer

keep cooking, stirring

nearly completely cooked

when all pieces are incorporated into a slurry,
you can proceed to the food mill

Add caption

nearly completely cooked

note how little substance is left over
Mother used a Foley Food Press (now called a food mill)
we bought the Oxo Food Mill from Target in E. Knoxville
when we couldn't find the Foley food mill at the cabin

add far more sugar than you think should be
these apples seem to have no natural sugar
we used 12 cups of sugar for 1/2 bushel of apples

this applesauce freezes well
it's great to thaw out over the next year or two

the actor chooses the play

what’s our story?

what narrative grabs us,

so that we may make sense

of who we are,

of why we’re here,

of who our enemies are, and our allies?

the Internet and social media

have pushed us into facile answers to those questions,

and somehow two roads have diverged in that electronic wood,

the Red and the Blue don’t know each other,

and we can’t even agree on facts,

we have lost the binding of compelling story we all agree on:

Horatio Alger used to bind us as a country,

a country where Americans make themselves into success,

the Puritans knew that Satan and God battle each other,

and we’d better enlist on the right side,

a current story seduces many 

into the pursuit of wealth as be-all and end-all,

think of gifted athletes who love the game, and a chance to shine,

but they know from the culture that their worth is their monetary worth,

I buy in to the story that my life has worth

in direct relationship to how much love I give,

how many good deeds are tallied by St. Peter, or the judge of karma,

the Greeks at least got it right by realizing

a discerning mind can choose which “school” to believe,

that we have the power to choose what story compels us to its truth,

the battle for our hearts

needs to have us all within a story we agree on,

and to not demonize those different.

by Henry H. Walker

June 28, ‘19

sharing the stories

a last enchanted morning here

our last full day in Nova Scotia

starts with us out at dawn to celebrate sunrise,

and it is spectacular!

most of the morning then devoted to a national park

where a long finger points into the ocean,

the trail along its spine full of botanical wonder:

exquisite lady-slippers, 



intriguing pitcher plants,

who thrive on insects drowned at their base,

ground and bush all a-flower,

then where rock meets water,

we watch a dozen or so seals bask in the sun,

some snack in the water by their rock,

one mother tends to her clumsy child,

who drops accidentally below the water,

she retrieves him, gets him back on the rock,

they briefly nuzzle each other,

she and another large seal huff at each other,

why? I don’t know,

a little later, a pair of nesting birds, willet,

fly over and around us as if to tell us something,

maybe for us to get out of their world?

the whole morning is of wonder,

we visit plant and animal who are just fine without us,

I don’t feel we are just fine without them,

except for the insects, whose story I would love not to share.

by Henry H. Walker

June 24, ‘19