the smallest seeing

one thing is, i don't really care for the fourth of july. i don't care for the ration of forest fires, sprinkled among the state's statistics, that are started by careless fireworks enthusiasts. i don't care to tip my glass over every time i'm startled by bottle rockets going off right outside the window, beginning in the morning and ending sometime near midnight. i'm made uneasy in the supermarkets where a lofty quantity of pale hotdogs and square, pre-pressed hamburgers are sold for a questionably low price. i'm irritated and saddened to stay up with a houseful of trembling dogs whose panic is breathed out in steam enough to fog mirrors. and, lastly, i am of the opinion that there are many other, lovely ways to champion the beauty of high summer that are subtle and more intimate.

having found, surprisingly, an abundance of sweet, fresh figs at the market i happily plied the larder with a stock of pickled figs, a recipe i was eager to try.

steeped in apple cider vinegar, sugar, salt, and spices, the figs were pungent and briny and took on a jolt of fire-cracker like spice that seemed appropriate for the evening (despite a kitchen carpeted with dogs, curled up tight, ears flat, tails limp.)

as we climbed into yesterday's evening walk we were startled to notice, in the course of about twelve hours, that the thimbleberry thickets had seemingly sought to parallel the evening's surfeit of noise and flash and reached out all their blooms at once. these are large, somewhat drowsy plants. their leaves as wide as dinner plates, they will offer up a small, soft berry roughly the same color and shape as a raspberry but with more minute seeds and a shocking amount of sweetness. the ratio of berries to foliage is sometimes silly seeming, with a modicum of fruit in relationship to the size and vivacity of leaves and stem.

inspired by the tiny phenomenon (this universal signal plants give one another which always fascinates me,) i undertook to focus on the minutiae of the walk even though the trail was neither new nor furnished with breathtaking vistas.

if you concentrate all your effort on seeing small spaces you are guaranteed access to parallel universes. often i think of Annie Dillard and her keen eyes, cultivated to noticing, most importantly, the often unseen and unheard of phenomenon as she walks the land.


"...there is muscular energy in sunlight corresponding to the spiritual energy of the wind. on a sunny day, sun's energy on a square acre of land or pond can equal 4500 horsepower. these "horses" heave in every direction, like slaves building pyramids, and fashion, from the bottom up, a new and sturdy world..."--Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.

Some of us took the challenge to invoke minutiae a little more seriously than others...

but in the end, the effort took on a kind of magnetism, informing the rest of the day's adventures and even sleep, it seemed, was compromised on many smaller dreams to make up a whole pane of dark dwelling.

(*fig. 2: as of this morning, the official results of my first date with rhubarb were in. check plus.)

** My pickled fig recipe was adapted from Andrea Reusing (in her new Cooking in the Moment), who adapted it from Edith Calhoun.

yields approximately 5 half-pint jars

1 cup apple cider vinegar
2 cups sugar
1 1/4 teaspoons kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon whole allspice berries
1/2 teaspoon whole cloves
5 cardamom pods
8 black peppercorns

Bring the vinegar, 1 cup sugar, salt and spices to a simmer. Add the figs and simmer over low for about 10 minutes, ensuring the sugar and salt are dissolved. Cool and refrigerate over night.
The following day, add the remaining sugar, bring to a boil, reduce to a simmer and cook for about 10 minutes until the figs are slightly reduced in size, tender and fragrant. Cool and store in sterilized jars in the refrigerator for up to a month.
Seemingly, bay leaf, coriander seeds or mustard seeds would be a welcome addition in place of the cardamom and/or pepper.