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Poetry family trees and brassica subspecies
Something else of interest from the Poetry Paper I mentioned earlier, a feature called The Poetry Family Trees. Featured poets – just-appointed US poet laureate Donald Hall, Sinead Morrissey, Michael Symmons Roberts, Lorna Goodison, Adrian Mitchell – were asked the following questions, which are interesting ones for all of us to keep in the backs of our minds.
- Which ‘family tree’ do you think you belong to as a poet – which poets do you recognise as your precursors?
- Why do you like these poets and what do you value them for?
- The first poem/poet that made an impact on you. When and why?
- The next book by someone you’re most looking forward to?
- How much time do you spend reading poetry in an average week?
- And what proportion are contemporary/from earlier centuries?
- What else do you read?
Continuing with the many-named vegetable theme, here’s another one for you: Chinese cabbage. I’m in favour of going by the Chinese simplified name, “Large White Vegetable”. But if you want to do a closer identification, we’re talking Brassica campestris, aka Brassica rapa – subspecies pekinensis, Che-foo type. You may also encounter it as: wong baak, won bok, wong nga bok, da baicai, pe-tsai, pai-tsai, pechay, or nappa, napa, Siew Choy/siu choy, tsina, kubis gna, hakusai, celery cabbage and Peking cabbage; some of these names might attach themselves to another category of pekinensis – Chihili type – which is greener and leafier. We are gravely warned against confusing it with another Brassica subspecies – chinensis – better known as bok choy or pak choy and is also called Chinese white cabbage, Chinese mustard, white mustard cabbage.
A good source of vitamin A, this vegetable – let’s call it Chinese cabbage – has been grown in Asia since the 5th century, and in North America for about a hundred years. It forms the basis of the Korean wonder-food Kimchi (yum!). It is a wonderful salad vegetable owing to its tender, juicy, mildly spicy flavour. The best ever quick salad meal, which I first had in someone’s home in Prague of all places, is:
About 2 cups Chinese cabbage, in 1 inch chunks
3 rashers bacon
1 clove garlic
1/4 lemon
1/4 cup good olive oil
Cook the bacon; cut in 1 inch pieces. While you’re cooking the bacon, mince or press the garlic and toss it with the cabbage. Toss in the bacon, squeeze the lemon and drizzle the olive oil. Grind a bit of pepper over it all if you must. Mix fleetingly and eat hungrily. Speak to no one you haven’t shared this with – at least until the garlic subsides.There is something ecstatic in this meal for me: the collision of hot salty bacon with crunchy cold cabbage, the tartness of the lemon and bite of garlic. And the trusty olive oil doing what oil does: dispersing all those discrete flavours across the tastebuds
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Little Boris, big Ted and a whole bunch of rapini
Hard to blog these days: too many distractions. World Cup, dog walks in the glorious sunshine, weeds glaring at me from the stony margins of my garden, and now little orphan Boris (*no* idea why that photo suddenly loaded..?!) who is lodging here for a week while he gets over a nasty cold. Like Anton the wonder dog he is from local rescue society Animals For Life.
It’s been hard to make time to read these days. Still, even with Boris gnawing at the corners of the book and purring remorselessly, I managed to get through the first chapter of Poetry in the Making: An Anthology of Poems and Programmes from “Listening and Writing”, a rare old (1967) Ted Hughes book I found on ABE. In his note to teachers in the first chapter, he shines some light on the magic of writing exercises. Time limits of, say, 10 minutes “create a crisis, which rouses the brain’s resources: the compulsion towards haste overthrows the ordinary precautions, flings everything into top gear, and many things that are usually hidden find themselves rushed into the open. Barriers break down, prisoners come out of their cells.” With all that rushing it’s hard to still the internal critic, let alone an external one, so I liked the way he raised a hand to that: “As in training dogs, these exercises should be judged by their successes, not their mistakes or shortcomings.” Woof to that.
And woof to vegetables of many names. When I innocently picked up a bag of something labelled Rapini, I was in for an interesting journey. Aka Broccoli Raab, it may also be labelled raab, rapa, rape, rapine, rappi, rappone, taitcat, Italian or Chinese broccoli, broccoli or broccoletti di rape, cime de rape, broccoli de rabe, Italian turnip, turnip broccoli, rabe, broccoletto, or broccoli di foglia. Rapini works for me.
Originating in the Mediterranean and also China, it is actually a descendant from a wild herb. Although it looks and tastes like it, I discover that it is not a member of the broccoli family. It is, however, closely related to turnips! It is grown as much for its long-standing, tasty mustard-like tops as for their multiple small florets with clusters of broccoli-like buds, which never form heads. When you buy it, it should have bright-green leaves that are crisp, upright, and not wilted. I looked at some recipes – though in the end I thought, like most vegetables, it was nice either raw or simply steamed and tossed with lemon and butter.
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Laureates, Bohemians and how do you like them onions
The City of Victoria has appointed its first Poet Laureate: she is Carla Funk, Vanderhoof’s most famous daughter. In a city crawling with poets, I found it a little surprising that only eight threw their names in the ring (no, I did not). Perhaps the $1500 a year stipend dampened their passion.
According to a city development planner quoted in the article, Victoria stands at number 3 in North America on the Bohemian Index which ranks artistic and creative occupations of our residents. Actually that’s not entirely correct: in the information I found, we rank number 3 in a list adjusted for size – i.e. cities of 250,000 to 500,000 – behind Santa Barbara CA and Sarasota FL, and just above Madison WI and Albuquerque NM.
One of my favourite magazines is BBC Good Food, which I always pick up when I’m in England, or occasionally when I’m feeling flush in Canada. An issue from April 2005 surfaced in the magazine basket, and I read all about onions. We are told that we tear up when cutting onions because of allicin, although I found conflicting advice and more conflicting advice that the problem substance is actually a sulfide that breaks down into a volatile gas called syn-propanethial-S-oxide.
Whichever it is, the sulphuric compound produced when you slice the onion reacts with the moisture in your eyes to produce trace amounts of sulphuric acid, and the tears we produce to wash it away simply aggravate the problem.
The good news from plant chemistry is that “Allicin and syn-propanethial S-oxide have strong feeding deterrent activity toward herbivores such as insects.” Unfortunate that it doesn’t deter the feeding effects of carnivorous insects, but at least it supports folk wisdom about the benefits of planting garlic and onions around your rose bushes.
You can reduce the tearing effects by chilling onions before cutting. Alternatively, the Onion-USA site advises that the cells that release the sulfuric compounds are concentrated at the base of the onion, so you should cut the top and peel down without trimming off the root end until the last possible moment.
Or, like me, you could make sure nobody is around when you’re cutting and use a pair of safety goggles. I used to have a handy onion chopper that was no more than a jar with a chopping blade, and that worked well too. Looks like there are lots of variations of these devices on the market these days.
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In her latest collection, Rhona McAdam navigates the dark places of human movement through the earth and the exquisite intricacies lingering in backyard gardens and farmlands populated by insects and pollinators, all the while returning to the body, to the tune of staccato beats and the newly discovered symmetries within the human heart.
“…A beautiful, filling collection, Larder is a set of poems to read at the change of the seasons, to appreciate alongside a good meal, and to remind yourself of the beauty in everything, even the things you may not appreciate before opening McAdam’s collection….”
Rhona McAdam is a writer, poet, editor, and Registered Holistic Nutritionist with a Master’s in Food Culture from Italy and a deep-rooted passion for ecology and urban agriculture. Her work spans corporate and technical writing to poetry and creative nonfiction, often exploring the vital links between what we eat and how we live. Based in Victoria, BC, and available via Zoom, Rhona is always open to new writing commissions, readings, or workshops on nutrition and the culinary arts.
