Recognizing the sacred begins, quite simply, when we are interested in every detail of our lives. Chogyam Trungpa
Last year, in anticipation of a grandchild, I invested in a wistful little item. A prompt to inflate my imaginative prowess was the ticket. To set the stage, l called on a confluence of family members who have flown away. For me, they are connected by the love of a good story and an obsession with the diminutive. From time to time, they jiggle my strings setting off ideas and so, with sedulous care, I placed my acquisition at the base of a giant mock orange tree, facing our front door and stood back in admiration. For anyone who would be slow enough to notice – a tiny door bridled with storybook hardware to summon the lithe imagination.
As it turned out, imagination would be a consequence of first-rate observation, the sort that I had not indulged since childhood. Morning and evening walks around the garden revealed mega communities of mini, even infinitesimal creatures, who carried on daily. My fairy tale became a reminder of the outdoor inhabitants who work exquisitely at bankrolling the world.
Take a long forgotten flowerbed, sporting day lilies, privet, monkey grass and a straggle of tired roses. Enter an unknowing human in search of food: planting potatoes (Yukon Gold) and tomatoes (yellow pear). Unaware of ever-present assistance, she chooses her favorite color flaxen and commences.
Beginner’s luck could account, but the result has been golden – we’ve been rewarded luscious bowls of garden fresh and I can bear witness that the process was no more difficult than filling in a coloring book, albeit it – outside the lines. Watching the progress of the plants, I longed to knock on the tiny door of creation and give thanks.
Years ago, my girls came home with freshly dug potatoes and plucked tomatoes as a consequence of spending time with former kindergarten teacher, Granny Gale. Having found the food to be incomparable, my dreams of a self made harvest were manifest this summer as I witnessed countless miniature workmates, winged or footed, engaged in otherworldly support.
As a result I can tell you, little can compare (even in the imagination) to a recent evening in which I strolled into my own backyard and under the setting sun, dug up my own spud. The smell of hot earth and a mature Yukon Gold potato is a divine treasure that I want to take with me to the proverbial island along with the sweet yellow pear tomato.
I understand that a certain European village market toils all day selling individual foodstuffs, but when the workday is done; they push long tables together and invite everyone to feast as a community gift. Somehow when I prepare this celebratory dish, I can imagine that all participating minions of the tiny door world will be joining me – if not now, later, on their own at the banquet table of the compost.
Mashed tomato potatoes
2 pounds Yukon Gold potatoes (or potato of your choice), cut into 2 inch pieces
2 garlic cloves, peeled
½ cup milk
¼ cup unsalted butter
¼ cup chopped flat-leaf parsley
3 scallions or 1 small onion, chopped and sautéed
½ cup grated Parmesan
½ teaspoon kosher salt
2 pounds yellow pear (or chopped tomatoes of your choice), chopped
Place the potatoes and garlic in a saucepan and cover with lightly salted water. Bring to a boil. Cover and simmer about 20 minutes or until a fork easily pierces the potatoes. Drain the potatoes and garlic. Mash potatoes and garlic until smooth. Blend in the milk, butter, parsley, onion, Parmesan, and salt. Gently fold in the tomatoes.
