a long, slow harvest
It's harvest season, and many of us look forward to this turn in the year to gather the fruits of our labors. For my farmer and gardener friends, they hold heavy, tangible achievements, from wee little carnival squash to the behemoth monsters I’ve helped drag out of their fields in past years. For others, maybe it means a different kind of harvest - the kind that comes from months of hard work finally leading to our less tangible efforts bearing something we can hold in our hands.
But this year feels different, doesn't it? The world feels a quieter, a little less certain. While many of my social circles continue to spin ever outward, seemingly blithe about the alarming rise in illness that seems prevalent in almost every place I know a loved one, more vulnerable people like me are having to adjust to a new normal to compensate for the imbalance, one that includes a lot more isolation than we might like. (We see this in ecosystems, too, when one species perhaps stretches itself out a little too much for others to thrive alongside it; but that’s an entry for another time.) Even so, there is still beauty to be found. There is still comfort to be had in the simple things.
Like squash, one of my favorite homely bounties with an equally homely name. This time of year, squash is everywhere – pumpkins, acorn squash, spaghetti squash. There’s a local grocery store where I live that has over 40 kinds of squash, and I delight in comparing their rhinoceros-thick hides and lumpy miens whenever it’s time to put in my weekly order. Squash is cheap, easy to find, versatile, a perfect comfort food for a chilly autumn evening and cozy consolation for many, many nights spent in with my pet rats, my gigantic allium-named cat, and my own welcome, solitary company.
Maybe it's the shorter days and longer nights. Maybe it's the way the leaves are changing color. Or maybe it's just because everything feels both a little more cozy and a little more melancholy when there's a chill in the air. Whatever the reason, I find myself wanting to slow down and savor this time of year. To take stock of all that I've accomplished over the past few months, and to reflect on all that lies ahead in the months to come. Even though this harvest season may look a little different than usual, I'm going to try to embrace it for all that it is - long, slow, and full of possibility.
As a kid, my two favorite kinds of squash year-round were hobak jeon, pan-fried coins of summer squash lightly dredged in a simple egg batter, and hobak juk, a bright orange rice and winter squash porridge that was sweet as dessert and ten times more satisfying. I loved the way it warmed me up from my core to my fingers, even when it was hot out. During my long summers with family in Korea, I often mystified my grandmother by asking her to make us hobak juk, and even though she sometimes grumbled about how we’d season it by sweating right into our bowls, she always did. I’ve been thinking about her a lot this season. I think one of these long, slow evenings, I’ll try to make a bowl, for the memory of both of us. Her, in her light summer clothes, ladling the bright orange bowls out to me and my sister; and me, many years younger, thinking that the harvest could never end, and my loved ones would never leave.
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