Perennials start to feel cold in August, so they begin to draw their energy back down, turning yellow and sprouting roots instead of flowers. Deadheading -- cutting the flowers off -- encourages the plants to be more prolific in blooming because their whole purpose is to reproduce, and without the flower, they think they haven't done the job just yet.
I deadhead flowers routinely in the fall, but always think about how instinctive it feels as I'm getting my hair cut in August, which seems to be a ritual before school starts: trim off the dead ends, shock the plant, get it healthy, prepare for the shorter days ahead. I guess in some ways it's a little zen; don't get too attached to the flowers, let them go, others will come.
But it's hard to be so ruthless when it comes to the things you love, isn't it? My daughter refused a back to school haircut this year, not wanting to change anything, despite the fact that the ends were split and dry. I finally made the appointment for her and shamed her into going, because she wouldn't NOT show up. And as for me, my kid left for his sophomore year of college yesterday, and I feel a little unmoored. I don't know if he'll come back, at least not in the way that he was with us. The whole point of leaving is for him to bloom, in a sense, but not here.
Over and over, we learn what Elizabeth Bishop called One Art, the art of losing. Sometimes, when you've lost enough, you start to wonder whether it's wise to love anything at all. You love your job; your job screws you over. You say OK, I'll focus on what's really important: my family. Maybe you are able to have a child, maybe two, after more impossible losses along the way. You cherish them. But then your children grow up and begin to start their own lives, exit your orbit. So maybe you decide to focus on a hobby, but then your body fails you. You can no longer run, or tapdance, or see the tiny stitches to knit (which maybe you didn't do anyway but aspired to learn), or read for long periods of time because your eyes don't focus like they used to. It's all terribly unfair, this pruning process, when we’re so prone to attachment.
My kid sent me a photo today of his breakfast, in his new apartment, and another of his dinner. Maybe the bloom takes another form, after all.
(from 101 Cookbooks)
A warming soup for when you're feeling sorry for yourself and it's just on the edge of cold outside. Easy enough for an apartment dweller.
1 cup / 7 oz / 200g yellow split peas
1 cup / 7 oz / 200g red split lentils (masoor dal)
7 cups / 1.6 liters water
1 medium carrot, cut into 1/2-inch dice
2 tablespoons fresh peeled and minced ginger
2 tablespoons curry powder
2 tablespoons butter, ghee, olive oil or coconut oil
8 green onions or scallions, thinly sliced
3 tablespoons golden raisins (optional)
1/3 cup / 80 ml tomato paste
1 14- ounce can coconut milk (or less)
1 teaspoon fine grain sea salt, plus more to taste
one small handful chopped cilantro (and/or lots of kale chips)
Give the split peas and lentils a good rinse, until they no longer put off murky water. Place them in an extra-large soup pot, cover with the water, and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to a simmer and add the carrot and 1/4 of the ginger. Cover and simmer for about 30 minutes, or until the split peas are soft.
In the meantime, in a small dry skillet or saucepan over low heat, toast the curry powder until it's fragrant. Be careful not to burn it ... you just want to toast it a bit. Set aside. Place the butter in a pan over medium heat, add half of the green onions, the remaining ginger, and raisins (if using). Sauté for two minutes, stirring constantly, then add the tomato paste and sauté for another minute or two more.
Add the toasted curry powder to the tomato paste mixture, mix well, and then add this to the simmering soup along with a splash of coconut milk and salt. Add more coconut milk if you want it creamier.
