Hello and hello and hello, friends! I’m filled up with springtime right now. It isn’t that everything is right the world over (it isn’t) or that everything has resolved in my personal life (it hasn’t), but it is spring and none of that seems to matter right now. I feel as if my blood is tuned to the sunlight; is buzzing and thrumming and humming like strings. I step out onto the patio and water my seedlings each morning. The garden hose patters on growth: thumb-size leaves, a new bloom on the strawberries, new heads of highlighter yellow snapdragons. They seem to have grown overnight. That isn’t a figure of speech - they are quite literally larger than they were yesterday at this time.
I love this about spring: everything is trying and willing to be seen trying. Like the birds nest-building and shouting their songs which now wake me before my six-thirty alarm; the mama rabbit who has given up sneaking out only at night and now grazes across our postage-stamp yards at all hours to produce enough milk for her hidden kits; the neighbor who spent all winter growing a lawn which he now religiously tends. His is the only square of emerald on our patchwork street.
Even the trees try hard: pollen, blossom, leaf, ta-da!
I, too, take part in frantically-joyful expansion. I put out my own leaves. I turn toward the sun. I press down on the places I stand and receive nourishment from planting roots. I stand a bit taller each morning.
Nature is desperately, madly, beautifully living.
This past winter I made the choice to pattern my days along with the seasons. The concept, of course, is that our bodies take part in a dependable cycle of varied growth and rest just like other created things. I experimented with permitting myself to embrace the slowed-downness of the cold months. I could be sleepy. I could stay cozy and eat comforting things. I could move in gentle, dozy ways. I got sunlight (when the sun shone), and went out for cold walks. I nourished myself in half-heartedly kind ways and said yes to earlier bedtimes instead of fighting my desire for extra sleep. So far, so cozy. But slowing down meant other things too, like being unable to avoid noticing heavier things that seem to keep company with a gentler pace.
Not many weeks into winter I had moved from cocooned comfort into feeling like the holly bushes: stiff and still and evergreen. I, too, was pricked all over with red: grief over our ongoing infertility; frustration with not knowing what to do next in the outer life we share and the inner life I tend; regret over decisions I hadn’t made years ago; confusion in making decisions now; tension as we investigated budgeting; tedium as we implemented and tried to keep one. I did not feel without hope, but rather bent low like last year’s stems: bleached and clinging to the soil. By the end, I did not like winter. So much time (too much time) to contemplate the bones of it all, and wish for the sun.
I even googled symptoms of depression, wondering if that would account for the emotional exhaustion I felt. But when I read about depression - the hopelessness, the lack of desire, the inability to focus, the lack of personal care, the general despair - I did not see myself. I had hope and desire and felt no despair. I was still me, I had merely winterized myself. Like the frogs I read about who freeze solid, their hearts slowing and stopping, awaiting the thaw that they may start back fully to life. I felt a little frozen myself, in a state of conservation and dealing with painful things. And my, didn’t we deal with them! In the long, quiet hours of the midwinter I had plenty of time to sift through all the things I ordinarily outrun. Thing by thing, we faced them.
Maybe the wintering was a risk. Maybe it is not recommended to let yourself settle into the mud for a season to feel. But…nature’s example could be relied upon. I could freeze like the frogs, burrow like turtles, huddle like field-mice, and still be okay. So I did. I kept still, I kept small.
And then -
Then the return of warmth. A return to longer light, liquid light, and birdsong. I felt renewed energy rise from within to meet it. Sleepiness vanished. I was hungry again! Joy displaced fear. New growth burst from my fingertips. What was happening to me over the span of a week felt like nearly miraculous transformation. And the wisdom of the earth kept on: when you allow time for old things to fall and die, to lie quietly at the bottom, new life is nourished.
My baby fig tree overwintered with me. Last autumn, when her final leaves dropped to the bottom of her pot and curled there, brown and whorled like a shell, I moved her into the shed. It is said that in my region, young figs do better in quiet, protected darkness through the winter. So she lived in my shed all through the cold months. Occasionally I would open that shed - to get the Christmas decorations, to put them away, to rearrange, to grab the cat carrier - and there she would be, all brown sticks in a red pot. But when the days began to lengthen somehow she felt it there in the darkness. Her stems trembled and when I went to look at her, three pale green buds reached out from her twig-fingers. After the danger of frost was past, I moved the fig tree outside.
Gorging on sunlight and blue sky and birdsong, every day she puts out new leaves. She has already surpassed the size she was at the height of her summer growth last year. A winter in the dark nourished her, too. I see a lot of myself in that sweet little fig tree. She is lush and green; I am lush and green; our growth is entwined. Will she put out fruit this year? Will I? Does it matter? We are worth the sunlight and the joy of being, whether or not we are visibly fruitful.
And now we get to the food (because we always end at food): what does one eat when she’s coming back to life? At risk of seeming on-the-nose, right now I feel like eating plants. Big, crunchy, savory salads and vegetables of every description. I feel like roasting a chicken and slathering it with garlicky mayonnaise so it turns a to crisp, burnished gold in the oven with here and there a mahogany gleam. I feel like tearing sourdough bread into jagged croutons with my bare hands and tossing them in the pan drippings to toast: salty and savory and soft on the inside. So that is the recipe I’m sharing today. Really, it’s a Molly Baz recipe - her Roast Chicken Caesar Salad. She gets all the credit for its genesis. The version I’m sharing with you has been tweaked over time. I up the lemon zest, lessen the garlic, decide to spatchcock the chicken so that all of it is crisp and golden and takes less time to roast. But the bones of this are Molly’s recipe, so you can thank her if you like it.
This is a happy season. This is a happy food.
I am sometimes conflicted at my own happiness, at how I can feel so buoyant when there are harsh things going on everywhere in the world, and difficulties close at hand. And then I think, should happiness be a conflicting feeling? Should I feel bad about feeling good? I think not. In the wisdom of Mary Oliver, “joy is not meant to be a crumb.”
Just as earth tumbles through seasons, so do I. Two things are true:
I cried many tears this winter.
My soul is filled.
I have not thought about how un-pregnant I am in weeks - even a couple months - and for anyone who has walked the long road that is trying (and failing) to conceive, this is a remarkable happiness. I guess what I’m saying is, thank you. Thank you God, for creating a beautiful natural world with patterns that are distinguishable and wise for us to follow. Thank you Community, for the way you’ve held space for the wintering, and met me there. Thank you, Spring for returning just when I need you to. Anyone who doesn’t believe in magic has never noticed how unlikely it seems in February that the world could be anything but bruise-colored. Anyone who has noticed will know they’ve witnessed resurrection again and again and again.
So here’s a salad. May it bring life to you. May it nourish your body, and lift your heart. And may you feel an inexplicable lightness as you move forward. And more than this may you let it be so, with gratitude, and go out to lighten someone else’s load. Happy spring, my lovely friends. I hope you’re doing well.
These recipe instructions are meant for a spatchcocked chicken. To spatchcock a chicken, simply cut out its back bone, flip it over, and push on the breastbone portion like a chiropractor to flatten it. You can watch me do it here! Alternatively, you could cook chicken leg quarters or even a whole bird. In the case of a whole bird, simply add more time in the oven. The “finished” temperature is 165 degrees F. in the thigh portion.
Roast Chicken Caesar Salads
serves 4
8 anchovies mashed to a paste (about one tin)
6 garlic cloves, finely grated
6 Tbsp. of mayonnaise, divided
1 Tbsp. Dijon mustard
2 Tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
1 1/2 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
3-4 lbs. spatchcocked, whole, or pieces of chicken
Kosher salt
4 large shallots, peeled and quartered lengthwise
2 lemons, divided
1 oz. fresh Parmesan, finely grated, plus more for serving
4 oz. sourdough bread, torn into chunks
2 large romaine hearts, torn, then rinsed
Place a rack in the lower third of the oven and heat the oven to 450 F. Whisk anchovy paste, garlic, 3 Tbsp. mayonnaise, mustard, oil, and black pepper together. Set aside 1 Tbsp. of this anchovy mayo aside.
Pat chicken dry and season all over with kosher salt. Arrange on a sheet tray or very large cast iron skillet, and brush heavily with anchovy mayo. Tuck shallots all around chicken and brush any extra mayo over them. Get in all the nooks and crannies!
Place chicken in the oven with its legs turned toward the back, as these will take the longest to cook. I find a spatchcock chicken straight from the fridge usually takes about 60 minutes to cook, but you will want to test this with a meat thermometer to the thigh till it registers 165 degrees F.
Meanwhile, make the salad dressing! Combine reserved anchovy mayo with the zest of two lemons, remaining 3 Tbsp. plain mayonnaise, juice of two lemons, remaining Tbsp. olive oil, and some cracked black pepper. Whisk this well, then add in finely grated Parmesan. Taste and adjust seasoning.
When the chicken is done, remove from the pan to a cutting board. Remove the shallots as well. Toss the torn bread in the drippings and return to the oven for 10-15 minutes, stirring occasionally till well toasted. Sprinkle the croutons with salt and set aside.
To assemble salad, toss torn romaine lettuce with croutons and salad dressing till desired sauciness. Arrange on four plates. Take a vegetable peeler and peel some thin Parmesan shavings. Arrange these with roasted shallots atop the salad. Cut chicken into pieces and nestle in between. Squeeze the lemons one more time over the salads, then serve. You can also serve remaining/extra chicken alongside the salads with extra Dijon mustard or salad dressing for dipping. Your choice!
“We are worth the sunlight and the joy of being, whether or not we are visibly fruitful.” Love this Rachel and looking forward to trying the recipe soon! I’m also craving all the veggies! What’s the difference between a shallot and an onion?